A LUNATIC BALL.
One half of the world believes the other half to be mad; and who shall
decide which moiety is right, the reputed lunatics or the supposed sane,
since neither party can be unprejudiced in the matter? At present the
minority believe that it is a mere matter of numbers, and that if
intellect carried the day, and right were not overborne by might, the
position of parties would be exactly reversed. The dilemma forced itself
strongly on my consciousness for a solution when I attended the annual
ball at Hanwell Lunatic Asylum. The prevailing opinion inside the walls
was that the majority of madmen lay outside, and that the most
hopelessly insane people in all the world were the officers immediately
concerned in the management of the establishment itself.
It was a damp, muggy January evening when I journeyed to this suburban
retreat. It rained dismally, and the wind nearly blew the porter out of
his lodge as he obeyed our summons at the Dantesque portal of the
institution, in passing behind which so many had literally abandoned
hope. I tried to fancy how it would feel if one were really being
consigned to that receptacle by interested relatives, as we read in
three-volume novels; but it was no use. I was one of a merry company on
that occasion. The officials of Hanwell Asylum had been a little shy of
being handed down to fame; so I adopted the ruse of getting into Herr
Gustav Küster's corps of fiddlers for the occasion. However, I must in
fairness add that the committee during the evening withdrew the taboo
they had formerly placed on my writing. I was free to immortalize them;
and my fiddling was thenceforth a work of supererogation.
High jinks commenced at the early hour of six; and long before that time
we had deposited our instruments in the Bazaar, as the ball-room is
somewhat incongruously called, and were threading the Dædalean mazes of
the wards. Life in the wards struck me as being very like living in a
passage; but when that preliminary objection was got over, the long
corridors looked comfortable enough. They were painted in bright warm
colours, and a correspondingly genial temperature was secured by
hot-water pipes running the entire length. Comfortable rooms opened out
from the wards at frequent intervals, and there was every form of
amusement to beguile the otherwise irksome leisure of those temporary
recluses. Most of my hermits were smoking--I mean on the male side--many
were reading; one had a fiddle, and I scraped acquaintance immediately
with him; whilst another was seated at the door of his snug little
bedroom, getting up cadenzas on the flute. He was an old
trombone-player in one of the household regiments, an inmate of Hanwell
for thirty years, and a fellow-bandsman with myself for the evening. He
looked, I thought, quite as sane as myself, and played magnificently;
but I was informed by the possibly prejudiced officials that he had his
occasional weaknesses. A second member of Herr Küster's band whom I
found in durance was a clarionet-player, formerly in the band of the
Second Life Guards; and this poor fellow, who was an excellent musician
too, felt his position acutely. He apologized sotto voce for sitting
down with me in corduroys, as well as for being an "imbecile." He did
not seem to question the justice of the verdict against him, and had not
become acclimatized to the atmosphere like the old trombone-player.
That New Year's night--for January was very young--the wards, especially
on the women's side, were gaily decorated with paper flowers, and all
looked as cheerful and happy as though no shadow ever fell across the
threshold; but, alas, there were every now and then padded rooms opening
out of the passage; and as this was not a refractory ward, I asked the
meaning of the arrangement, which I had fancied was an obsolete one. I
was told they were for epileptic patients. In virtue of his official
position as bandmaster, Herr Küster had a key; and, after walking
serenely into a passage precisely like the rest, informed me, with the
utmost coolness, that I was in the refractory ward. I looked around for
the stalwart attendant, who is generally to be seen on duty, and to my
dismay found he was quite at the other end of an exceedingly long
corridor. I do not know that I am particularly nervous; but I candidly
confess to an anxiety to get near that worthy official. We were only
three outsiders, and the company looked mischievous. One gentleman was
walking violently up and down, turning up his coat-sleeves, as though
bent on our instant demolition. Another, an old grey-bearded man, came
up, and fiercely demanded if I were a Freemason. I was afraid he might
resent my saying I was not, when it happily occurred to me that the
third in our party, an amateur contra-bassist, was of the craft. I told
our old friend so. He demanded the sign, was satisfied, and, in the
twinkling of an eye, our double-bass friend was struggling in his
fraternal embrace. The warder, mistaking the character of the hug,
hastened to the rescue, and I was at ease.
We then passed to the ball-room, where my musical friends were beginning
to "tune up," and waiting for their conductor. The large room was gaily
decorated, and filled with some three or four hundred patients, arranged
Spurgeon-wise: the ladies on one side, and the gentlemen on the other.
