AT two o’clock an attendant stole on tiptoe to the strong-room, unlocked the door, and peeped cautiously in. Seeing the dangerous maniac1 quiet, he entered with a plate of lukewarm beef and potatoes, and told him bluntly to eat. The crushed one said he could not eat. “You must,” said the man. “Eat!” said Alfred; “of what do you think I am made! Pray put it down and listen to me. I’ll give you a hundred pounds to let me out of this place; two hundred; three.”
A coarse laugh greeted this proposal. “You might as well have made it a thousand when you was about it.”
“So I will,” said Alfred eagerly, “and thank you on my knees besides. Ah, I see you don’t believe I have money. I give you my honour I have ten thousand pounds: it was settled on me by my grandfather, and I came of age last week.”
“Oh, that’s like enough,” said the man carelessly. “Well, you are green. Do you think them as sent you here will let you spend your money? No, your money is theirs now.”
And he sat down with the plate on his knee and began to cut the meat in small pieces; while his careless words entered Alfred’s heart, and gave him such a glimpse of sinister2 motives3 and dark acts to come as set him shuddering5.
“Come none o’ that,” said the man, suspecting this shudder4. He thought it was the prologue6 to some desperate act; for all a chained madman does is read upon this plan: his terror passes for rage, his very sobs7 for snarls8.
“Oh, be honest with me,” said Alfred imploringly9; “do you think it is to steal my money the wretch11 has stolen my liberty?”
“What wretch?”
“My father.”
“I know nothing about it,” said the man sullenly12, “in course there’s mostly money behind, when young gents like you come to be took care of. But you musn’t go thinking of that, or you’ll excite yourself again. Come you eat your vittles like a Christian13, and no more about it.”
“Leave it, that is a good fellow; and then I’ll try and eat a little by-and-bye. But my grief is great — oh Julia! Julia! what shall I do? And I am not used to eat at this time. Will you, my good fellow?”
“Well, I will, now you behave like a gentleman,” said the man.
Then Alfred coaxed14 him to take off the handcuffs. He refused, but ended by doing it; and so left him.
Four more leaden hours rolled by, and then this same attendant (his name was Brown) brought him a cup of tea. It was welcome to his parched16 throat; he drank it, and ate a mouthful of the meat to please the man, and even asked for some more tea.
At eight four keepers came into his room, undressed him, compelled him to make his toilette, &c., before them, which put him to shame — being a gentleman — almost as much as it would a woman. They then hobbled him, and fastened his ankles to the bed, and put his hands into muffles17, but did not confine his body; because they had lost a lucrative18 lodger19 only a month ago, throttled20 at night in a strait-waistcoat.
Alfred lay in this plight21, and compared with anguish22 unspeakable his joyful23 anticipations24 of this night with the strange and cruel reality. “My wedding night! my wedding night!” he cried aloud, and burst into a passion of grief.
By-and-bye he consoled himself a little with the hope that he could not long be incarcerated25 as a madman, being sane26; and his good wit told him his only chance was calmness. He would go to sleep and recover composure to bear his wrongs with dignity, and quietly baffle his enemies.
Just as he was dropping off’ he felt something crawl over his face. Instinctively27 he made a violent motion to put his hands up. Both hands were confined; he could not move them. He bounded, he flung, he writhed28. His little persecutors were quiet a moment, but the next they began again. In vain he rolled and writhed, and shuddered29 with loathing30 inexpressible. They crawled, they smelt31, they bit.
Many a poor soul these little wretches32 had distracted with the very sleeplessness33 the madhouse professed34 to cure, not create, in conjunction with the opiates, the confinement35 and the gloom of Silverton House, they had driven many a feeble mind across the line that divides the weak and nervous from the unsound.
When he found there was no help, Alfred clenched36 his teeth and bore it:—“Bite on, ye little wretches,” he said “bite on, and divert my mind from deeper stings than yours — if you can.”
And they did; a little.
Thus passed the night in mental agony, and bodily irritation37 and disgust. At daybreak the feasters on his flesh retired38, and utterly39 worn out and exhausted40, he sank into a deep sleep.
At half-past seven the head keeper and three more came in, and made him dress before them. They handcuffed him, and took him down to breakfast in the noisy ward41; set him down on a little bench by the wall like a naughty boy, and ordered a dangerous maniac to feed him.
