MEDICINE--NO WARM BATHS--AN UGLY LOOKING-GLASS--CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE
LEPER ASYLUM--THE LEPER BOY--MR. BAILEY.
At the Leper Asylum things were not looking bright. Dr. Unna’s
medicine, which had arrived from London, had not been getting a fair
trial. The European doctor under whose supervision it was given, having
himself no faith in any of the prescribed cures for leprosy, had not
placed his patients under a regular course of treatment. He was a
doctor in practice in Calcutta, and we cannot blame him for refusing
to personally superintend the treatment of lepers. A practitioner
who was known to go regularly among lepers would find people chary
of consulting him about ordinary ailments, and his practice would
suffer in consequence. The lepers had the medicine; he would give
instructions as to its application; but whether they took it or not
was their own affair. An inmate of the Almshouse, who had been an
apothecary, was employed in giving out the drugs used by the lepers,
but there was no skilled doctor to superintend or be present when these
medicines were administered. Daisy refused to try Dr. Unna’s medicine.
When I asked her reason for doing so, after being so anxious for it to
arrive, she told me that she would agree to take the pills, but that
a greasy kind of ointment had to be rubbed over the body, and that,
as there was no warm water procurable in which she could bathe, she
would wait till the hot months, when she could take a bath and wash
off the grease. This, I may explain, happened during what is known as
the cold weather, when the lepers found it impossible to take cold
baths; so preferred, in the absence of any warm ones, to do without.
The attendant who was paid from our fund should have been told, if
there had been any supervision over her, to provide warm baths for her
charges; but being a low-class native woman, who preferred to do as
little work as possible for her salary, she, of course, did not care
to burden herself with the extra trouble of procuring warm water, when
not compelled to do so. Besides, it was altogether without precedent
that any “medical comfort,” such as a warm bath, should be allowed
to any inmate of the Calcutta Leper Asylum. The Jewess, who had been
using the medicine, had, she said, derived much benefit from it. I
should have liked to have consulted some of the officials about this
medicine, as Kate Reilly had asked for some of it to try; but, although
nearly a year had elapsed since I first began my visits to the lepers,
these gentlemen chose to maintain their hostile attitude towards me.
I asked Mr. McGuire whether any of the ointment could be procured for
the use of lepers who were living outside of the Asylum, and he said
it could not, so I was not able to give any to Kate Reilly. Bridget
troubled herself little about the new medicine; for, happily, there
were no sores on her body, none of her fingers or toes were distorted,
and she did not appear to be suffering from the lassitude that seemed
to so much depress the spirits of the other inmates. She was always
ready to burden me with orders for the most ridiculous things, all of
which she would have me write down on my tablets in her presence. On
one occasion she wanted a doll’s house, and was very angry with me
because I failed to find and take one of the kind she fancied. Another
day she asked for a looking-glass, as she hadn’t seen her face, she
said, for twenty years! I took her a little ornamental thing; but when
she looked into it and saw her face, she got very angry and said she
had never seen such an ugly looking-glass in her life! I peered into
it, and said that it seemed to be all right, “Yes” she replied with
her rich Irish brogue, “It’s all very well for the young, no matter
how ugly they are, youth is always beautiful. It’s the old people,
like me, who want nice looking-glasses.” Brother John smiled at the
one-sided compliment I had received, and we agreed to take her another
glass that would not “make her look ugly.” As we left the asylum, we
heard Bridget’s voice calling “Now, Mr. Jack (Brother John), don’t
forget to remember the looking-glass!” Bridget had got into a childish
way of wanting everything she saw; so when we used to visit her with
things for the other inmates in the basket, she would always pry into
it and say, “What’s that?” “Who’s going to get that?” “Why don’t you
bring me this?” and so on, till we were obliged to adopt the plan of
going to her room after we had been the round of the other wards, and
when the basket was denuded of all the things but those that we had
brought for her. One day when I told her I was going to leave India,
she sent Brother John out of the room, and said in her most coaxing
manner, “Give me a good character to the new people who come when you
go, or they won’t bring me anything. Don’t tell them that I ask for
things belonging to the others; I say, give me a good character to
them!” Poor old Bridget had led such a hard life that I suppose it had
become natural to her to think of herself before anyone. She was very
peculiar at times, and her mind used to wander. She would then talk
in a strange manner about her young days. From what she used to say
on those occasions, I learned that she had been a corset maker, and
used to sit “stitching away night and day, stitching away.” Sometimes
she would repeat these words over and over again, and appear entirely
oblivious of our presence; then, after talking disjointedly for a
few minutes, she would gaze on some flowers I had brought, and say
suddenly: “Faded old roses, why don’t you bring me fresh flowers?”
