XXIX

After again becoming a free man, my mind would not abandon the

miserable ones whom I had left behind. I thought with horror that my

reason had been threatened and baffled at every turn. Without malice

toward those who had had me in charge, I yet looked with abhorrence

upon the system by which I had been treated. But I realized that I

could not successfully advocate reforms in hospital management until I

had first proved to relatives and friends my ability to earn a living.

And I knew that, after securing a position in the business world, I

must first satisfy my employers before I could hope to persuade others

to join me in prosecuting the reforms I had at heart. Consequently,

during the first year of my renewed business activity (the year 1904),

I held my humanitarian project in abeyance and gave all my executive

energy to my business duties. During the first half of that year I gave

but little time to reading and writing, and none at all to drawing. In

a tentative way, however, I did occasionally discuss my project with

intimate friends; but I spoke of its consummation as a thing of the

uncertain future. At that time, though confident of accomplishing my

set purpose, I believed I should be fortunate if my projected book were

published before my fortieth year. That I was able to publish it eight

years earlier was due to one of those unlooked for combinations of

circumstances which sometimes cause a hurried change of plans.

Late in the autumn of 1904, a slight illness detained me for two weeks

in a city several hundred miles from home. The illness itself amounted

to little, and, so far as I know, had no direct bearing on later

results, except that, in giving me an enforced vacation, it afforded me

an opportunity to read several of the world's great books. One of these

was "Les Misérables." It made a deep impression on me, and I am

inclined to believe it started a train of thought which gradually grew

into a purpose so all-absorbing that I might have been overwhelmed by

it, had not my over-active imagination been brought to bay by another's

common sense. Hugo's plea for suffering Humanity--for the world's

miserable--struck a responsive chord within me. Not only did it revive

my latent desire to help the afflicted; it did more. It aroused a

consuming desire to emulate Hugo himself, by writing a book which

should arouse sympathy for and interest in that class of unfortunates

in whose behalf I felt it my peculiar right and duty to speak. I

question whether any one ever read "Les Misérables" with keener

feeling. By day I read the story until my head ached; by night I

dreamed of it.

To resolve to write a book is one thing; to write it--fortunately for

the public--is quite another. Though I wrote letters with ease, I soon

discovered that I knew nothing of the vigils or methods of writing a

book. Even then I did not attempt to predict just when I should begin

to commit my story to paper. But, a month later, a member of the firm

in whose employ I was made a remark which acted as a sudden spur. One

day, while discussing the business situation with me, he informed me

that my work had convinced him that he had made no mistake in

re-employing me when he did. Naturally I was pleased. I had vindicated

his judgment sooner than I had hoped. Aside from appreciating and

remembering his compliment, at the time I paid no more attention to it.

Not until a fortnight later did the force of his remark exert any

peculiar influence on my plans. During that time it apparently

penetrated to some subconscious part of me--a part which, on prior

occasions, had assumed such authority as to dominate my whole being.

But, in this instance, the part that became dominant did not exert an

unruly or even unwelcome influence. Full of interest in my business

affairs one week, the next I not only had no interest in them, but I

had begun even to dislike them. From a matter-of-fact man of business I

was transformed into a man whose all-absorbing thought was the

amelioration of suffering among the afflicted insane. Travelling on

this high plane of ideal humanitarianism, I could get none but a

distorted and dissatisfying view of the life I must lead if I should

continue to devote my time to the comparatively deadening routine of

commercial affairs.

Thus it was inevitable that I should focus my attention on my

humanitarian project. During the last week of December I sought

ammunition by making a visit to two of the institutions where I had

once been a patient. I went there to discuss certain phases of the

subject of reform with the doctors in authority. I was politely

received and listened to with a degree of deference which was, indeed,

gratifying. Though I realized that I was rather intense on the subject

of reform, I did not have that clear insight into my state of mind

which the doctors had. Indeed, I believe that only those expert in the

detection of symptoms of a slightly disturbed mental condition could

possibly have observed anything abnormal about me at that time. Only

when I discussed my fond project of reform did I betray an abnormal

stress of feeling. I could talk as convincingly about business as I had

at any time in my life; for even at the height of this wave of

enthusiasm I dealt at length with a certain banker who finally placed

with my employers a large contract.

