Ten Days in a Mad-House | Page 5

home. It was amusing to see what
a remarkably short time it took her to get up from her chair and to
whisper hurriedly: "I'll come back to talk with you after a while." I
knew she would not come back and she did not.
When the supper-bell rang I went along with the others to the basement
and partook of the evening meal, which was similar to dinner, except
that there was a smaller bill of fare and more people, the women who
are employed outside during the day having returned. After the evening
meal we all adjourned to the parlors, where all sat, or stood, as there
were not chairs enough to go round.
It was a wretchedly lonely evening, and the light which fell from the
solitary gas jet in the parlor, and oil-lamp the hall, helped to envelop us
in a dusky hue and dye our spirits navy blue. I felt it would not require
many inundations of this atmosphere to make me a fit subject for the
place I was striving to reach.
I watched two women, who seemed of all the crowd to be the most
sociable, and I selected them as the ones to work out my salvation, or,
more properly speaking, my condemnation and conviction. Excusing
myself and saying that I felt lonely, I asked if I might join their
company. They graciously consented, so with my hat and gloves on,
which no one had asked me to lay aside, I sat down and listened to the
rather wearisome conversation, in which I took no part, merely keeping
up my sad look, saying "Yes," or "No," or "I can't say," to their
observations. Several times I told them I thought everybody in the
house looked crazy, but they were slow to catch on to my very original
remark. One said her name was Mrs. King and that she was a Southern
woman. Then she said that I had a Southern accent. She asked me
bluntly if I did not really come from the South. I said "Yes." The other
woman got to talking about the Boston boats and asked me if I knew at
what time they left.
For a moment I forgot my role of assumed insanity, and told her the
correct hour of departure. She then asked me what work I was going to
do, or if I had ever done any. I replied that I thought it very sad that
there were so many working people in the world. She said in reply that

she had been unfortunate and had come to New York, where she had
worked at correcting proofs on a medical dictionary for some time, but
that her health had given way under the task, and that she was now
going to Boston again. When the maid came to tell us to go to bed I
remarked that I was afraid, and again ventured the assertion that all the
women in the house seemed to be crazy. The nurse insisted on my
going to bed. I asked if I could not sit on the stairs, but she said,
decisively: "No; for every one in the house would think you were
crazy." Finally I allowed them to take me to a room.
Here I must introduce a new personage by name into my narrative. It is
the woman who had been a proofreader, and was about to return to
Boston. She was a Mrs. Caine, who was as courageous as she was
good-hearted. She came into my room, and sat and talked with me a
long time, taking down my hair with gentle ways. She tried to persuade
me to undress and go to bed, but I stubbornly refused to do so. During
this time a number of the inmates of the house had gathered around us.
They expressed themselves in various ways. "Poor loon!" they said.
"Why, she's crazy enough!" "I am afraid to stay with such a crazy being
in house." "She will murder us all before morning." One woman was
for sending for a policeman to take me at once. They were all in a
terrible and real state of fright.
No one wanted to be responsible for me, and the woman who was to
occupy the room with me declared that she would not stay with that
"crazy woman" for all the money of the Vanderbilts. It was then that
Mrs. Caine said she would stay with me. I told her I would like to have
her do so. So she was left with me. She didn't undress, but lay down on
the bed, watchful of my movements. She tried to induce me to lie down,
but I was afraid to do this. I knew that if I once gave way I should fall