Ten Days in a Mad-House and Other Stories (2 page)

donned the old clothing I had selected for the occasion. I was in the

mood to look at everything through very serious glasses. It’s just as

well to take a last “fond look,” I mused, for who could tell but that

the strain of playing crazy, and being shut up with a crowd of mad

people, might turn my own brain, and I would never get back. But

not once did I think of shirking my mission. Calmly, outwardly at

least, I went out to my crazy business.

I first thought it best to go to a boarding-house, and, after securing

lodging, confidentially tell the landlady, or lord, whichever it might

chance to be, that I was seeking work, and, in a few days after,

apparently go insane. When I reconsidered the idea, I feared it

would take too long to mature. Suddenly I thought how much easier

it would be to go to a boarding-home for working women. I knew, if

once I made a houseful of women believe me crazy, that they would

never rest until I was out of their reach and in secure quarters.

From a directory I selected the Temporary Home for Females, No. 84

Second Avenue. As I walked down the avenue, I determined that,

once inside the Home, I should do the best I could to get started on

my journey to Blackwell’s Island and the Insane Asylum.

Ten Days in a Mad-House

CHAPTER III.

IN THE TEMPORARY HOME.

I WAS left to begin my career as Nellie Brown, the insane girl. As I

walked down the avenue I tried to assume the look which maidens

wear in pictures entitled “Dreaming.” “Far-away” expressions have

a crazy air. I passed through the little paved yard to the entrance of

the Home. I pulled the bell, which sounded loud enough for a

church chime, and nervously awaited the opening of the door to the

Home, which I intended should ere long cast me forth and out upon

the charity of the police. The door was thrown back with a

vengeance, and a short, yellow-haired girl of some thirteen summers

stood before me.

“Is the matron in?” I asked, faintly.

“Yes, she’s in; she’s busy. Go to the back parlor,” answered the girl,

in a loud voice, without one change in her peculiarly matured face.

I followed these not overkind or polite instructions and found myself

in a dark, uncomfortable back-parlor. There I awaited the arrival of

my hostess. I had been seated some twenty minutes at the least,

when a slender woman, clad in a plain, dark dress entered and,

stopping before me, ejaculated inquiringly, “Well?”

“Are you the matron?” I asked.

“No,” she replied, “the matron is sick; I am her assistant. What do

you want?”

“I want to stay here for a few days, if you can accommodate me.”

“Well, I have no single rooms, we are so crowded; but if you will

occupy a room with another girl, I shall do that much for you.”

“I shall be glad of that,” I answered. “How much do you charge?” I

had brought only about seventy cents along with me, knowing full

well that the sooner my funds were exhausted the sooner I should be

put out, and to be put out was what I was working for.

“We charge thirty cents a night,” was her reply to my question, and

with that I paid her for one night’s lodging, and she left me on the

plea of having something else to look after. Left to amuse myself as

best I could, I took a survey of my surroundings.

They were not cheerful, to say the least. A wardrobe, desk, book-

case, organ, and several chairs completed the furnishment of the

room, into which the daylight barely came.

By the time I had become familiar with my quarters a bell, which

rivaled the door-bell in its loudness, began clanging in the basement,

and simultaneously women went trooping down-stairs from all

parts of the house. I imagined, from the obvious signs, that dinner

was served, but as no one had said anything to me I made no effort

to follow in the hungry train. Yet I did wish that some one would

invite me down. It always produces such a lonely, homesick feeling

to know others are eating, and we haven’t a chance, even if we are

not hungry. I was glad when the assistant matron came up and

asked me if I did not want something to eat. I replied that I did, and

then I asked her what her name was. Mrs. Stanard, she said, and I

immediately wrote it down in a notebook I had taken with me for

the purpose of making memoranda, and in which I had written

several pages of utter nonsense for inquisitive scientists.