The dangerous maniac obeyed, and went and sat beside Alfred with a basin of thick gruel42 and a great wooden spoon. He shovelled43 the gruel down his charge’s throat mighty44 superciliously45 from the very first; and presently, falling into some favourite and absorbing train of thought, he fixed46 his eye on vacancy47, and handed the spoonfuls over his left shoulder with such rapidity and recklessness that it was more like sowing than feeding. Alfred cried out “Quarter! I can’t eat so fast as that, old fellow.”
Something in his tone struck the maniac; he looked at Alfred full, Alfred looked at him in return, and smiled kindly48 but sadly.
“Hallo!” cried the maniac.
“What’s up now?” said a keeper fiercely.
“Why this man is sane. As sane as I am.”
At this there was a horse laugh.
“Saner,” persisted the maniac; “for I am a little queer at times, you know.”
“And no mistake, Jemmy. Now what makes you think he is sane?”
“Looked me full in the face, and smiled at me.”
“Oh, that is your test, is it?”
“Yes, it is. You try it on any of those mad beggars there and see if they can stand it.”
“Who invented gunpowder49?” said one of the insulted persons, looking as sly and malicious50 as a magpie51 going to steal.
Jemmy exploded directly: “I did, ye rascal52, ye liar53, ye rogue54, ye Baconian!” and going higher, and higher in this strain, was very soon handcuffed with Alfred’s handcuffs, and seated on Alfred’s bench and tied to two rings in the wall. On this his martial55 ardour went down to zero: “Here is treatment, sir,” said he piteously to Alfred. “I see you are a gentleman; now look at this. All spite and jealousy56 because I invented that invaluable57 substance, which has done so much to prolong human life and alleviate58 human misery59.”
Alfred was now ordered to feed Jemmy; which he did: so quickly were their parts inverted60.
Directly after breakfast Alfred demanded to see the proprietor61 of the asylum62.
Answer: Doesn’t live here.
The Doctor then.
Oh, he has not come.
This monstrosity irritated Alfred: “Well, then,” said he, “whoever it is that rules this den15 of thieves, when those two are out of it.”
“I rule in Mr. Baker63’s absence,” said the head keeper, “and I’ll teach you manners, you young blackguard. Handcuff him.”
In five minutes Alfred was handcuffed and flung into a padded room.
“Stay there till you know how to speak to your betters,” said the head keeper.
Alfred walked up and down grinding his teeth with rage for five long hours.
Just before dinner Brown came and took him into a parlour, where Mrs. Archbold was seated writing. Brown retired. The lady finished what she was doing, and kept Alfred standing64 like a schoolboy going to be lectured. At last she said, “I have sent for you to give you a piece of advice: it is to try and make friends with the attendants.”
“Me make friends with the scoundrels! I thirst for their lives. Oh, madam, I fear I shall kill somebody here.”
“Foolish boy; they are too strong for you. Your worst enemies could wish nothing worse for you than that you should provoke them.” In saying these words she was so much more kind and womanly that Alfred conceived hopes, and burst out, “Oh, madam, you are human then; you seem to pity me; pray give me pen and paper, and let me write to my friends to get me out of this terrible place; do not refuse me.”
Mrs. Archbold resumed her distant manner without apparent effort: she said nothing, but she placed writing materials before him. She then left the room, and locked him in.
He wrote a few hasty ardent65 words to Julia, telling her how he had been entrapped67, but not a word about his sufferings — he was too generous to give her needless pain — and a line to Edward, imploring10 him to come at once with a lawyer and an honest physician, and liberate68 him.
Mrs. Archbold returned soon after, and he asked her if she would lend him sealing-wax: “I dare not trust to an envelope in such a place as this,” said he. She lent him sealing-wax.
“But how am I to post it?” said he.
“Easily: there is a box in the house; I will show you.”
She took him and showed him the box: he put his letters into it, and in the ardour of his gratitude69 kissed her hand. She winced70 a little and said, “Mind, this is not by my advice; I would never tell my friends I had been in a madhouse; oh, never. I would be calm, make friends with the servants — they are the real masters — and never let a creature know where I had been.”