I would endeavour to explain that the long drive in the heat from my
house down to the asylum had made them droop, and tell her, that if
she put them in water they would revive. But while I was speaking she
would be “havering” about something else, and not hearing a word of
what I was saying. Sometimes, if she thought we stayed longer with
Daisy or any of the others than with her, she would get angry and say
some very uncomplimentary things about us all; but we used to take it
in good part, for poor old Bridget was not quite right in her head. At
times she used to almost frighten me with the weird stories of ghosts
and devils whom she said she saw walking about the place. She would
call me to her and say, “This place is full of devils; there are devils
everywhere, and dead bones all under this room. You don’t know what
goes on here at night, and they are all devils; I scream and scream and
no one comes, because the place is all full of devils.” We used to tell
her that it was all imagination; but she was never tired of talking to
us about their depredations. She was a confirmed miser, and used to put
away all the different articles of clothing I would bring her from
time to time, instead of wearing them. She said she wanted them “to
keep.” It amused her to have a gay apron or dressing-gown and fold it
and put it in a box, in order that she might take it out and admire it,
when she wanted something pretty to look at.
My readers will have doubtless discovered for themselves that, among
the female lepers, the one I liked best of all was Daisy. Bella was
a dear girl too, but seldom spoke to anyone. The Jewess was kind and
nice; but, like Bridget, would show great disappointment if I happened
to forget anything she had asked for. Daisy was always the same.
Whatever I took to her she received with grateful thanks; but, above
all, she liked my regular visits to her. She had a good heart, and was
full of gentle, affectionate regard for Bella, whom she used to treat
like a younger sister. Everything that Daisy said or did was right in
Bella’s eyes. The two were inseparable. Daisy, who used to generally
superintend Bridget’s _ménage_ as far as she was able, used often to
tell me of the old woman’s vagaries, many of which caused general
amusement. The Jewess, who spoke with a strong German accent, would
at times mispronounce words in a way that would make Daisy laugh. On
seeing this, she would get very angry and sulk for a long time. I may
mention that some foreigners, like ourselves, have a great dislike
to be laughed at, and often treat what is in reality a harmless joke
as a serious insult. However, Daisy could not refrain from laughing
merrily at times over some of the peculiar mistakes of the Jewess,
thereby making that lady so seriously angry that a lengthened coolness
between them would be the result. The Jewess would tell me about these
squabbles, and ask me to speak seriously to Daisy; but, when I did so,
Daisy said that without wishing to give offence or hurt the other’s
feelings in any way, she found it impossible to refrain from laughing
when the Jewess said such funny things as she often did. As Christmas
was fast approaching, Daisy, seconded of course by Bella, asked me to
go and see them on Christmas day. She tried to speak calmly about my
departure from India, but broke down and burst into tears. Instead
of comforting her, I cried too, and felt very sorry and miserable.
