On more than one occasion my chameleonlike temperament has enabled me
to adjust myself to new conditions, but never has it served me better
than it did at the time of which I write. A free man on New Year's Day,
enjoying the pleasures of a congenial club life, four days later I
found myself again under the lock and key of an institution for the
insane. Never had I enjoyed life in New York more than during those
first days of that new year. To suffer so rude a change was, indeed,
enough to arouse a feeling of discontent, if not despair; yet, aside
from the momentary initial shock, my contentment was in no degree
diminished. I can say with truth that I was as complacent the very
moment I recrossed the threshold of that "retreat" as I had been when
crossing and recrossing at will the threshold of my club.
Of everything I thought and did during the interesting weeks which
followed, I have a complete record. The moment I accepted the
inevitable, I determined to spend my time to good advantage. Knowing
from experience that I must observe my own case, if I was to have any
detailed record of it, I provided myself in advance with notebooks. In
these I recorded, I might almost say, my every thought and action. The
sane part of me, which fortunately was dominant, subjected its
temporarily unruly part to a sort of scientific scrutiny and
surveillance. From morning till night I dogged the steps of my restless
body and my more restless imagination. I observed the physical and
mental symptoms which I knew were characteristic of elation. An
exquisite light-heartedness, an exalted sense of wellbeing, my pulse,
my weight, my appetite--all these I observed and recorded with a care
that would have put to the blush a majority of the doctors in charge of
mental cases in institutions.
But this record of symptoms, though minute, was vague compared to my
reckless analysis of my emotions. With a lack of reserve characteristic
of my mood, I described the joy of living, which, for the most part,
then consisted in the joy of writing. And even now, when I reread my
record, I feel that I cannot overstate the pleasure I found in
surrendering myself completely to that controlling impulse. The
excellence of my composition seemed to me beyond criticism. And, as to
one in a state of elation, things are pretty much as they seem, I was
able to experience the subtle delights which, I fancy, thrill the soul
of a master. During this month of elation I wrote words enough to fill
a book nearly as large as this one. Having found that each filling of
my fountain pen was sufficient for the writing of about twenty-eight
hundred words, I kept a record of the number of times I filled it. This
minute calculation I carried to an extreme. If I wrote for fifty-nine
minutes, and then read for seventeen, those facts I recorded. Thus, in
my diary and out of it, I wrote and wrote until the tips of my thumb
and forefinger grew numb. As this numbness increased and general
weariness of the hand set in, there came a gradual flagging of my
creative impulse until a very normal unproductivity supervened.
The reader may well wonder in what my so-called insanity at this time
consisted. Had I any of those impracticable delusions which had
characterized my former period of elation? No, not one--unless an
unreasonable haste to achieve my ambitions may be counted a delusion.
My attention simply focussed itself on my project. All other
considerations seemed of little moment. My interest in business waned
to the vanishing point. Yet one thing should be noted: I did
deliberately devote many hours to the consideration of business
affairs. Realizing that one way to overcome an absorbing impulse is to
divide the attention, I wrote a brief of the arguments I had often used
when talking with bankers. In this way I was able to convince the
doctors that my intense interest in literature and reform would soon
spend itself.
A consuming desire to effect reforms had been the determining factor
when I calmly weighed the situation with a view to making the best
possible use of my impulse to write. The events of the immediate past
had convinced me that I could not hope to interest people of wealth and
influence in my humanitarian project until I had some definite plan to
submit for their leisurely consideration. Further, I had discovered
that an attempt to approach them directly disturbed my relatives and
friends, who had not yet learned to dissociate! present intentions from
past performances. I had, therefore, determined to drill myself in the
art of composition to the end that I might write a story of my life
which would merit publication. I felt that such a book, once written,
would do its own work, regardless of my subsequent fortunes. Other
books had spoken even from the grave; why should not my book so
speak--if necessary?
With this thought in mind I began not only to read and write, but to
test my impulse in order that I might discover if it were a part of my
very being, an abnormal impulse, or a mere whim. I reasoned that to
compare my own feelings toward literature, and my emotions experienced
in the heat of composition, with the recorded feelings of successful
men of letters, would give me a clue to the truth on this question. At
this time I read several books that could have served as a basis for my
deductions, but only one of them did I have time to analyze and note in
my diary. That one was, "Wit and Wisdom of the Earl of Beaconsfield."
The following passages from the pen of Disraeli I transcribed in my
diary with occasional comment.
"Remember who you are, and also that it is your duty to excel.
Providence has given you a great lot. Think ever that you are born to
perform great duties." This I interpreted in much the same spirit that
I had interpreted the 45th Psalm on an earlier occasion.
"It was that noble ambition, the highest and best, that must be born in
the heart, and organized in the brain, which will not let a man be
content unless his intellectual power is recognized by his race, and
desires that it should contribute to their welfare."
"Authors--the creators of opinion."
"What appear to be calamities are often the sources of fortune."
"Change is inevitable in a progressive country. Change is constant."
("Then why," was my recorded comment, "cannot the changes I propose to
bring about, be brought about?")
"The author is, as we must ever remember, of peculiar organization. He
is a being born with a predisposition which with him is irresistible,
the bent of which he cannot in any way avoid, whether it directs him to
the abstruse researches of erudition or induces him to mount into the
fervid and turbulent atmosphere of imagination."
