First, let me introduce myself. I am now an old man, healthy of body
and mind--else I could not tell this story--but in late middle life was
somewhat feeble-minded. I was an installment collector for a furniture
house.
My earnings were small--just sufficient to afford me a hall room in
a boarding house, where, with my few books, I maintained my interest
in life. I began it as a sailor in deep-water ships, but, because of
the small promise of advancement, quit the sea after ten years, and
worked on shore. I was ambitious, studious, and fairly well educated.
I worked at one thing and another, finally becoming a reader for a
magazine; and, later, editor-in-chief. But the strain upon my mind of
reading, classifying, and rejecting or accepting for publication the
various and multitudinous manuscripts sent to me, wore down my mental
powers until there came an utter collapse, and I spent the next few
years in sanitariums, with all memory of my past blotted out, except
a few salient points, such as the name of my first ship, my first job
on shore, my first incursion into literary work, and the final furious
quarrel with my employer, when I was discharged as incompetent. Then
came my slow recovery to the point where I could obtain and hold my
position as collector. So much, in prelude, for myself and history.
Yet there is one more point of my early life that I remembered, but
only because my memory of it was refreshed occasionally as I fought my
way along in my shore life after leaving the sea--Jack Sullivan, a
watchmate on that first ship, who later became a boarding-house runner
and afterward a successful boarding and shipping master.
Jack's path in life did not coincide with mine, yet we met often during
my struggle for advancement, and each time it was a drink together, and
a reminiscent talk about that voyage; and it continued during the years
when I was an incompetent neurasthenic, and he a prosperous man with
influence at Tammany Hall.
It was after such a meeting with Jack, in which he had paid the bill
and clapped me on the back, bidding me to brace up and look ahead, that
I wandered into a small playhouse, the bills of which advertised a
mesmeric exhibition.
I had never seen such a public performance before, and was extremely
interested, as the operator, a tall, bearded man, in evening clothes,
called up members of the audience and, after a few passes over their
heads and down before them, put them into hypnotic or mesmeric sleep;
and then made them perform absurd and ridiculous feats.
I left the theatre, fully impressed, struck with awe at the power of
one man over others, and boarded a street car on my way home.
Still wondering, and afflicted with an uneasy struggle of my mind with
the idea that I had known of such things before, I was forced to listen
to a desultory conversation between two men who sat near me.
They were well-dressed and well-spoken--educated men--and as the
talk went on I easily deduced that they were physicians, slightly
acquainted--one, a visiting physician of a hospital; the other, a
general practitioner.
"A remarkable case," the former was saying, as I began to listen. "He
has been there longer than any other patient, and there has been
neither improvement nor decline. A complete case of aphasia in some
regards, amnesia in others; for we once succeeded in partly hypnotizing
him and getting incoherent comments--in the choicest of English,
however."
"Is he sane, as regards the present--of passing events?" asked the
general practitioner.
"Sane as you or I, except in the relapses. He has illusions and
hallucinations, but recovers himself without treatment other than
seclusion. It is a case of second personality, no doubt; but there is
no prognosis."
"And you cannot classify it?"
"No, except as double personality. He cannot remember his name before
the time the police brought him to us. He began all over again, and is
now an intelligent man, who reads the papers, and talks sanely."
"Keep up that hypnotic treatment."
"What's the use? We are busy over more modern and vital cases. He is
merely a medical and physical curiosity."
"Keep it up. By hypnotic treatment you can obtain his past and restore
his memory. You know that. Isn't it worth while--to restore a man's
soul to him?"
"Well, perhaps I will; but I am very busy, and he is a hard subject to
hypnotize."
The car was approaching my corner. With my mind in a whirl that I could
not understand, I arose, and, facing the two doctors, I asked them
where this man was confined. "Bellevue," answered the narrator of the
story.
I thanked him, and went out, standing for a while on the corner,
breathing deeply of the fresh air, and trying to analyze my state
of mind. Something within me was beating against my poor, tired
brain--something that would not take form and expression; something
of truth and fact and experience of my own that I could not
remember--something pertaining to my life at sea.
At last I went home and sank into a troubled slumber, from which I
wakened in the morning, not with any projects for the welfare of the
man in the hospital, but for my own good. Hypnotic operations would
restore memory; so the doctor had affirmed. My mind went at once to the
successful hypnotist that I had seen at the theater, and, after a day
of idleness and musing, I called there before the performance began.
