"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN"
The presence of my old friend is a source of much pleasure. George is an
intelligent man; the long years of incarceration have not circumscribed
his intellectual horizon. The approach of release is intensifying his
interest in the life beyond the gates, and we pass the idle hours
conversing over subjects of mutual interest, discussing social theories
and problems of the day. He has a broad grasp of affairs, but his
temperament and Catholic traditions are antagonistic to the ideas dear
to me. Yet his attitude is free from personalities and narrow prejudice,
and our talks are conducted along scientific and philosophical lines.
The recent death of Liebknecht and the American lecture tour of Peter
Kropotkin afford opportunity for the discussion of modern social
questions. There are many subjects of mutual interest, and my friend,
whose great-grandfather was among the signers of the Declaration, waxes
eloquent in denunciation of his country's policy of extermination in the
Philippines and the growing imperialistic tendencies of the Republic. A
Democrat of the Jeffersonian type, he is virulent against the old Warden
on account of his favoritism and discrimination. His prison experience,
he informs me, has considerably altered the views of democracy he once
entertained.
"Why, Aleck, there _is_ no justice," he says vehemently; "no, not even
in the best democracy. Ten years ago I would have staked my life on the
courts. To-day I know they are a failure; our whole jurisprudence is
wrong. You see, I have been here nine years. I have met and made friends
with hundreds of criminals. Some were pretty desperate, and many of them
scoundrels. But I have to meet one yet in whom I couldn't discover some
good quality, if he's scratched right. Look at that fellow there," he
points to a young prisoner scrubbing an upper range, "that's 'Johnny the
Hunk.' He's in for murder. Now what did the judge and jury know about
him? Just this: he was a hard-working boy in the mills. One Saturday he
attended a wedding, with a chum of his. They were both drunk when they
went out into the street. They were boisterous, and a policeman tried to
arrest them. Johnny's chum resisted. The cop must have lost his head--he
shot the fellow dead. It was right near Johnny's home, and he ran in and
got a pistol, and killed the policeman. Must have been crazy with drink.
Well, they were going to hang him, but he was only a kid, hardly
sixteen. They gave him fifteen years. Now he's all in--they've just
ruined the boy's life. And what kind of a boy is he, do you know? Guess
what he did. It was only a few months ago. Some screw told him that the
widow of the cop he shot is hard up; she has three children, and takes
in washing. Do you know what Johnny did? He went around among the cons,
and got together fifty dollars on the fancy paper-work he is making;
he's an artist at it. He sent the woman the money, and begged her to
forgive him."
"Is that true, Doctor?"
"Every word. I went to Milligan's office on some business, and the boy
had just sent the money to the woman. The Chaplain was so much moved by
it, he told me the whole story. But wait, that isn't all. You know what
that woman did?"
"What?"
"She wrote to Johnny that he was a dirty murderer, and that if he ever
goes up for a pardon, she will oppose it. She didn't want anything to do
with him, she wrote. But she kept the money."
"How did Johnny take it?"
"It's really wonderful about human nature. The boy cried over the
letter, and told the Chaplain that he wouldn't write to her again. But
every minute he can spare he works on that fancy work, and every month
he sends her money. That's the _criminal_ the judge sentenced to fifteen
years in this hell!"
My friend is firmly convinced that the law is entirely impotent to deal
with our social ills. "Why, look at the courts!" he exclaims, "they
don't concern themselves with crime. They merely punish the criminal,
absolutely indifferent to his antecedents and environment, and the
predisposing causes."
"But, George," I rejoin, "it is the economic system of exploitation, the
dependence upon a master for your livelihood, want and the fear of want,
which are responsible for most crimes."
"Only partly so, Aleck. If it wasn't for the corruption in our public
life, and the commercial scourge that holds everything for sale, and the
spirit of materialism which has cheapened human life, there would not be
so much violence and crime, even under what you call the capitalist
system. At any rate, there is no doubt the law is an absolute failure in
dealing with crime. The criminal belongs to the sphere of therapeutics.
Give him to the doctor instead of the jailer."
"You mean, George, that the criminal is to be considered a product of
anthropological and physical factors. But don't you see that you must
also examine society, to determine to what extent social conditions are
responsible for criminal actions? And if that were done, I believe most
crimes would be found to be misdirected energy--misdirected because of
false standards, wrong environment, and unenlightened self-interest."
"Well, I haven't given much thought to that phase of the question. But
aside of social conditions, see what a bitch the penal institutions are
making of it. For one thing, the promiscuous mingling of young and old,
without regard to relative depravity and criminality, is converting
prisons into veritable schools of crime and vice. The blackjack and the
dungeon are surely not the proper means of reclamation, no matter what
the social causes of crime. Restraint and penal methods can't reform.
The very idea of punishment precludes betterment. True reformation can
emanate only from voluntary impulse, inspired and cultivated by
intelligent advice and kind treatment. But reformation which is the
result of fear, lacks the very essentials of its object, and will vanish
like smoke the moment fear abates. And you know, Aleck, the
reformatories are even worse than the prisons. Look at the fellows here
from the various reform schools. Why, it's a disgrace! The boys who come
from the outside are decent fellows. But those kids from the
reformatories--one-third of the cons here have graduated there--they are
terrible. You can spot them by looking at them. They are worse than
street prostitutes."