“Oh, you don’t know my Julia,” said Alfred; “she will never desert me, never think the worse of me because I have been entrapped illegally into a madhouse.”
“Illegally, Mr. Hardie! you deceive yourself; Mr. Baker told me the order was signed by a relation, and the certificates by first-rate lunacy doctors.”
“What on earth has that to do with it, madam, when I am as sane as you are?”
“It has everything to do with it. Mr. Baker could be punished for confining a madman in this house without an order and two certificates; but he couldn’t for confining a sane person under an order and two certificates.”
Alfred could not believe this, but she convinced him that it was so.
Then he began to fear he should be imprisoned71 for years: he turned pale, and looked at her so piteously, that to soothe72 him she told him sane people were never kept in asylums73 now; they only used to be.
“How can they?” said she. “The London asylums are visited four times a year by the commissioners74, and the country asylums six times, twice by the commissioners, and four times by the justices. We shall be inspected this week or next; and then you can speak to the justices: mind and be calm; say it is a mistake; offer testimony75; and ask either to be discharged at once or to have a commission of lunacy sit on you. Ten to one your friends will not face public proceedings76: but you must begin at the foundation, by making the servants friendly — and by — being calm.” She then fixed her large grey eyes on him and said, “Now if I let you dine with me and the first-class patients, will you pledge me your honour to ‘be calm,’ and not attempt to escape?” Alfred hesitated at that. Her eye dissected77 his character all the time. “I promise,” said he at last with a deep sigh. “May I sit by you? There is something so repugnant in the very idea of mad people.”
“Try and remember it is their misfortune, not their crime,” said Mrs. Archbold, just like a matronly sister admonishing78 a brother from school.
She then whistled in a whisper for Brown, who was lurking79 about unseen all the time. He emerged and walked about with Alfred, and by-and-bye, looking down from a corridor, they saw Mrs. Archbold driving the second-class women before her to dinner like a flock of animals. Whenever one stopped to look at anything, or try and gossip, the philanthropic Archbold went at her just like a shepherd’s dog at a refractory80 sheep, caught her by the shoulders, and drove her squeaking81 headlong.
At dinner Alfred was so fortunate as to sit opposite a gentleman, who nodded and grinned at him all dinner with a horrible leer. He could not, however, enjoy this to the full for a little distraction82 at his elbow: his right hand neighbour kept forking pieces out of his plate and substituting others from his own. There was even a tendency to gristle in the latter. Alfred remonstrated83 gently at first; the gentleman forbore a minute, then recommenced. Alfred laid a hand very quietly on his wrist and put it back. Mrs. Archbold’s quick eye surprised this gesture: “What is the matter there?” said she.
“Oh, nothing serious, madam,” replied Alfred; “only this gentleman does me the honour to prefer the contents of my plate to his own.”
“Mr. Cooper!” said the Archbold sternly.
Cooper, the head keeper, pounced84 on the offender85, seized him roughly by the collar, dragged him from the table, knocking his chair down, and bundled him out of the room with ignominy and fracas86, in spite of a remonstrance87 from Alfred, “Oh, don’t be so rough with the poor man.
Then the novice88 laid down his knife and fork, and ate no more. “I am grieved at my own ill-nature in complaining of such a trifle,” said he when all was quiet
The company stared considerably89 at this remark: it seemed to them a most morbid90 perversion91 of sensibility; for the deranged92, thin-skinned beyond conception in their own persons, and alive to the shadow of the shade of a wrong, are stoically indifferent to the woes93 of others.
Though Alfred was quiet as a lamb all day, the attendants returned him to the padded room at night, because he had been there last night. But they only fastened one ankle to the bed-post: so he encountered his Lilliputians on tolerably fair terms — numbers excepted: they swarmed94. Unable to sleep, he put out his hand and groped for his clothes. But they were outside the door, according to rule.
Day broke at last: and he took his breakfast quietly with the first-class patients. It consisted of cool tea in small basins instead of cups, and table-spoons instead of tea-spoons; and thick slices of stale bread thinly buttered. A few patients had gruel or porridge instead of tea. After breakfast Alfred sat in the first-class patients’ room and counted the minutes and the hours till Edward should come. After dinner he counted the hours till tea-time. Nobody came; and he went to bed in such grief and disappointment as some men live to eighty without ever knowing.