After conferring with the doctors, or rather--as it proved--exhibiting

myself to them, I returned to New Haven and discussed my project with

the President of Yale University. He listened patiently--he could

scarcely do otherwise--and did me the great favor of interposing his

judgment at a time when I might have made a false move. I told him that

I intended to visit Washington at once, to enlist the aid of President

Roosevelt; also that of Mr. Hay, Secretary of State. Mr. Hadley

tactfully advised me not to approach them until I had more thoroughly

crystallized my ideas. His wise suggestion I had the wisdom to adopt.

The next day I went to New York, and on January 1st, 1905, I began to

write. Within two days I had written about fifteen thousand words--for

the most part on the subject of reforms and how to effect them. One of

the documents prepared at that time contained grandiloquent passages

that were a portent of coming events--though I was ignorant of the

fact. In writing about my project I said, "Whether I am a tool of God

or a toy of the devil, time alone will tell; but there will be no

misunderstanding Time's answer if I succeed in doing one-tenth of the

good things I hope to accomplish.... Anything which is feasible in this

philanthropic age can easily be put into practice.... A listener gets

the impression that I hope to do a hundred years' work in a day. They

are wrong there, for I'm not so in love with work--as such. I would

like though to interest so many people in the accomplishment of my

purpose that one hundred years' work might be done in a fraction of

that time. Hearty co-operation brings quick results, and once you start

a wave of enthusiasm in a sea of humanity, and have for the base of

that wave a humanitarian project of great breadth, it will travel with

irresistible and ever-increasing impulse to the ends of the

earth--which is far enough. According to Dr. ----, many of my ideas

regarding the solution of the problem under consideration are years and

years in advance of the times. I agree with him, but that is no reason

why we should not put 'the times' on board the express train of

progress and give civilization a boost to a higher level, until it

finally lands on a plateau where performance and perfection will be

synonymous terms."

Referring to the betterment of conditions, I said, "And this

improvement can never be brought about without some central

organization by means of which the best ideas in the world may be

crystallized and passed along to those in charge of this army of

afflicted ones. The methods to be used to bring about these results

must be placed on the same high level as the idea itself. No yellow

journalism or other sensational means should be resorted to. Let the

thing be worked up secretly and confidentially by a small number of men

who know their business. Then when the very best plan has been

formulated for the accomplishment of the desired results, and men of

money have been found to support the movement until it can take care of

itself, announce to the world in a dignified and effective manner the

organization and aims of the society, the name of which shall be--,

decided later.... To start the movement will not require a whole lot of

money. It will be started modestly and as financial resources of the

society increase, the field will be broadened." ... "The abuses and

correction of same is a mere detail in the general scheme." ... "It is

too early to try to interest anyone in this scheme of preventing

breakdowns, as there are other things of more importance to be brought

about first--but it will surely come in time."

"'Uncle Tom's Cabin,'" I continued, "had a very decided effect on the

question of slavery of the negro race. Why cannot a book be written

which will free the helpless slaves of all creeds and colors confined

to-day in the asylums and sanitariums throughout the world? That is,

free them from unnecessary abuses to which they are now subjected. Such

a book, I believe, can be written and I trust that I may be permitted

to live till I am wise enough to write it. Such a book might change the

attitude of the public towards those who are unfortunate enough to have

the stigma of mental incompetency put upon them. Of course, an insane

man is an insane man and while insane should be placed in an

institution for treatment, but when that man comes out he should be as

free from all taint as the man is who recovers from a contagious

disease and again takes his place in society." In conclusion, I said,

"From a scientific point of view there is a great field for

research.... Cannot some of the causes be discovered and perhaps done

away with, thereby saving the lives of many--and millions in money? It

may come about that some day something will be found which will prevent

a complete and incurable mental breakdown...."

Thus did I, as revealed by these rather crude, unrevised quotations,

somewhat prophetically, if extravagantly, box the compass that later

guided the ship of my hopes (not one of my phantom ships) into a safe

channel, and later into a safe harbor.

By way of mental diversion during these creative days at the Yale Club,

I wrote personal letters to intimate friends. One of these produced a

result unlooked for. There were about it compromising earmarks which

the friend to whom it was sent recognized. In it I said that I intended

to approach a certain man of wealth and influence who lived in New

York, with a view to securing some action that would lead to reform.