I met him, explained my loss of memory, and he promised to do what he
could, appointing a meeting at his apartment at twelve, when the day's
work was ended, and his mind and mine were tranquil.
I was there on time. While well-dressed and well spoken, there was a
slight burr to his voice and a roughness of the skin on the back of
his neck that--I do not know why--betokens the outdoor, manual worker.
He spoke gently to me, asked my name and occupation, and, when I told
him that I was a collector, remarked that he had once been a collector
himself. First seating me in an easy-chair, he faced me in another, and
took my hands in his.
"Now, I am going to mesmerize you," he said, "instead of merely
hypnotizing. I am going to put you to sleep by personal or, as some
say, animal magnetism. It is more efficient in a case of long duration,
but I never use it on the stage, because it is not necessary, and
because only I could waken the subjects. Something might happen, you
see--a fire, or an injury to myself. But here we are quiet and safe.
Now, look me steadily in the eyes, and when you have gone to sleep I
will command you, firmly, to remember all your past. That will be all.
Very simple."
I obeyed him, looking steadily into his kindly, brown eyes. As I looked
they seemed to grow larger, while the pressure of his hands on mine
relaxed. Larger and larger grew his eyes, until I seemed to see nothing
else; then a tingling sensation crept through my frame--a delicious
tremor that soothed me into drooping my eyelids.
"Close your eyes now," he said, and his voice was far away. "You are
going to sleep, and, when I waken you, you will remember all that you
have forgotten."
I obeyed him, and for a moment or two thought I had slept; but the
closing words of his command seemed to arouse me. He was still before
me, but in the act of rising. He went into another room, and came out,
dressed in rough clothing and smoking a short clay pipe; then the wall
containing this door grew blank and white, and in a moment had taken
on the exact form of the forward side of a ship's forecastle, while a
duplicate door appeared in it.
Sitting quietly there, I watched the strange transformation scene, able
to rise if I wanted to, but not wanting to, nor feeling the slightest
uneasiness about the phenomena. The pictures left the wall, and faded
into nothingness; the mantel to my right hand elongated and took on the
form of a ship's rail; then with a rush all else in the room changed.
The floor rose suddenly, and became a fore-hatch, while the place was
filled with sailors, known to me by face and name; but among them I
could not now see the transformed mesmerist--the only man smoking was
Bill Andrus, a young fellow from Australia. To complete the picture,
my easy-chair changed into the weather windlass barrel, and a dash of
salt spray came over the bow. Being able to move, I left my seat and
got out of the way of the water. All seemed natural to me; I was at sea
again, and on one of the boats stowed on the house I spelled the name
of my first ship.
Of course, it was a dream, even though real to me at the time; and
there was no beginning to it. I dropped into that chapter of my life
with a full memory of the chapters preceding it, and I went on with it
as I had lived it before, with no thought that my seat on the windlass
had, a few moments before, been an easy morris chair.
The men around me were my shipmates, and in no sense out of proportion
of place or time. It was the last dog-watch, and when eight bells
struck I went aft to my trick at the wheel with no self-questioning.
And so, I will tell the rest of this story as though I had never
forgotten it.
The name of the ship was _Chariot_, and she was small, well found and
manned, with an easy skipper and mates. We were bound to Sydney, and
before the trades had been reached each man was on good terms, not only
with the others of the crew, but with the cook and steward, skipper
and mates. There had not been a blow or a harsh word from the officers
since we lifted the anchor in the Horseshoe.
In my watch, besides myself, were Jack Sullivan, an intelligent young
Irish-American; Swansen, a big, good-natured Swede--a Sou'wegian,
we called him--Wilkinson and Tompkins, two Jerseyites; Andrus, the
Australian, the youngest and least efficient of the ship's company, but
the most intelligent; and Devlin, an Irish, hot-headed graduate of the
Dublin university, who had gone to sea from sheer rebellion against
the conventionalities of shore life. We were a congenial, cheerful lot
of good fellows, ready for work or play or fight--only there was no
occasion for the latter.
We had our afternoon watch and first dog-watch below, a rare condition
in American ships, and on Sundays a liberal dinner of duff and good
wholesome beef sweetened to the flavor of corned beef by an overnight
soaking in fresh water. Each Sunday, while the trades lasted, all
hands remained on deck in both forenoon and afternoon watches, to
wash clothes, overhaul and air dunnage, to shave or be shaved and to
mutually cut hair, all of us confident of a good night's sleep, even
on deck; for braces are rarely touched at night while the trades are
blowing.