But when two o’clock came next day, and no Edward, and no reply, then the distress95 of his soul deepened. He implored96 Mrs. Archbold to tell him what was the cause. She shook her head and said gravely, it was but too common; a man’s nearest and dearest were very apt to hold aloof97 from him the moment he was put into an asylum.
Here an old lady put in her word. “Ah, sir, you must not hope to hear from anybody in this place. Why, I have been two years writing and writing, and can’t get a line from my own daughter. To be sure she is a fine lady now: but it was her poor neglected mother that pinched and pinched to give her a good education, and that is how she caught a good husband. But it’s my belief the post in our hall isn’t a real post: but only a box; and I think it is contrived98 so as the letters fall down a pipe into that Baker’s hands, and so then when the postman comes ——” The Archbold bent99 her bushy brows on this chatty personage. “Be quiet, Mrs. Dent66; you are talking nonsense, and exciting yourself: you know you are not to speak on that topic. Take care.”
The poor old woman was shut up like a knife; for the Archbold had a way of addressing her own sex that crushed them. The change was almost comically sudden to the mellow100 tones in which she addressed Alfred the very next moment, on the very same subject: “Mr. Baker, I believe, sees the letters: and, where our poor patients (with a glance at Dent) write in such a way as to wound and perhaps terrify those who are in reality their best friends, they are not always sent. But I conclude your letters have gone. If you feel you can be calm, why not ask Mr. Baker? He is in the house now; for a wonder.”
Alfred promised to be calm; and she got him an interview with Mr. Baker.
He was a full-blown pawnbroker101 of Silverton town, whom the legislature, with that keen knowledge of human nature which marks the British senate, permitted, and still permits, to speculate in Insanity102, stipulating104, however, that the upper servant of all in his asylum should be a doctor; but omitting to provide against the instant dismissal of the said doctor should he go and rob his employer of a lodger — by curing a patient.
As you are not the British legislature, I need not tell you that to this pawnbroker insanity mattered nothing, nor sanity103: his trade lay in catching105, and keeping, and stinting106, as many lodgers107, sane or insane, as he could hold.
There are certain formulae in these quiet retreats, which naturally impose upon greenhorns such as Alfred certainly was, and some visiting justices and lunacy commissioners would seem to be. Baker had been a lodging-house keeper for certified108 people many years, and knew all the formulae: some call them dodges109: but these must surely be vulgar minds. Baker worked “the see-saw formula.”
“Letters, young gentleman?” said he: “they are not in my department They go into the surgery, and are passed by the doctor, except those he examines and orders to be detained.”
Alfred demanded the doctor.
“He is gone,” was the reply. (Formula.)
Alfred found it as hard to be calm as some people find it easy to say that word over the wrongs of others.
The next day, but not till the afternoon, he caught the doctor: “My letters! Surely, sir, you have not been so cruel as to intercept110 them?”
“I intercept no letters,” said the doctor, as if scandalised at the very idea. “I see who writes them, and hand them to Mr. Baker, with now and then a remark. If any are detained, the responsibility rests with him.”
“He says it rests with you.”
“You must have misunderstood him.”
“Not at all, sir. One thing is clear; my letters have been stolen either by him or you; and I will know which.”
The doctor parried with a formula.
“You are excited, Mr. Hardie. Be calm, sir, be calm: or you will be here all the longer.”
All Alfred obtained by this interview was a powerful opiate. The head-keeper brought it him in bed. He declined to take it. The man whistled, and the room filled with keepers.
“Now,” said Cooper, “down with it, or you’ll have to be drenched111 with this cowhorn.”
“You had better take it, sir,” said Brown; “the doctor has ordered it you.”
“The doctor? Well, let me see the doctor about it.”
“He is gone.”
“He never ordered it me,” said Alfred. Then fixing his eyes sternly on Cooper, “You miscreants112, you want to poison me. No, I will not take it. Murder! murder!”
Then ensued a struggle, on which I draw a veil: but numbers won the day, with the help of handcuffs and a cowhorn.
Brown went and told Mrs. Archbold, and what Alfred had said.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said that strong-minded lady: “it is only one of the old fool’s composing draughts113. It will spoil the poor boy’s sleep for one night, that is all. Go to him the first thing in the morning.”