Thus equipped I awaited developments. But my dinner–well, I

followed Mrs. Stanard down the uncarpeted stairs into the basement;

where a large number of women were eating. She found room for

me at a table with three other women. The short-haired slavey who

had opened the door now put in an appearance as waiter. Placing

her arms akimbo and staring me out of countenance she said:

“Boiled mutton, boiled beef, beans, potatoes, coffee or tea?”

“Beef, potatoes, coffee and bread,” I responded.

“Bread goes in,” she explained, as she made her way to the kitchen,

which was in the rear. It was not very long before she returned with

what I had ordered on a large, badly battered tray, which she banged

down before me. I began my simple meal. It was not very enticing,

so while making a feint of eating I watched the others.

I have often moralized on the repulsive form charity always

assumes! Here was a home for deserving women and yet what a

mockery the name was. The floor was bare, and the little wooden

tables were sublimely ignorant of such modern beautifiers as

varnish, polish and table-covers. It is useless to talk about the

cheapness of linen and its effect on civilization. Yet these honest

workers, the most deserving of women, are asked to call this spot of

bareness–home.

When the meal was finished each woman went to the desk in the

corner, where Mrs. Stanard sat, and paid her bill. I was given a

much-used, and abused, red check, by the original piece of humanity

in shape of my waitress. My bill was about thirty cents.

After dinner I went up-stairs and resumed my former place in the

back parlor. I was quite cold and uncomfortable, and had fully made

up my mind that I could not endure that sort of business long, so the

sooner I assumed my insane points the sooner I would be released

from enforced idleness. Ah! that was indeed the longest day I had

ever lived. I listlessly watched the women in the front parlor, where

all sat except myself.

One did nothing but read and scratch her head and occasionally call

out mildly, “Georgie,” without lifting her eyes from her book.

“Georgie” was her over-frisky boy, who had more noise in him than

any child I ever saw before. He did everything that was rude and

unmannerly, I thought, and the mother never said a word unless she

heard some one else yell at him. Another woman always kept going

to sleep and waking herself up with her own snoring. I really felt wickedly thankful it was only herself she awakened. The majority of

the women sat there doing nothing, but there were a few who made

lace and knitted unceasingly. The enormous door-bell seemed to be

going all the time, and so did the short-haired girl. The latter was,

besides, one of those girls who sing all the time snatches of all the

songs and hymns that have been composed for the last fifty years.

There is such a thing as martyrdom in these days. The ringing of the

bell brought more people who wanted shelter for the night.

Excepting one woman, who was from the country on a day’s

shopping expedition, they were working women, some of them with

children.

As it drew toward evening Mrs. Stanard came to me and said:

“What is wrong with you? Have you some sorrow or trouble?”

“No,” I said, almost stunned at the suggestion. “Why?”

“Oh, because,” she said, womanlike, “I can see it in your face. It tells

the story of a great trouble.”

“Yes, everything is so sad,” I said, in a haphazard way, which I had

intended to reflect my craziness.

“But you must not allow that to worry you. We all have our troubles,

but we get over them in good time. What kind of work are you

trying to get?”

“I do not know; it’s all so sad,” I replied.

“Would you like to be a nurse for children and wear a nice white cap

and apron?” she asked.

I put my handkerchief up to my face to hide a smile, and replied in a

muffled tone, “I never worked; I don’t know how.”

“But you must learn,” she urged; “all these women here work.”

“Do they?” I said, in a low, thrilling whisper. “Why, they look

horrible to me; just like crazy women. I am so afraid of them.”

“They don’t look very nice,” she answered, assentingly, “but they

are good, honest working women. We do not keep crazy people

here.”

I again used my handkerchief to hide a smile, as I thought that

before morning she would at least think she had one crazy person

among her flock.

“They all look crazy,” I asserted again, “and I am afraid of them.

There are so many crazy people about, and one can never tell what

they will do. Then there are so many murders committed, and the

police never catch the murderers,” and I finished with a sob that

would have broken up an audience of
blase
critics. She gave a sudden

and convulsive start, and I knew my first stroke had gone 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

Ten Days in a Mad-House

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