But on a Sunday morning, just after the trades had blown out, the
young Irish ne'er-do-well wanted a haircut and a shave. Wilkinson
and Tompkins had proved the best barbers, and had done all the work
heretofore; but this time they rebelled; they were tired of it, and,
besides, a squall was coming. Devlin vociferated and declaimed, saying
that he had looked like a dog long enough, and finally, to appease
him, young Andrus volunteered the task; so Devlin sat down on the
fore-hatch, and Andrus went to work, with mock pitying comments on his
doglike face.
"Of course, you're a dog," he would say, "the Skye terrier breed; but
I'll make a fox terrier out of you 'fore I'm done. Keep quiet. I can't
cut your hair while you're wriggling like a cat in a bathtub. You're
not a cat; you're a dog."
Devlin finally ceased his profane comment and wriggling, sitting quiet
until the clipping was done; then Andrus, after a walk to the rail and
a look at the growing squall to the westward, came back, saying that
there was time for a shave--which Devlin needed as badly as a haircut.
"Quiet, you dog!" he said jokingly. "You're a Skye terrier now, and
I'll soon make you a fox terrier--just as soon as I get that fur off
your face."
He shaved him clumsily but quickly, then stood back.
"Now, Devlin," he said, still carrying on the good-natured raillery,
"you're as handsome a dog as I ever saw. Let's hear you bark."
To our astonishment, Devlin emitted a series of canine sounds, and
ended with a menacing growl. He still sat quietly on the hatch,
however, without a sign or a smile on his face to indicate that he
fell in with the joke. Then came a shout from the mate, calling us to
halyards, clewlines, and buntlines, to shorten down for the squall.
We answered, and it was not until the squall had passed and sail made
again that we noticed that Devlin still sat on the hatch, occasionally
giving voice to barks and growls. We spoke to him, but received only
growls.
The skipper and mates came forward, and commanded him; he answered by
louder barks and deeper growls. We continued for an hour, and at last
he became violent. He was put into his berth, voted crazy from some
cause inherent in his nature, and ministered unto by all hands.
He grew quiet in a few days, but never regained his senses. We would
talk to him, coax him to answer, and even sing the old forecastle songs
to him; but all we received in answer were barks and growls, and soon
we perceived that he had forgotten the use of his pan, pannikin, and
spoon. We sorrowfully taught him to eat.
And we mourned also for another good fellow, from the time of that
squall that followed the barbering. Andrus, the Australian, had been
lost overboard. At a time when royals and topgallant sails were
flapping and fluttering, the ship laid over by the squall until the
lee rail was buried, and, with wind abeam, making twelve knots, Andrus
had floundered down into the water in the waist to rescue the ship's
cat, old Tom, that had been caught unawares and was in danger of
floating overboard.
No one knew just how it happened. We only knew that the ship righted
for a moment, then sagged back to a farther angle, and, when next she
righted, Andrus and the cat were gone.
We let the canvas flap and carry away, while we strove to back the main
yards, and the skipper threw over life-buoys and gratings. But in that
furious wind we could not gain an inch on the main-brace, and by the
time we realized this Andrus and the cat, life-buoys, and gratings must
have been a mile astern. There was a ship on the horizon, following in
our wake, but it was past all reason that Andrus, who we knew could not
swim, should reach a life-buoy or grating and be picked up.
We taught and trained Devlin as we would train a dog, and he learned
readily. He first learned to pull a rope with us, and soon understood
the meaning of "belay." He learned to sweep and scrub decks, and, after
a few trips aloft with us, learned to furl, to reef, and to "loose" a
sail. He remembered every word spoken to him, and would repeat them at
the right time; but we had rounded the Cape before he could converse,
and then in short, jerky sentences; yet he learned to speak much more
rapidly than could a child.
We called him Devlin until we understood that he could not remember
it as his name; then we addressed him as "Say." Little by little he
learned the ropes, the compass, and the use of marlinespikes and deck
gear, and, though still stupid, was in a fair way to become an able
seaman again, but for an unfortunate speech of one of our number--I
think it was Swansen--who, at our forecastle supper, jokingly called
him a dog.