About midnight Alfred was seized with a violent headache and fever: towards morning he was light-headed, and Brown found him loud and incoherent: only he returned often to an expression Mr. Brown had never heard before —
“Justifiable114 parricide115. Justifiable parricide. Justifiable patricide116.”
Most people dislike new phrases. Brown ran to consult Mrs. Archbold about this one. After the delay inseparable from her sex, she came in a morning wrapper; and they found Alfred leaning over the bed and bleeding violently at the nose. They were a good deal alarmed, and tried to stop it: but Alfred was quite sensible now, and told them it was doing him good.
“I can manage to see now,” he said; “a little while ago I was blind with the poison.”
They unstrapped his ankle and made him comfortable, and Mrs. Archbold sent Brown for a cup of strong coffee and a glass of brandy. He tossed them off; and soon after fell into a deep sleep that lasted till tea-time. This sleep the poor doctor ascribed to the sedative117 effect of his opiate. It was the natural exhaustion118 consequent on the morbid excitement caused by his cursed opiate.
“Brown,” said Mrs. Archbold, “if Dr. Bailey prescribes again, let me know. He shan’t square this patient with his certificates, whilst I am here.”
This was a shrewd, but uncharitable, speech of hers. Dr. Bailey was not such a villain119 as that.
He was a less depraved, and more dangerous animal: he was a fool.
The farrago he had administered would have done an excited maniac no good, of course, but no great harm. It was dangerous to a sane man: and Alfred to the naked eye was a sane man. But then Bailey had no naked eye left: he had been twenty years an M. D. The certificates of Wycherley and Speers were the green spectacles he wore — very green ones — whenever he looked at Alfred Hardie.
Perhaps in time he will forget those certificates, and, on his spectacles dropping off, he will see Alfred is sane. If he does, he will publish him as one of his most remarkable120 cures.
Meanwhile the whole treatment of this ill-starred young gentleman gravitated towards insanity. The inner mind was exasperated121 by barefaced122 injustice123 and oppression; above all, by his letters being stopped; for that convinced him both Baker and Bailey, with their see-saw evasions124, knew he was sane, and dreaded125 a visit from honest, understanding men: and the mind’s external organ, the brain, which an asylum professes126 to soothe, was steadily127 undermined by artificial sleeplessness. A man can’t sleep in irons till he is used to them and, when Alfred was relieved of these, his sleep was still driven away by biting insects and barking dogs, two opiates provided in many of these placid128 Retreats, with a view to the permanence rather than the comfort of the lodgers.
On the eighth day Alfred succeeded at last in an object he had steadily pursued for some time: he caught the two see-saw humbugs129 together.
“Now,” said he, “you say he intercepts130 my letters; and he says it is you who do it. Which is the truth?”
They were staggered, and he followed up his advantage: “Look me in the face, gentlemen,” said he. “Can you pretend you do not know I am sane? Ah, you turn your heads away. You can only tell this bare-faced lie behind my back. Do you believe in God, and in a judgment131 to come? Then, if you cannot release me, at least don’t be such scoundrels as to stop my letters, and so swindle me out of a fair trial, an open, public trial.”
The doctor parried with a formula. “Publicity would be the greatest misfortune could befall you. Pray be calm.”
Now, an asylum is a place not entirely132 exempt133 from prejudices: and one of them is, that any sort of appeal to God Almighty134 is a sign or else forerunner135 of maniacal136 excitement.
These philosophers forget that by stopping letters, evading137 public trials, and, in a word, cutting off all appeals to human justice, they compel the patient to turn his despairing eyes, and lift his despairing voice to Him, whose eye alone can ever really penetrate138 these dark abodes139.
However, the patient who appealed to God above a whisper in Silverton Grove140 House used to get soothed141 directly. And the tranquillising influences employed were morphia, croton oil, or a blister142.
The keeper came to Alfred in his room. “Doctor has ordered a blister.”
“What for? Send for him directly.”
“He is gone.”
This way of ordering torture, and then coolly going, irritated Alfred beyond endurance. Though he knew he should soon be powerless, he showed fight; made his mark as usual on a couple of his zealous143 attendants; but not having room to work in was soon overpowered, hobbled, and handcuffed: then they cut off his hair, and put a large blister on the top of his head.