That was enough. My friend showed the letter to my brother--the one who

had acted as my conservator. He knew at once that I was in an excited

mental condition. But he could not very well judge the degree of the

excitement; for when I had last talked with him a week earlier, I had

not discussed my larger plans. Business affairs and my hope for

business advancement had then alone interested me.

I talked with President Hadley on Friday; Saturday I went to New York;

Sunday and Monday I spent at the Yale Club, writing; Tuesday, this

telltale letter fell under the prescient eye of my brother. On that day

he at once got in touch with me by telephone. We briefly discussed the

situation. He did not intimate that he believed me to be in elation. He

simply urged me not to attempt to interest anyone in my project until I

had first returned to New Haven and talked with him. Now I had already

gone so far as to invite my employers to dine with me that very night

at the Yale Club for the purpose of informing them of my plans. This I

did, believing it to be only fair that they should know what I intended

to do, so that they might dispense with my services should they feel

that my plans would in any way impair my usefulness as an employé. Of

this dinner engagement, therefore, I told my brother. But so

insistently did he urge me to defer any such conference as I proposed

until I had talked with him that, although it was too late to break the

dinner engagement, I agreed to avoid, if possible, any reference to my

project. I also agreed to return home the next day.

That night my guests honored me as agreed. For an hour or two we

discussed business conditions and affairs in general. Then, one of them

referred pointedly to my implied promise to unburden myself on a

certain subject, the nature of which he did not at the time know. I

immediately decided that it would be best to "take the bull by the

horns," submit my plans, and, if necessary, sever my connection with

the firm, should its members force me to choose (as I put it) between

themselves and Humanity. I then proceeded to unfold my scheme; and,

though I may have exhibited a decided intensity of feeling during my

discourse, at no time, I believe, did I overstep the bounds of what

appeared to be sane enthusiasm. My employers agreed that my purpose was

commendable--that no doubt I could and would eventually be able to do

much for those I had left behind in a durance I so well knew to be

vile. Their one warning was that I seemed in too great a hurry. They

expressed the opinion that I had not been long enough re-established in

business to be able to persuade people of wealth and influence to take

hold of my project. And one of my guests very aptly observed that I

could not afford to be a philanthropist, which objection I met by

saying that all I intended to do was to supply ideas for those who

could afford to apply them. The conference ended satisfactorily. My

employers disclaimed any personal objection to my proceeding with my

project, if I would, and yet remaining in their employ. They simply

urged me to "go slow." "Wait until you're forty," one of them said. I

then thought that I might do so. And perhaps I should have waited so

long, had not the events of the next two days put me on the right road

to an earlier execution of my cherished plans.

The next day, January 4th, true to my word, I went home. That night I

had a long talk with my brother. I did not suspect that a man like

myself, capable of dealing with bankers and talking for several

consecutive hours with his employers without arousing their suspicion

as to his mental condition, was to be suspected by his own relatives.

Nor, indeed, with the exception of my brother, who had read my

suspiciously excellent letter, were any of my relatives disturbed; and

he did nothing to disabuse my assurance. After our night conference he

left for his own home, casually mentioning that he would see me again

the next morning. That pleased me, for I was in a talkative mood and

craved an interested listener.

When my brother returned the next morning, I willingly accepted his

invitation to go with him to his office, where we could talk without

fear of interruption. Arrived there, I calmly sat down and prepared to

prove my whole case. I had scarcely "opened fire" when in walked a

stranger--a strapping fellow, to whom my brother immediately introduced

me. I instinctively felt that it was by no mere chance that this third

party had so suddenly appeared. My eyes at once took in the dark blue

trousers worn by the otherwise conventionally dressed stranger. That

was enough. The situation became so clear that the explanations which

followed were superfluous. In a word, I was under arrest, or in

imminent danger of being arrested. To say that I was not in the least

disconcerted would scarcely be true, for I had not divined my brother's

clever purpose in luring me to his office. But I can say, with truth,

that I was the coolest person in the room. I knew what I should do

next, but my brother and the officer of the law could only guess. The

fact is I did nothing. I calmly remained seated, awaiting the verdict

which I well knew my brother, with characteristic decision, had already

prepared. With considerable effort--for the situation, he has since

told me, was the most trying one of his life--he informed me that on

the preceding day he had talked with the doctors to whom I had so

opportunely exhibited myself a week earlier. All agreed that I was in a

state of elation which might or might not become more pronounced. They

had advised that I be persuaded to submit voluntarily to treatment in a

hospital, or that I be, if necessary, forcibly committed. On this

advice my brother had proceeded to act. And it was well so; for, though

I appreciated the fact that I was by no means in a normal state of

mind, I had not a clear enough insight into my condition to realize

that treatment and a restricted degree of liberty were what I needed,

since continued freedom might further inflame an imagination already

overwrought.