Devlin immediately became a dog, snapping, snarling, barking, and
growling, with all his tutelage gone from him.
We mobbed Swansen, but it did not help the case; Devlin remained an
imbecile until we reached port, where he went to a hospital.
So, with our spirits clouded, we were glad to quit that good ship
at Sydney, and separate, each going his own way. Mine led to other
voyages until, as I have said, I quit the sea to work on shore; then,
on through my struggles for a livelihood to the time of my mental
breakdown; and I even remembered and lived the experience of the night
at the theater and my visit to the hypnotist. And then I awoke, to find
him standing over me, making passes upward and over my head.
"Well," he said, as I glanced confusedly around the room, "how do you
feel?"
"Feel?" I answered. "Why, professor, I've dreamed of my whole
life--only, it is fading away. Let me think. The ship--Swansen--the
squall--no, it is going. I cannot remember. I cannot."
"Go home," he said kindly, "and sleep all you can. Each morning will
bring back fresh recollections, and in time your memory will be
thoroughly restored."
He was right. Next morning I recalled the incidents of my boyhood and
my early seafaring experience, culminating in my signing able seaman in
the _Chariot_. And as I viewed my face in the glass, I marveled at the
change; I knew it as my face, and remembered it, but now remembered the
face of my youth, which gave no promise of the worn and wasted features
in the glass.
Yet the following morning brought back more recollections of that
voyage, and the next and the next still more, until at the end of a
week I could review my past, perhaps with a keener memory than that of
the ordinary man who has tired his brain and memory without the relief
that had come to me. I called down blessings upon the head of that
hypnotist, and in my gladness of heart thought of the poor devil in
Bellevue Hospital, and went to see him.
But I was not admitted. I was not acquainted with him, and had no
plausible excuse for wishing to see him. So I went to Sullivan, my old
shipmate, and explained the case, at the same time telling him of my
wonderful cure, and my wish to secure to him the services of the kindly
man who had served me.
"Won't let you in?" he cried. "I'll see about that. Just come along wi'
me up to Tammany Hall, an' I'll see if a fri'nd o' Jack Sullivan is to
be barred out of any public institution in this burg."
We started, and as our way led past the apartment of the professor, I
suggested that we stop and endeavor to take him along, as, if all went
well, the thing could be done in a few moments.
Luckily we found him at home, packing up for the road. His engagement
was ended, and he would leave town that evening; but, when I had
explained about the poor fellow at Bellevue, whose case was worse than
my own, his kindly brown eyes lit up with a fellow sympathy, and he
came with us.
We took a cab, and Jack and I occupied the forward seat, while the
professor sat opposite. As we rode along, I noticed that he furtively
glanced into Jack's seamy face, and occasionally, and as furtively,
into mine, while a doubtful, thoughtful expression stole over his own.
But he uttered no word during that ride, and indeed there was hardly a
chance, for Jack kept the atmosphere sulphurous with his comments on
the insolence of the doctors at Bellevue.
At Tammany Hall Jack went in, and what he said or did in there I do
not know; but he soon came out, waving a pass to the hospital, and
still swearing.
We soon reached Bellevue, and were readily admitted and led to the ward
containing the hopelessly insane. And here we were at a loss as to
which of the fifty or more patients was our man. The one nurse there
did not know the pathology of a single case in the ward; but he went to
inquire, and brought back the visiting physician whom I had met in the
car. He recognized me, heard my story, was introduced to Jack and the
professor, and said to the latter:
"If you have restored this man's memory, sir, you may succeed with our
man. I am perfectly willing you should try. We have always failed. I
suppose you want a quiet room. Come with me, and I will send for the
man."
He led us into a small, vacant bedroom, containing, beside the bed, a
washstand and one chair. The doctor called for more chairs, and then
said:
"It is best perhaps that you should know something about him before he
arrives, as he is intelligent and sensitive in his present personality.
Besides his utter loss of memory, he carries the strangest antipathy to
cats and dogs--"
And here, as though in confirmation of the description, a huge cat
bounded into the room, followed by a frenzied-eyed man, who uttered
incoherent snarls and growls, as he endeavored to catch the cat.
"That's the man," said the doctor. "Look out."