The obstinate144 brute145 declined to go mad. They began to respect him for this tenacity146 of purpose: a decent bedroom was allotted147 him; his portmanteau and bag were brought him, and he was let walk every day on the lawn with a keeper; only there were no ladders left about, and the trap-door was locked, i.e. the iron gate.
On one of these occasions he heard the gatekeeper whistle three times consecutively148; his attendant followed suit, and hurried Alfred into the house, which soon rang with treble signals.
“What is it?” inquired Alfred.
“The visiting justices are in sight: go into your room, please.”
“Yes, I’ll go,” said Alfred, affecting cheerful compliance149, and the man ran off.
The whole house was in a furious bustle150. All the hobbles, and chains, and instruments of restraint were hastily collected and bundled out of sight, and clean sheets were being put on many a filthy151 bed whose occupant had never slept in sheets since he came there, when two justices arrived and were shown into the drawing-room.
During the few minutes they were detained there by Mrs. Archbold, who was mistress of her whole business, quite a new face was put on everything and everybody; ancient cobwebs fell; soap and water explored unwonted territories: the harshest attendants began practising pleasant looks and kind words on the patients, to get into the way of it, so that it might not come too abrupt152 and startle the patients visibly under the visitors’ eyes: something like actors working up a factitious sentiment at the wing for the public display, or like a racehorse’s preliminary canter. Alfred’s heart beat with joy inexpressible. He had only to keep calm, and this was his last day at Silverton Grove. The first thing he did was to make a careful toilet.
The stinginess of relations, and the greed of madhouse proprietors153, make many a patient look ten times madder than he is, by means of dress. Clothes wear out in an asylum, and are not always taken off, though Agriculture has long and justly claimed them for her own. And when it is no longer possible to refuse the Reverend Mad Tom or Mrs. Crazy Jane some new raiment, then consanguineous munificence154 does not go to Pool or Elise, but oftener to paternal155 or maternal156 wardrobes, and even to the ancestral chest, the old oak one, singing:
“Poor things, they are out of the world: what need for them to be in the fashion!” (Formula.)
This arrangement keeps the bump of self-esteem down, especially in women, and so cooperates with many other little arrangements to perpetuate157 the lodger.
Silverton Grove in particular was supplied with the grotesque158 in dress from an inexhaustible source. Whenever money was sent Baker to buy a patient a suit, he went from his lunacy shop to his pawnbroker’s, dived headlong into unredeemed pledges, dressed his patient as gentlemen are dressed to reside in cherry-trees; and pocketed five hundred per cent. on the double transaction. Now Alfred had already observed that many of the patients looked madder than they were — thanks to short trousers and petticoats, holey gloves, ear-cutting shirt-collars, frilled bosoms159, shoes made for and declined by the very infantry160: coats short in the waist and long in the sleeves, coalscuttle bonnets161, and grand-maternal caps. So he made his toilet with care, and put his best hat on to hide his shaven crown. He then kept his door ajar, and waited for a chance of speaking to the justices. One soon came: a portly old gentleman, with a rubicund162 face and honest eye, walked slowly along the corridor, looking as wise as he could, cringed on by Cooper and Dr. Bailey; the latter had arrived post haste, and Baker had been sent for. Alfred came out, touched his hat respectfully, and begged a private interview with the magistrate163. The old gentleman bowed politely, for Alfred’s dress, address, and countenance164, left no suspicion of insanity possible in an unprejudiced mind.
But the doctor whispered in his ear, “Take care, sir. Dangerous!”
Now this is one of the most effective of the formulae in a private asylum. How can an inexperienced stranger know for certain that such a statement is a falsehood? And even the just do not love justice —to others— quite so well as they love their own skins. So Squire165 Tollett very naturally declined a private interview with Alfred; and even drew back a step, and felt uneasy at being so near him. Alfred implored him not to be imposed upon. “An honest man does not whisper,” said he. “Do not let him poison your mind against me; on my honour, I am as sane as you are, and he knows it. Pray, pray use your own eyes and ears, sir, and give yourself a chance of discovering the truth in this stronghold of lies.”
“Don’t excite yourself, Mr. Hardie,” put in the doctor parentally. (Formula.)