A few simple statements by my brother convinced me that it was for my

own good and the peace of mind of my relatives that I should

temporarily surrender my freedom. This I agreed to do. Perhaps the

presence of two hundred pounds of brawn and muscle, representing the

law, lent persuasiveness to my brother's words. In fact, I did assent

the more readily because I admired the thorough, sane, fair, almost

artistic manner in which my brother had brought me to bay. I am

inclined to believe that, had I suspected that a recommitment was

imminent, I should have fled to a neighboring State during the

preceding night. Fortunately, however, the right thing was done in the

right way at the right time. Though I had been the victim of a clever

stratagem, not for one moment thereafter, in any particular, was I

deceived. I was frankly told that several doctors had pronounced me

elated, and that for my own good I _must_ submit to treatment. I was

allowed to choose between a probate court commitment which would have

"admitted me" to the State Hospital, or a "voluntary commitment" which

would enable me to enter the large private hospital where I had

previously passed from depression to elation, and had later suffered

tortures. I naturally chose the more desirable of the two disguised

blessings, and agreed to start at once for the private hospital, the

one in which I had been when depression gave way to elation. It was not

that I feared again to enter the State Hospital. I simply wished to

avoid the publicity which necessarily would have followed, for at that

time the statutes of Connecticut did not provide for voluntary

commitment to the state hospitals. Then, too, there were certain

privileges which I knew I could not enjoy in a public institution.

Having re-established myself in society and business I did not wish to

forfeit that gain; and as the doctors believed that my period of

elation would be short, it would have been sheer folly to advertise the

fact that my mental health had again fallen under suspicion.

But before starting for the hospital I imposed certain conditions. One

was that the man with the authoritative trousers should walk behind at

such a distance that no friend or acquaintance who might see my brother

and myself would suspect that I was under guard; the other was that the

doctors at the institution should agree to grant my every request, no

matter how trivial, so long as doing so could in no way work to my own

injury. My privileges were to include that of reading and writing to my

heart's content, and the procuring of such books and supplies as my

fancy might dictate. All this was agreed to. In return I agreed to

submit to the surveillance of an attendant when I went outside the

hospital grounds. This I knew would contribute to the peace of mind of

my relatives, who naturally could not rid themselves of the fear that

one so nearly normal as myself might take it into his head to leave the

State and resist further attempts at control. As I felt that I could

easily elude my keeper, should I care to escape, his presence also

contributed to _my_ peace of mind, for I argued that the ability to

outwit my guard would atone for the offence itself.

I then started for the hospital; and I went with a willingness

surprising even to myself. A cheerful philosophy enabled me to turn an

apparently disagreeable situation into one that was positively pleasing

to me. I convinced myself that I could extract more real enjoyment from

life during the ensuing weeks within the walls of a "retreat" than I

could in the world outside. My one desire was to write, write, write.

My fingers itched for a pen. My desire to write was, I imagine, as

irresistible as is the desire of a drunkard for his dram. And the act

of writing resulted in an intoxicating pleasure composed of a mingling

of emotions that defies analysis.

That I should so calmly, almost eagerly, enter where devils might fear

to tread may surprise the reader who already has been informed of the

cruel treatment I had formerly received there. I feared nothing, for I

knew all. Having seen the worst, I knew how to avoid the pitfalls into

which, during my first experience at that hospital, I had fallen or

deliberately walked. I was confident that I should suffer no abuse or

injustice so long as the doctors in charge should live up to their

agreement and treat me with unvarying fairness. This they did, and my

quick recovery and subsequent discharge may be attributed partly to

this cause. The assistant physicians who had come in contact with me

during my first experience in this hospital were no longer there. They

had resigned some months earlier, shortly after the death of the former

superintendent. Thus it was that I started with a clean record, free

from those prejudices which so often affect the judgment of a hospital

physician who has treated a mental patient at his worst.