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Ten Days In A Mad-House

Creator: Nellie Bly (author)
Date: 1887
Publisher: Norman L. Munro, Publisher, New York
Source: Available at selected libraries

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41  

"I do not know, it's all so sad," I replied.

42  

"Would you like to be a nurse for children and wear a nice white cap and apron?" she asked.

43  

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."

44  

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

45  

"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."

46  

"They don't look very nice," she answered, assentingly, but they are goody honest working women. We do not keep crazy people here."

47  

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.

48  

"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.

49  

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.

50  

It was a wretchedly lonely evening, and the light which fell from the solitary gas jet in the parlor, and oil-lamp in the hall helped to envelop us in a dusky hue and dye our spirits a 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.

51  

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.

52  

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.

53  

Here I must introduce a new personage by name into my narrative. It is the woman who had been a proof-reader, 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 the house." "She will murder us all before morning." One woman was for sending for a policeman to take me away at once. They were all in a terrible and real state of fright.

54  

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" or 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 asleep and dream as pleasantly and peacefully us a child. I should, to use a slang expression, be liable to "give myself dead away." I had made up my mind to stay awake all night. So I insisted on sitting on the side of the bed and staring blankly at vacancy. My poor companion was put into a wretched state of unhappiness. Every few moments she would rise up to look at me. She told me that my eyes shone terribly brightly and then began to question me, asking me where I had lived, how long I had been in Now York, what I had been doing, and many things besides. To all her questionings I had but one response, I told her that I had forgotten everything, that ever since my headache had come on I could not remember.

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