“Don’t you interrupt me, doctor; I am as calm as you are. Calmer; for, see, you are pale at this moment; that is with fear that your wickedness in detaining a sane man here is going to be exposed. Oh, sir,” said he, turning to the justice, “fear no violence from me, not even angry words; my misery is too deep for irritation, or excitement. I am an Oxford166 man, sir, a prize man, an Ireland scholar. But, unfortunately for me, my mother left me ten thousand pounds, and a heart. I love a lady whose name I will not pollute by mentioning it in this den of thieves. My father is the well-known banker, bankrupt, and cheat, of Barkington. He has wasted his own money, and now covets167 his neighbour’s and his son’s. He had me entrapped here on my wedding-day, to get hold of my money, and rob me of her I love. I appeal to you, sir, to discharge me, or, if you have not so much confidence in your own judgment as to do that, then I demand a commission of lunacy, and a public inquiry168.”
Dr. Bailey said, “That would be a most undesirable169 exposure, both to yourself and your friends.” (Formula.)
“It is only the guilty who fear the light, sir,” was the prompt reply.
Mr. Tollett said he thought the patient had a legal right to a commission of lunacy if there was property, and he took note of the application. He then asked Alfred if he had any complaint to make of the food, the beds, or the attendants.
“Sir,” said Alfred, “I leave those complaints to the insane ones: with me the gigantic wrong drives out the petty worries. I cannot feel my stings for my deep wound.”
“Oh, then, you admit you are not treated unkindly here?”
I admit nothing of the kind, sir. I merely decline to encumber170 your memory with petty injuries, when you are good enough to inquire into a monstrous171 one.”
“Now that is very sensible and considerate,” said Mr. Tollett. “ I will see you, sir, again before we leave.”
With this promise Alfred was obliged to be content. He retired respectfully, and the justice said, “He seems as sane as I am.” The doctor smiled. The justice observed it, and not aware that this smile was a formula, as much so as a prizefighter’s or a ballet-dancer’s, began to doubt a little: He reflected a moment, then asked who had signed the certificates.
“Dr. Wycherley for one.”
“Dr. Wycherley? that is a great authority.”
“One of the greatest in the country, sir.”
“Oh, then one would think he must be more or less deranged.”
“Dangerously so at times. But in his lucid172 intervals173 you never saw a more quiet gentlemanly creature.” (Formula.)
“How sad!”
“Very. He is my most interesting patient (formula), though terribly violent at times. Would you like to see the medical journal about him?”
“Yes; by-and-bye.”
The inspection174 then continued: the inspector175 admired the clean sheets that covered the beds, all of them dirty, some filthy: and asked the more reasonable patients to speak freely and say if they had any complaint to make. This question being, with the usual sagacity of public inspectors176, put in the presence of Cooper and the doctor, who stuck to Tollett like wax, the mad people all declared they were very kindly treated. The reason they were so unanimous was this: they knew by experience that, if they told the truth, the justices could not at once remedy their discomforts177, whereas the keepers, the very moment the justices left the house, would knock them down, beat them, shake them, strait-jacket them, and starve them: and the doctor, less merciful, would doctor them. So they shook in their shoes, and vowed178 they were very comfortable in Silverton Grove.
Thus, in later days, certain Commissioners of Lunacy inspecting Accomb House, extracted nothing from Mrs. Turner, but that she was happy and comfortable under the benignant sway of Metcalf the mild — there present. It was only by a miracle the public learned the truth, and miracles are rare.
Meantime, Alfred had a misgiving179. The plausible180 doctor had now Squire Tollett’s ear, and Tollett was old, and something about him reminded the Oxonian of a trait his friend Horace had detected in old age:
“Vel quod res omnes timide gelide que ministrat.
Dilator, spe longus, iners,” &c.
He knew there was another justice in the house, but he knew also he should not be allowed to get speech with him, if by cunning or force it could be prevented. He kept his door ajar. Presently Nurse Hannah came bustling181 along with an apronful of things, and let herself into a vacant room hard by. This Hannah was a young woman with a pretty and rather babyish face, diversified182 by a thick biceps muscle in her arm that a blacksmith need not have blushed for. And I suspect it was this masculine charm, and not her feminine features, that had won her the confidence of Baker and Co., and the respect of his female patients: big or little, excited or not excited, there was not one of them this bicipital baby-face could not pin by the wrists, and twist her helpless into a strong-room, or handcuff her unaided in a moment; and she did it, too, on slight provocation183. Nurse Hannah seldom came into Alfred’s part of the house; but when she did meet him, she generally gave him a kind look in passing; and he had resolved to speak to her, and try if he could touch her conscience, or move her pity. He saw what she was at, but was too politic184 to detect her openly and irritate her. He drew back a step, and said softly, “Nurse Hannah! Are you there?”