My friend is very bitter against the prison element variously known as
"the girls," "Sallies," and "punks," who for gain traffic in sexual
gratification. But he takes a broad view of the moral aspect of
homosexuality; his denunciation is against the commerce in carnal
desires. As a medical man, and a student, he is deeply interested in the
manifestations of suppressed sex. He speaks with profound sympathy of
the brilliant English man-of-letters, whom the world of cant and
stupidity has driven to prison and to death because his sex life did not
conform to the accepted standards. In detail, my friend traces the
various phases of his psychic development since his imprisonment, and I
warm toward him with a sense of intense humanity, as he reveals the
intimate emotions of his being. A general medical practitioner, he had
not come in personal contact with cases of homosexuality. He had heard
of pederasty; but like the majority of his colleagues, he had neither
understanding for nor sympathy with the sex practices he considered
abnormal and vicious. In prison he was horrified at the perversion that
frequently came under his observation. For two years the very thought of
such matters filled him with disgust; he even refused to speak to the
men and boys known to be homosexual, unconditionally condemning
them--"with my prejudices rather than my reason," he remarks. But the
forces of suppression were at work. "Now, this is in confidence, Aleck,"
he cautions me. "I know you will understand. Probably you yourself have
experienced the same thing. I'm glad I can talk to some one about it;
the other fellows here wouldn't understand it. It makes me sick to see
how they all grow indignant over a fellow who is caught. And the
officers, too, though you know as well as I that quite a number of them
are addicted to these practices. Well, I'll tell you. I suppose it's the
same story with every one here, especially the long-timers. I was
terribly dejected and hopeless when I came. Sixteen years--I didn't
believe for a moment I could live through it. I was abusing myself
pretty badly. Still, after a while, when I got work and began to take an
interest in this life, I got over it. But as time went, the sex instinct
awakened. I was young: about twenty-five, strong and healthy. Sometimes
I thought I'd get crazy with passion. You remember when we were celling
together on that upper range, on R; you were in the stocking shop then,
weren't you? Don't you remember?"
"Of course I remember, George. You were in the cell next mine. We could
see out on the river. It was in the summer: we could hear the excursion
boats, and the girls singing and dancing."
"That, too, helped to turn me back to onanism. I really believe the
whole blessed range used to 'indulge' then. Think of the precious
material fed to the fishes," he smiles; "the privies, you know, empty
into the river."
"Some geniuses may have been lost to the world in those orgies."
"Yes, orgies; that's just what they were. As a matter of fact, I don't
believe there is a single man in the prison who doesn't abuse himself,
at one time or another."
"If there is, he's a mighty exception. I have known some men to
masturbate four and five times a day. Kept it up for months, too."
"Yes, and they either get the con, or go bugs. As a medical man I think
that self-abuse, if practised no more frequently than ordinary coition,
would be no more injurious than the latter. But it can't be done. It
grows on you terribly. And the second stage is more dangerous than the
first."
"What do you call the second?"
"Well, the first is the dejection stage. Hopeless and despondent, you
seek forgetfulness in onanism. You don't care what happens. It's what I
might call mechanical self-abuse, not induced by actual sex desire. This
stage passes with your dejection, as soon as you begin to take an
interest in the new life, as all of us are forced to do, before long.
The second stage is the psychic and mental. It is not the result of
dejection. With the gradual adaptation to the new conditions, a
comparatively normal life begins, manifesting sexual desires. At this
stage your self-abuse is induced by actual need. It is the more
dangerous phase, because the frequency of the practice grows with the
recurring thought of home, your wife or sweetheart. While the first was
mechanical, giving no special pleasure, and resulting only in increasing
lassitude, the second stage revolves about the charms of some loved
woman, or one desired, and affords intense joy. Therein is its
allurement and danger; and that's why the habit gains in strength. The
more miserable the life, the more frequently you will fall back upon
your sole source of pleasure. Many become helpless victims. I have
noticed that prisoners of lower intelligence are the worst in this
respect."
"I have had the same experience. The narrower your mental horizon, the
more you dwell upon your personal troubles and wrongs. That is probably
the reason why the more illiterate go insane with confinement."
"No doubt of it. You have had exceptional opportunities for observation
of the solitaries and the new men. What did you notice, Aleck?"
"Well, in some respects the existence of a prisoner is like the life of
a factory worker. As a rule, men used to outdoor life suffer most from
solitary. They are less able to adapt themselves to the close quarters,
and the foul air quickly attacks their lungs. Besides, those who have no
interests beyond their personal life, soon become victims of insanity.
I've always advised new men to interest themselves in some study or
fancy work,--it's their only salvation."
"If you yourself have survived, it's because you lived in your theories
and ideals; I'm sure of it. And I continued my medical studies, and
sought to absorb myself in scientific subjects."