"This," I wrote (the day after arriving at the hospital) "is a fair
diagnosis of my case as it stands to-day, assuming, of course, that an
author is one who loves to write, and can write with ease, even though
what he says may have no literary value. My past proves that my
organization is a peculiar one. I have for years (two and a half) had a
desire to achieve success along literary lines. I believe that, feeling
as I do to-day, nothing can prevent my writing. If I had to make a
choice at once between a sure success in the business career ahead of
me and doubtful success in the field of literature, I would willingly,
yes confidently, choose the latter. I have read many a time about
successful writers who learned how to write, and by dint of hard work
ground out their ideas. If these men could succeed, why should not a
man who is in danger of being ground up by an excess of ideas and
imagination succeed, when he seems able to put those ideas into fairly
intelligible English? He should and will succeed."
Therefore, without delay, I began the course of experiment and practice
which culminated within a few months in the first draft of my story.
Wise enough to realize the advantages of a situation free from the
annoying interruptions of the workaday world, I enjoyed a degree of
liberty seldom experienced by those in possession of complete legal
liberty and its attendant obligations. When I wished to read, write,
talk, walk, sleep, or eat, I did the thing I wished. I went to the
theatre when the spirit moved me to do so, accompanied, of course, by
an attendant, who on such occasions played the rôle of chum.
Friends called to see me and, at their suggestion or mine, invited me
to dinner outside the walls of my "cloister." At one of these dinners
an incident occurred which throws a clear light on my condition at the
time. The friend, whose willing prisoner I was, had invited a common
friend to join the party. The latter had not heard of my recent
commitment. At my suggestion, he who shared my secret had agreed not to
refer to it unless I first broached the subject. There was nothing
strange in the fact that we three should meet. Just such impromptu
celebrations had before occurred among us. We dined, and, as friends
will, indulged in that exchange of thoughts which bespeaks intimacy.
During our talk, I so shaped the conversation that the possibility of a
recurrence of my mental illness was discussed. The uninformed friend
derided the idea.
"Then, if I were to tell you," I remarked, "that I am at this moment
supposedly insane--at least not normal--and that when I leave you
to-night I shall go direct to the very hospital where I was formerly
confined, there to remain until the doctors pronounce me fit for
freedom, what would you say?"
"I should say that you are a choice sort of liar," he retorted.
This genial insult I swallowed with gratification. It was, in truth, a
timely and encouraging compliment, the force of which its author failed
to appreciate until my host had corroborated my statements.
If I could so favorably impress an intimate friend at a time when I was
elated, it is not surprising that I should subsequently hold an
interview with a comparative stranger--the cashier of a local
bank--without betraying my state of mind. As business interviews go,
this was in a class by itself. While my attendant stood guard at the
door, I, an enrolled inmate of a hospital for the insane, entered the
banking room and talked with a level-headed banker. And that interview
was not without effect in subsequent negotiations which led to the
closing of a contract amounting to one hundred and fifty thousand
dollars.
The very day I re-entered the hospital I stopped on the way at a local
hotel and procured some of the hostelry's stationery. By using this in
the writing of personal and business letters I managed to conceal my
condition and my whereabouts from all except near relatives and a few
intimate friends who shared the secret. I quite enjoyed leading this
legitimate double life. The situation appealed (not in vain) to my
sense of humor. Many a smile did I indulge in when I closed a letter
with such ambiguous phrases as the following: "Matters of importance
necessitate my remaining where I am for an indefinite period." ... "A
situation has recently arisen which will delay my intended trip South.
As soon as I have closed a certain contract (having in mind my contract
to re-establish my sanity) I shall again take to the road." To this day
few friends or acquaintances know that I was in semi-exile during the
month of January, 1905. My desire to suppress the fact was not due, as
already intimated, to any sensitiveness regarding the subject of
insanity. What afterwards justified my course was that on regaining my
freedom I was able, without embarrassment, again to take up my work.
Within a month of my voluntary commitment, that is, in February, I
started on a business trip through the Central West and South, where I
remained until the following July. During those months I felt perfectly
well, and have remained in excellent health ever since.
This second interruption of my career came at a time and in a manner to
furnish me with strong arguments wherewith to support my contention
that so-called madmen are too often man-made, and that he who is
potentially mad may keep a saving grip on his own reason if he be
fortunate enough to receive that kindly and intelligent treatment to
which one on the brink of mental chaos is entitled. Though during this
second period of elation I was never in a mood so reckless as that
which obtained immediately after my recovery from depression in August,
1902, I was at least so excitable that, had those in authority
attempted to impose upon me, I should have thrown discretion to the
winds. To them, indeed, I frankly reiterated a terse dictum which I had
coined during my first period of elation. "Just press the button of
Injustice," I said, "and I'll do the rest!" This I meant, for fear of
punishment does not restrain a man in the dare-devil grip of elation.
What fostered my self-control was a sense of gratitude. The doctors and
attendants treated me as a gentleman. Therefore it was not difficult to
prove myself one. My every whim was at least considered with a
politeness which enabled me to accept a denial with a highly sane
equanimity. Aside from mild tonics I took no other medicine than that
most beneficial sort which inheres in kindness. The feeling that,
though a prisoner, I could still command obligations from others led me
to recognize my own reciprocal obligations, and was a constant source
of delight. The doctors, by proving their title to that confidence
which I tentatively gave them upon re-entering the institution, had no
difficulty in convincing me that a temporary curtailment of some
privileges was for my own good. They all evinced a consistent desire to
trust me. In return I trusted them.