“Yes, I am here,” said she sharply, and came out of the room hastily, and shut it. “What do you want, sir?”
Alfred clasped his hands together. “If you are a woman, have pity on me.”
She was taken by surprise. “What can I do?” said she in some agitation185. “I am only a servant.”
“At least tell me where I can find the Visiting Justice, before the keepers stop me.”
“Hush! Speak lower,” said Hannah. “You have complained to one, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but he seems a feeble old fogy. Where is the other? Oh, pray tell me?”
“I mustn’t: I mustn’t In the noisy ward. There, run.”
And run he did.
Alfred was lucky enough to get safe into the noisy ward without being intercepted186. And then he encountered a sunburnt gentleman, under thirty, in a riding-coat, with a hunting-whip in his hand: it was Mr. Vane, a Tory squire and large landholder in the county.
Now, as Alfred entered at one door, Baker himself came in at the other, and they nearly met at Vane. But Alfred saluted187 him first, and begged respectfully for an interview.
“Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Vane.
“Take care, sir; he is dangerous,” whispered Baker. Instantly Mr. Vane’s countenance changed. But this time Alfred overheard the formula, and said quietly: “Don’t believe him, sir. I am not dangerous; I am as sane as any man in England. Pray examine me, and judge for yourself.”
“Ah, that is his delusion,” said Baker. “Come, Mr. Hardie, I allow you great liberties, but you abuse them. You really must not monopolise his Worship with your fancies. Consider, sir, you are not the only patient he has to examine.”
Alfred’s heart sank: he turned a look of silent agony on Mr. Vane.
Mr. Vane, either touched by that look, or irritated by Baker’s pragmatical interference, or perhaps both, looked that person coolly in the face, and said sternly: “Be silent, sir; and let the gentleman speak to me.”
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1
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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snarls
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| n.（动物的）龇牙低吼( snarl的名词复数 )；愤怒叫嚷（声）；咆哮（声）；疼痛叫声v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的第三人称单数 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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muffles
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的第三人称单数 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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incarcerated
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| 钳闭的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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32
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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33
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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35
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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39
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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41
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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42
gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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43
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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44
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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46
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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47
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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48
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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49
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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50
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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51
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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52
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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53
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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54
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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55
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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56
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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57
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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58
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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59
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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60
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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62
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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63
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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64
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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65
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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66
dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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67
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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69
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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70
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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73
asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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75
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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76
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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77
dissected
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| adj.切开的，分割的，（叶子）多裂的v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的过去式和过去分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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78
admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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79
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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80
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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81
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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82
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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83
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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85
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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86
fracas
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| n.打架；吵闹 | |
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87
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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88
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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91
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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92
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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93
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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95
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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99
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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100
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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101
pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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102
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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103
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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104
stipulating
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| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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105
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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106
stinting
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| v.限制，节省（stint的现在分词形式） | |
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107
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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108
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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109
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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110
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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111
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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112
miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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113
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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114
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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115
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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116
patricide
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| n.杀父 | |
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117
sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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118
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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119
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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120
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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121
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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122
barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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123
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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124
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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125
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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126
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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127
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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128
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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129
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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130
intercepts
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| （数学）截距( intercept的名词复数 ) | |
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131
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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134
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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137
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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138
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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139
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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140
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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142
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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143
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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146
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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147
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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150
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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152
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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153
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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154
munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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155
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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156
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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157
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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158
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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159
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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160
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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161
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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162
rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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163
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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164
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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165
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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166
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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167
covets
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的第三人称单数 ) | |
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168
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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169
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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170
encumber
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| v.阻碍行动，妨碍，堆满 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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172
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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174
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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175
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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176
inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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177
discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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178
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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179
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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180
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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181
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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182
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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183
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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184
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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185
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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186
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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187
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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