There was a somewhat rakish air about the gathering, due to the fact of
the male portion not being in full dress, but arrayed in free-and-easy
costume of corduroys and felt boots. The frequent warders in their dark
blue uniforms lent quite a military air to the scene; and on the ladies'
side the costumes were more picturesque; some little latitude was given
to feminine taste, and the result was that a large portion of the
patients were gorgeous in pink gowns. One old lady, who claimed to be a
scion of royalty, had a resplendent mob-cap; but the belles of the
ball-room were decidedly to be found among the female attendants, who
were bright, fresh-looking young women, in a neat, black uniform, with
perky little caps, and bunches of keys hanging at their side like the
rosary of a soeur de charité, or the chatelaines with which young ladies
love to adorn themselves at present. Files of patients kept streaming
into the already crowded room, and one gentleman, reversing the order
assigned to him by nature, walked gravely in on the palms of his hands,
with his legs elevated in air. He had been a clown at a theatre, and
still retained some of the proclivities of the boards. A wizen-faced
man, who seemed to have no name beyond the conventional one of "Billy,"
strutted in with huge paper collars, like the corner man in a nigger
troupe, and a tin decoration on his breast the size of a cheeseplate. He
was insensible to the charms of Terpsichore, except in the shape of an
occasional pas seul, and laboured under the idea that his mission was to
conduct the band, which he occasionally did, to the discomfiture of
Herr Küster, and the total destruction of gravity on the part of the
executants, so that Billy had to be displaced. It was quite curious to
notice the effect of the music on some of the quieter patients. One or
two, whose countenances really seemed to justify their incarceration,
absolutely hugged the foot of my music-stand, and would not allow me to
hold my instrument for a moment when I was not playing on it, so anxious
were they to express their admiration of me as an artist. "I used to
play that instrument afore I come here," said a patient, with a squeaky
voice, who for eleven years has laboured under the idea that his mother
is coming to see him on the morrow; indeed, most of the little group
around the platform looked upon their temporary sojourn at Hanwell as
the only impediment to a bright career in the musical world.
Proceedings commenced with the Caledonians, and it was marvellous to
notice the order, not to say grace and refinement with which these
pauper lunatics went through their parts in the "mazy." The rosy-faced
attendants formed partners for the men, and I saw a herculean warder
gallantly leading along the stout old lady in the mob-cap. The larger
number of the patients of course were paired with their
fellow-prisoners, and at the top of the room the officials danced with
some of the swells. Yes, there were swells here, ball-room coxcombs in
fustian and felt. One in particular was pointed out to me as an
University graduate of high family, and on my inquiring how such a man
became an inmate of a pauper asylum the official said, "You see, sir,
when the mind goes the income often goes too, and the people become
virtually paupers." Insanity is a great leveller, true; but I could not
help picturing that man's lucid intervals, and wondering whether his
friends might not do better for him. But there he is, pirouetting away
with the pretty female organist, the chaplain standing by and smiling
approval, and the young doctors doing the polite to a few invited
guests, but not disdaining, every now and then, to take a turn with a
patient. Quadrilles and Lancers follow, but no "round dances." A popular
prejudice on the part of the majority sets down such dances as too
exciting for the sensitive dancers. The graduate is excessively irate at
this, and rates the band soundly for not playing a valse. Galops are
played, but not danced; a complicated movement termed a "Circassian
circle" being substituted in their place. "Three hours of square dances
are really too absurd," said the graduate to an innocent second fiddle.
In the centre of the room all was gravity and decorum, but the merriest
dances went on in corners. An Irish quadrille was played, and an
unmistakable Paddy regaled himself with a most beautiful jig. He got on
by himself for a figure or two, when, remembering, no doubt, that
"happiness was born a twin," he dived into the throng, selected a
white-headed old friend of some sixty years, and impressed him with the
idea of a pas de deux. There they kept it up in a corner for the whole
of the quadrille, twirling imaginary shillelaghs, and encouraging one
another with that expressive Irish interjection which it is so
impossible to put down on paper. For an hour all went merry as the
proverbial marriage bell, and then there was an adjournment of the male
portion of the company to supper. The ladies remained in the Bazaar and
discussed oranges, with an occasional dance to the pianoforte, as the
band retired for refreshment too, in one of the attendants' rooms. I
followed the company to their supper room, as I had come to see, not to
eat. About four hundred sat down in a large apartment, and there were,
besides, sundry snug supper-parties in smaller rooms. Each guest partook
of an excellent repast of meat and vegetables, with a sufficiency of
beer and pipes to follow. The chaplain said a short grace before supper,
and a patient, who must have been a retired Methodist preacher, improved
upon the brief benediction by a long rambling "asking of a blessing," to
which nobody paid any attention. Then I passed up and down the long rows
with a courteous official, who gave me little snatches of the history of
some of the patients. Here was an actor of some note in his day; there a
barrister; here again a clergyman; here a tradesman recently "gone,"
"all through the strikes, sir," he added. The shadow--that most
mysterious shadow of all--had chequered life's sunshine in every one of
these cases. Being as they are they could not be in a better place. They
have the best advice they could get even were they--as some of them
claim to be--princes. If they can be cured, here is the best chance. If
not--well, there were the little dead-house and the quiet cemetery lying
out in the moonlight, and waiting for them when, as poor maddened Edgar
Allen Poe wrote, the "fever called living," should be "over at last."