Following the maniac was the nurse, who endeavored to stop the chase;
but he could not hold the violent patient, though the cat had a
moment's reprieve. It glared at its enemy from a corner; then, as the
pursuer bounded toward it, the cat sprang to my head and shoulders,
spitting and snarling defiance, and from my head, which was rather
bald, it leaped to the head of the doctor--which was balder--thence to
the floor, and out of the room. The patient pursued, but was stopped
and held by the doctor and nurse.
"Sit down in that chair," said the doctor, "and behave yourself."
The frenzy left the man's eyes, and he quietly obeyed.
"I have told you often enough," said the doctor to the nurse, "to keep
that cat out of this ward." He wiped the blood from his bare scalp.
"Why are not my instructions carried out?"
"It was not my fault, sir," answered the nurse. "I do not know who let
the cat in."
"Never let it happen again. Bring those chairs in."
"Wait, doctor," said the professor. "Can you send in a bench about a
foot high, or, if not, a bucket or pail. I want to seat this man on
something hard."
There was no such bench, he was informed, but a large pail came in with
the chairs.
I had been studying the patient. He was a middle-sized, middle-aged
man, with a careworn face and gray hair and beard, and he sat
tremblingly in his chair, and looked pleadingly at the doctor.
"I could not help it, doctor," he said. "I hate them--they madden me."
"Never mind, Monson," answered the doctor kindly; "but we're going to
try again to take it out of you. You must sit still and be hypnotized."
"What! More of that foolishness! It never did any good."
"Not hypnotized this time--mesmerized. This gentleman thinks he can put
you to sleep. If he succeeds, you will remember your past. Isn't it
worth trying? Come, now; be sensible."
He looked at the professor doubtingly, and I also looked at him,
noticing perhaps what the doctor did not--that he was trembling from
head to foot, and that the muscles of his mouth twitched; but he
pulled himself together and approached the patient.
"Yes, my poor fellow," he said, in his kindly voice, "it can be done.
I have never failed. You will remember your former name and all your
early life."
"I have studied this thing a little," answered Monson, "and I
understand that it is done by suggestion to the subconscious mind."
"You are right. And as you seem to be a well-informed, intelligent man,
it will be all the easier. Come over here, and sit down on the upturned
pail."
He changed his seat, and the professor, warning us to perfect silence,
made a few passes over the man's head and down before him.
"Sit up, now," he commanded, "and don't fall over." Monson stiffened
straight, and the professor continued his passes until Monson's eyes
took on a fixed expression. Then the mesmerist began twitching and
pulling his patient's hair, sometimes gently, and again roughly. Then
he took a chair, seated himself before Monson, as he had done in my
case, and, taking his hands in his own, commanded him to stare at his
eyes.
Monson obeyed, and, in a few moments, his eyelids drooped. Soon he
was asleep. But the professor continued the passes and the occasional
twitching of the hair for fully five minutes; then he stood up and
stepped back. The sweat was running down his face, and he wiped it off
with his handkerchief.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I have him in the somnambulistic stage, but it
may be necessary to send him deeper. I will try. Monson, answer me," he
commanded in a sharp voice.
"Yes, sir," answered the sleeping man.
"Do you hate cats?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
The professor made more passes, waited a few minutes; then made more,
and again asked sternly: "Monson, do you hate cats?"
There was no answer.
The professor looked at us with a smile. "I think I have found him," he
said. He again began the hair twitching, and after a few moments again
questioned him. And the question brought Sullivan and me, gasping and
choking, to our feet.
"Devlin," he said, in a joking tone, "am I cutting your hair to your
satisfaction?"
"You are not," answered the sleeper. "I was doggy enough before, but
ye're making a hairless Mexican poodle o' me 'stead of a fox terrier."
"Devlin," shouted the professor, as he drew away his hands, "you are
not a dog. You never have been a dog, and you never will be a dog.
You are a man, and your name is not Monson. It never was Monson, and
it never will be Monson. When you waken you will remember every event
of your past life up to and after the time of the squall aboard the
_Chariot_. You will remember everything. Wake up, Devlin, wake up, and
don't count your trouble against me, old shipmate. I did not know my
power then. I nearly drowned before that ship astern picked me up. Wake
up, Devlin. Wake up."
The professor was making furious passes upward.
Slowly the man's eyes opened, and, with the daze of sleep still in
them, he looked at the professor.
"You're a bum barber, Andrus," he said. "I wouldn't give ye hell room."
The professor did not catch his train that evening. Four old shipmates
dined together; and the dinner lasted until it became a supper, and
finally a breakfast.