On Christmas morning I took with me as many gay and cheery reminders
of the season in the way of bonbons and “goodies” as I could think
of. The male ward had been all decorated by the little leper boy with
coloured written inscriptions. “Glory to God in the Highest” was
arranged over the entrance to their cheerless abode, and near it, on a
square of pink paper, the words, “God bless Captain Hayes, God bless
Mrs. Hayes and Brother John.” This remained up on the entrance to the
ward for a long time, till all the decorations were taken down. Daisy
and the others had not decorated their ward, but they wished us all a
“Merry Christmas,” and thanked us again and again for coming on that
day into such a sorrowful abode as the Leper Asylum. I found it hard
to be cheerful and wish them a “Merry Christmas” in return. It seemed
such a mockery to suggest mirth to them. The gay crackers, with their
tinsel and bright colours, looked out of place there. Christmas, with
its joy and gladness, seemed to bring no comfort to their sad hearts.
I admired the decorations in the male ward, and accepted a bouquet of
roses from my young leper friend, whose face beamed with pleasure as
he handed them to me. The flowers had been most carefully arranged by
the child, who is a real artist, with a keen eye for the beautiful,
and I felt sorry as I threw away his offering afterwards, when out of
sight of the Leper Hospital; for I could not take home anything from
that infected place. Daisy had commissioned Mrs. Smith, the matron of
the Almshouse, to purchase for me a small workbox, while Bella ordered
a blotting-pad, both of which Mrs. Smith was to get and present to me
in their presence on Christmas morning. I never remember in my life
receiving any presents that I was so pleased to get. Mrs. Smith, Daisy,
Bella and myself were all in tears during their presentation, so there
was no speech-making or eloquence displayed. I could not even utter a
word of thanks, but stood like a fool crying silently, and trying to
hide my tears by busying myself in taking the things I had brought out
of the basket. Brother John, who had been a spectator of the scene, was
shedding tears, too, I think; for he had turned his face away, and was
using his handkerchief as if he had suddenly contracted a bad cold in
his head. I cannot in any way describe this scene in all its sadness.
Poor Bella and Daisy were such very bad lepers that they could not
have handed the presents to me, even if they had tried, and it seemed
inexpressibly kind of them to get for me their thoughtfully-selected
and useful gifts. I tried to say a few cheerful things about Christmas,
and to interest them in the gay crackers, cards, and various things I
took out of the basket; but my words seemed to fall flat, and a great
sadness settled on all of us. Daisy and Bella were sitting together in
silence while I deposited my things on their little table; so, as I
could think of nothing cheerful to say, nor was able to trust myself to
speak it, even if I had, I dried my eyes and went to Bridget’s room.
She had a great deal to tell me, and rattled along in joyful glee at
seeing all the pretty crackers and cards and the bright colours that
she loved so well. The Jewess, too, was very pleased with what we took
her, and “wondered who would be so kind to her when I had gone.” I
found the men sad and depressed. Ramey, who was not feeling so well
as usual, seemed to be much troubled in his mind about my departure,
and began speculating where we should all be by next Christmas. He had
a favour to ask: it was that I would give him a photograph of myself
and husband before leaving, and thanked me very much for my kindness
to him. Then tears filled his eyes and he broke down utterly. Little
Underwood, the boy who gave me the flowers, on seeing Ramey, began
to cry too, so instead of having a “merry” Christmas, ours was an
extremely sad one. When I went a short time after that to the asylum
to bid them good-bye, I had made up my mind to say all sorts of nice
things to them; but none of them were really uttered, for we all cried
again. Daisy said, “We won’t say good-bye, but----” whatever she was
going to say was not said; for she cried and could not go on. I told
them that Brother John would continue to visit them as usual. “Yes,”
said Ramey, “but you have fought so bravely for us.” They were all
glad, however, to receive the news of Brother John’s intended visits,
and I promised that they should hear from me from time to time. I
also told them that Archdeacon Michell had consented to interest
himself in their welfare. Next day, as I was driving out of my gate,
I was surprised to see little Underwood, who had walked all the way
from the Leper Asylum to bid me good-bye! He blushed and looked in a
most sheepish manner at some drooping flowers he held in his hand, as
if ashamed to offer them to me. I could see he was pleased when I
accepted them and thanked him. The gratitude of these poor lepers to me
for the little I had been able to do for them was very real and honest,
and will always remain in my mind as a solemn and holy memory.