But who talks of dying on this one night in all the year when even that
old freemason in the refractory ward was forgetting, after his own
peculiar fashion, the cruel injustice that kept him out of his twelve
thousand a year and title? Universal merriment is the rule to-night. Six
or seven gentlemen are on their legs at once making speeches, which are
listened to about as respectfully as the "toast of the evening" at a
public dinner. As many more are singing inharmoniously different songs;
the fun is getting fast and furious, perhaps a little too fast and
furious, when a readjournment to the ball-room is proposed, and readily
acceded to, one hoary-headed old flirt remarking to me as he went by,
that he was going to look for his sweetheart.
A long series of square dances followed, the graduate waxing more and
more fierce at each disappointment in his anticipated valse, and Billy
giving out every change in the programme like a parish clerk, which
functionary he resembled in many respects. It was universally agreed
that this was the best party that had ever been held in the asylum, just
as the last baby is always the finest in the family. Certainly the
guests all enjoyed themselves. The stalwart attendants danced more than
ever with a will, the rosy attendants were rosier and nattier than
before, if possible. The mob-cap went whizzing about on the regal head
of its owner down the middle of tremendous country dances, hands across,
set to partners, and then down again as though it had never tasted the
anxieties of a throne, or learnt by bitter experience the sorrows of
exile. Even the academical gentleman relaxed to the fair organist,
though he stuck up his hair stiffer than ever, and stamped his felt
boots again as he passed the unoffending double-bass with curses both
loud and deep on the subject of square dances. At length came the
inevitable "God Save the Queen," which was played in one key by the
orchestra, and sung in a great many different ones by the guests. It is
no disrespect to Her Majesty to say that the National Anthem was
received with anything but satisfaction. It was the signal that the
"jinks" were over, and that was quite enough to make it unpopular.
However, they sang lustily and with a good courage, all except the old
woman in the mob-cap, who sat with a complacent smile as much as to say,
"This is as it should be, I appreciate the honour done to my royal
brothers and sisters."
This is the bright side of the picture; but it had its sombre tints
also. There were those in all the wards who stood aloof from the
merriment, and would have none of the jinks. Lean-visaged men walked
moodily up and down the passages like caged wild beasts. Their lucid
interval was upon them, and they fretted at the irksome restraint and
degrading companionship. It was a strange thought; but I fancied they
must have longed for their mad fit as the drunkard longs for the
intoxicating draught, or the opium-eater for his delicious narcotic to
drown the idea of the present. There were those in the ball-room itself
who, if you approached them with the proffered pinch of snuff, drove you
from them with curses. One fine, intellectual man, sat by the window all
the evening, writing rhapsodies of the most extraordinary character, and
fancying himself a poet. Another wrapped round a thin piece of lath with
paper, and superscribed it with some strange hieroglyphics, begging me
to deliver it. All made arrangements for their speedy departure from
Hanwell, though many in that heart-sick tone which spoke of
long-deferred hope--hope never perhaps to be realized. Most painful
sight of all, there was one little girl there, a child of eleven or
twelve years--a child in a lunatic asylum! Think of that, parents, when
you listen to the engaging nonsense of your little ones--think of the
child in Hanwell wards! Remember how narrow a line separates innocence
from idiocy; so narrow a line that the words were once synonymous!
Then there was the infirmary full of occupants on that merry New Year's
night. Yonder poor patient being wheeled in a chair to bed will not
trouble his attendant long. There is another being lifted on his
pallet-bed, and having a cup of cooling drink applied to his parched
lips by the great loving hands of a warder who tends him as gently as a
woman. It seemed almost a cruel kindness to be trying to keep that poor
body and soul together.
Another hour, rapidly passed in the liberal hospitality of this great
institution, and silence had fallen on its congregated thousands. It is
a small town in itself, and to a large extent self-dependent and
self-governed. It bakes and brews, and makes its gas; and there is no
need of a Licensing Bill to keep its inhabitants sober and steady. The
method of doing that has been discovered in nature's own law of
kindness. Instead of being chained and treated as wild beasts, the
lunatics are treated as unfortunate men and women, and every effort is
made to ameliorate, both physically and morally, their sad condition.
Hence the bright wards, the buxom attendants, the frequent jinks. Even
the chapel-service has been brightened up for their behoof.
This was what I saw by entering as an amateur fiddler Herr Küster's band
at Hanwell Asylum; and as I ran to catch the last up-train--which I did
as the saying is by the skin of my teeth--I felt that I was a wiser,
though it may be a sadder man, for my evening's experiences at the
Lunatic Ball.
One question would keep recurring to my mind. It has been said that if
you stop your ears in a ball-room, and then look at the people--reputed
sane--skipping about in the new valse or the last galop, you will
imagine they must be all lunatics. I did not stop my ears that night,
but I opened my eyes and saw hundreds of my fellow-creatures, all with
some strange delusions, many with ferocious and vicious propensities,
yet all kept in order by a few warders, a handful of girls, and all
behaving as decorously as in a real ball-room. And the question which
_would_ haunt me all the way home was, which are the sane people, and
which the lunatics?