For a moment George pauses. The veins of his forehead protrude, as if he
is undergoing a severe mental struggle. Presently he says: "Aleck, I'm
going to speak very frankly to you. I'm much interested in the subject.
I'll give you my intimate experiences, and I want you to be just as
frank with me. I think it's one of the most important things, and I want
to learn all I can about it. Very little is known about it, and much
less understood."
"About what, George?"
"About homosexuality. I have spoken of the second phase of onanism. With
a strong effort I overcame it. Not entirely, of course. But I have
succeeded in regulating the practice, indulging in it at certain
intervals. But as the months and years passed, my emotions manifested
themselves. It was like a psychic awakening. The desire to love
something was strong upon me. Once I caught a little mouse in my cell,
and tamed it a bit. It would eat out of my hand, and come around at meal
times, and by and by it would stay all evening to play with me. I
learned to love it. Honestly, Aleck, I cried when it died. And then, for
a long time, I felt as if there was a void in my heart. I wanted
something to love. It just swept me with a wild craving for affection.
Somehow the thought of woman gradually faded from my mind. When I saw my
wife, it was just like a dear friend. But I didn't feel toward her
sexually. One day, as I was passing in the hall, I noticed a young boy.
He had been in only a short time, and he was rosy-cheeked, with a smooth
little face and sweet lips--he reminded me of a girl I used to court
before I married. After that I frequently surprised myself thinking of
the lad. I felt no desire toward him, except just to know him and get
friendly. I became acquainted with him, and when he heard I was a
medical man, he would often call to consult me about the stomach trouble
he suffered. The doctor here persisted in giving the poor kid salts and
physics all the time. Well, Aleck, I could hardly believe it myself, but
I grew so fond of the boy, I was miserable when a day passed without my
seeing him. I would take big chances to get near him. I was rangeman
then, and he was assistant on a top tier. We often had opportunities to
talk. I got him interested in literature, and advised him what to read,
for he didn't know what to do with his time. He had a fine character,
that boy, and he was bright and intelligent. At first it was only a
liking for him, but it increased all the time, till I couldn't think of
any woman. But don't misunderstand me, Aleck; it wasn't that I wanted a
'kid.' I swear to you, the other youths had no attraction for me
whatever; but this boy--his name was Floyd--he became so dear to me,
why, I used to give him everything I could get. I had a friendly guard,
and he'd bring me fruit and things. Sometimes I'd just die to eat it,
but I always gave it to Floyd. And, Aleck--you remember when I was down
in the dungeon six days? Well, it was for the sake of that boy. He did
something, and I took the blame on myself. And the last time--they kept
me nine days chained up--I hit a fellow for abusing Floyd: he was small
and couldn't defend himself. I did not realize it at the time, Aleck,
but I know now that I was simply in love with the boy; wildly, madly in
love. It came very gradually. For two years I loved him without the
least taint of sex desire. It was the purest affection I ever felt in my
life. It was all-absorbing, and I would have sacrificed my life for him
if he had asked it. But by degrees the psychic stage began to manifest
all the expressions of love between the opposite sexes. I remember the
first time he kissed me. It was early in the morning; only the rangemen
were out, and I stole up to his cell to give him a delicacy. He put both
hands between the bars, and pressed his lips to mine. Aleck, I tell you,
never in my life had I experienced such bliss as at that moment. It's
five years ago, but it thrills me every time I think of it. It came
suddenly; I didn't expect it. It was entirely spontaneous: our eyes met,
and it seemed as if something drew us together. He told me he was very
fond of me. From then on we became lovers. I used to neglect my work,
and risk great danger to get a chance to kiss and embrace him. I grew
terribly jealous, too, though I had no cause. I passed through every
phase of a passionate love. With this difference, though--I felt a touch
of the old disgust at the thought of actual sex contact. That I didn't
do. It seemed to me a desecration of the boy, and of my love for him.
But after a while that feeling also wore off, and I desired sexual
relation with him. He said he loved me enough to do even that for me,
though he had never done it before. He hadn't been in any reformatory,
you know. And yet, somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it; I loved the
lad too much for it. Perhaps you will smile, Aleck, but it was real,
true love. When Floyd was unexpectedly transferred to the other block, I
felt that I would be the happiest man if I could only touch his hand
again, or get one more kiss. You--you're laughing?" he asks abruptly, a
touch of anxiety in his voice.
"No, George. I am grateful for your confidence. I think it is a
wonderful thing; and, George--I had felt the same horror and disgust at
these things, as you did. But now I think quite differently about them."
"Really, Aleck? I'm glad you say so. Often I was troubled--is it
viciousness or what, I wondered; but I could never talk to any one about
it. They take everything here in such a filthy sense. Yet I knew in my
heart that it was a true, honest emotion."
"George, I think it a very beautiful emotion. Just as beautiful as love
for a woman. I had a friend here; his name was Russell; perhaps you
remember him. I felt no physical passion toward him, but I think I loved
him with all my heart. His death was a most terrible shock to me. It
almost drove me insane."
Silently George holds out his hand.