The doctors engaged on the Leprosy Commission have visited the inmates
of the Calcutta Asylum, have had them photographed, and made a number
of inquiries into the antecedents of each leper; but up to the present
nothing has been done by Government for the proper housing or immediate
relief of these sufferers. What I have written has been done in the
earnest hope that their cause will be taken up by some kind people,
who will act promptly in establishing them where they will receive the
kindness and care accorded to sick people.
Mr. McGuire, the superintendent, is a stern disciplinarian and an
admirable man to deal with the number of loafers and bad characters
who infest the streets of Calcutta; but he is not equally well
suited to administer to the requirements of fragile leper women, who
need kind and gentle treatment under their load of affliction. Mrs.
Smith, the matron of the almshouse, is a subordinate to Mr. McGuire,
and possesses little or no power in her position. I found her a
good-hearted woman, who tried in many ways to be kind to the lepers;
but, as she unfortunately does not have the handling of any money, she
cannot order the requisite changes of underlinen for them or administer
to their wants as a woman in authority would be able to do. Mr. McGuire
has to be applied to for everything they require, an arrangement which,
to be satisfactory, I need hardly say should always be entrusted to a
woman.
I was able to obtain a small sum of money from a charitable lady for
Kate Reilly, and handed it over to Archdeacon Michell, with the request
that it might be spent in providing her with anything she may require,
rather than to give it over to the care of the native servant to
dispose of as she thinks fit. Brother John has promised to visit her
often, and Mrs. Grant will also go as frequently as she can to her, as
well as to the Leper Asylum. The other leper pensioners will receive
their money from Archdeacon Michell as usual, and I shall try my utmost
to keep up the fund; for it is a source of much comfort to these poor
lepers to be provided with little things that they are otherwise
unable to obtain.
I was interested in reading a short account of the Calcutta Leper
Asylum, in a book called “A Glimpse at the Indian Mission Fields and
Leper Asylums,” written by Mr. Wellesley Bailey, a Scotch missionary,
who visited the Calcutta Leper Asylum in 1886, in which, speaking of
January 19th, he says:--“Before breakfast spent an hour and a half in
the Leper Asylum and had a very interesting interview with Miss J----
[Daisy]. I read and prayed with her, and she seemed very grateful
for the visit, poor thing. I took some books with me, which had been
given me by a friend in the north of Scotland, and gave them away
to those who could speak English. I only wish my friend could have
seen the delight which her gifts produced on that dismal abode, and
it would have gladdened her own heart.” Later on we read:--“January
21st. After breakfast drove over (a long distance) to Belvidere to see
the Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Rivers Thompson, who was kind enough to
spare me a few minutes of his very valuable time. His Honour received
me most kindly, and listened attentively to what I had to say. My
object in calling was to explain to him the over-crowded state of the
Leper Asylum, and to ask him if he would use his influence to get
something done before his term of office expired, which it is about
to do immediately. He said that the only way the thing could be done
was to get the District Charitable Society to move in the matter; and
that if they make an application to him he would see what could be
done. But the time was short and the formalities which would have to
be gone through were long, and so nothing could be done.” With these
words Mr. Bailey dismisses the Calcutta Leper Asylum from his book,
and proceeds to describe his visit to Darjeeling. He does not mention
Bridget, Bella, or the Jewess; probably he was unable to visit all
the English-speaking lepers, or he would have done so. Anderson and
Phillipe, an Englishman and a Frenchman, are lepers who have recently
been admitted into the male ward, so Mr. Bailey could not have met them
in 1886.
To use the words of a friend, I may say that the thought of “a good
time is coming” for those who suffer in this life is, no doubt, full
of comfort to the afflicted ones themselves; but surely this same
thought is largely responsible for our indifference to the sufferings
of others. So long as the slaves of self are sure that God will “make
it up in the end,” so long will their selfishness be justified by
their belief. Thus the righteousness of God becomes an excuse for the
uncharity of men.