But before I can allow myself that luxury I must make sure that all is well on the men’s side. It is quiet here. Women talk more than men, even in their sleep. If women in general harm themselves, men injure each other. During the day there are many more fights among the men than among the women. Many of these men are able to converse, play chess and read. There is a library here but not in the women’s wing, for serious or exciting books would be bad for their more susceptible minds.
As I pace these corridors my candle dances in anguish on the walls. Here there is less suffering than in the criminal wards, but there is much to disgust in the furtive gasps and groans. Satyriasis is a loathsome and humiliating condition. How often do we forge the bolt that is to destroy us - many of these patients have led a debauched life, and Providence punishes the offence appropriately. Erotomaniacs live night and day in gross lasciviousness. Their voluptuous dreams poison our air, and I have trained my attendants to police their disgusting masturbation. I have learned to recognize the onanist, who is invariably thin and unhealthy looking, emaciated by his secret shame.
I pause outside the incurable unit. These are our failures, and there are too many. George Dadd lies in the cubicle nearest to me, The Old Curiosity Shop, as always, beneath his fingers. He has been reading it for ten years, ever since he was admitted. I do not know if he reads it again and again or simply needs to have it about him, as little Chas needs to hold his red knitted horse when he sleeps.
There is no family in the kingdom, from the domestic circle of the highest peer of the realm down to the humblest peasant, that may not be stricken with the calamity of insanity. But the Dadds! George’s illness first struck a month after his older brother, the painter Richard Dadd, murdered their father. George was then but twenty, not possessed of his brother’s talent but a clever workman, employed as a joiner in the Chatham Dockyards. His illness took a curious form: he fancied his bed was on fire and refused to sleep at home. He went out and returned home naked. When he was first admitted George Dadd was violent, but now he is only stubborn and generally silent. The other patients call him Tiger from the voracious manner he eats his meals (his brother Richard also has repulsive table manners).
As if their family history were not melancholy enough, there is another brother, Stephen, who now has a private attendant at home in Manchester. And I have heard from Haydon - a magnificent source of gossip - that their youngest sister, Maria, who is married to the painter John Phillip, has shown signs of mental instability. Miss Dadd, the aunt who brought up these ill-fated children after their mother and stepmother died, is in a private asylum on the Bow Road.
Last year I arranged a meeting between the two brothers in the hope that close observation would shed light upon their sad affliction. We alienists dream of a key that will open the locked door of hereditary madness. However, it was but a dream.
The two brothers greeted one another awkwardly and fell like wolves upon a simnel cake, demolishing it within minutes. Seeing the two men together I was struck by the resemblance. Both are handsome, tall, with light-brown wavy hair and large, powerful blue eyes. Richard’s contain the stranger light. To be stared at by him is to feel seized by a brilliant power, as if Osiris (the poor fellow is obsessed by the Egyptian deity) really does gaze out from those enormous sockets. Despite the warmth of Haydon’s snug steward’s room the two did not thaw and had very little to say to each other. A few monosyllables, grunts and mutters were all they shared before sinking back into gloom and isolation.
A few days later I saw the artist again. He had asked me to sit for him in my evening clothes. I had thought he meant to paint my portrait to repay my encouragement of his work, and so, flattered, I gave him several sittings in Haydon’s room before I asked to see the work.
To my surprise, the head upon the shoulders of the dinner jacket was not my own. I recognized an idealized version of the Dadd face, younger and more hopeful than either brother. The young man sat on a bench in a country garden, a red fez beside him. The background, which was as yet only sketched in, was curious. Beyond the familiar English landscape could be seen a Greek temple and a ruined city on a hill with cypress trees, as if the Mediterranean had crossed the channel.
‘Whom have you portrayed here?’ I asked Dadd.
‘A young man full of promise. He has the world before him but wisely decides to see it only in his imagination. He wanders no further afield than Kent and lives at peace with his family and the world.’ His ferocious blue eyes glittered with tears, and he asked me to take him back to the criminal wing, like a beast handing the knife to his slaughterer.
I do not know if there is still hope for the Dadd brothers. I do believe in Richard’s talent, although the work he has done since his illness is bizarre and strange and vastly inferior to the charming landscapes and faery paintings he produced when he was sane. Some say it is the madness that makes the artist, but from my observation of Richard Dadd I have concluded the opposite: not that the bats make the belfry but that the purest, loveliest bells sound where there are no bats. There is only one Richard Dadd, and in his presence I am overwhelmed by his unique and powerful character.
But our hospital, like any other institution, exists to be of service to many not only to the individual. We aim to reseat the dethroned intelligence - genius is another matter, and I do not claim fully to understand it, although I confess that I am fascinated by Richard Dadd.
This evening, as I watched little Duncan in a rage because he did not want to go to bed, I thought how like to an infant a lunatic is: capricious, undisciplined, affectionate, as easily diverted by activity as Donald is by merry romps. Just as a good infant school will work with coaxing and persuasion, never with cruelty and humiliation, so do I wish to administer my little utopia. Let them labour but not by force. They can learn valuable skills by gardening, doing their own laundry and cooking. Their work should be rewarded not by money but by luxuries such as tobacco and privileges. Thus may my charges learn to look after themselves and each other. Their time here is not imprisonment but a reunion with society. They have rights and must discharge duties.
Walking here alone with the silent light of my candle and the thunderous machinery of my thoughts, I have faith in our progress.
DANCING
One is dead and does not know it,
One is not yet born.
The third one sees me what I am,
My bright yet hopeless dawn.
‘AVERY CURIOUS sampler,’ says Marian, passing me with a basket of dirty linen as I sit on my chair in the long gallery.
I have tried to do the towers and horseless carriages of Jonathan’s London in cross-stitch, in red and green wool. When I showed Dr Hood my sampler and my drawings and watercolours of that wonderland he was not cross with me like Charles. He says fancy is free, and I do feel free here with him to watch over me, like a Chinese lady whose feet are no longer bound. Several of the ladies here think he is a saint, but then they are prone to seeing saints, etc. We are all smitten to death with him, for in addition to his beautiful nature he is tall and elegant with dark hair and eyes, very handsome. I think he looks like Mr Browning and would not blame any lady who ran off to Italy with him. When he enters our ward we all rush up to him and try to take his hand and whisper our secrets to him, but had he as many hands and ears as a Hindoo god there would not be enough for us all.
Dr Hood says my drawings are very interesting, and he is to show them to Mr Dadd, a most fascinating monster who is incarcerated (for the rest of his days!) in the dark and dreadful State Criminal Asylum, a sort of Castle of Otranto in the London suburbs. Indeed, Mr Dadd’s prison is what I used to imagine Bedlam to be, only Dr Hood says we must not call it that but the Bethlehem Hospital. Where Christ was born and where many Christs now live, but they are in the men’s wing and we are not allowed to speak to them.
I am in the most privileged ward at the top of the building, and from my little sleeping chamber I can see the horrid dank criminal block. O
ften at night when I cannot sleep I go to my window and look down. It is terrifying and a little thrilling. No lights shine in the barred windows, and nobody ever comes out or goes in there except the warders, who are oafish-looking fellows - not like our attendants, who are pleasant.
Mr Dadd was a brilliant young artist who killed his own papa. When we sit by the fire in the evening sewing together we often talk of him. It is a tale we long to know in every detail, but nobody will tell us. Dr Hood says it would excite us too much. Of course, we all remember the sensation in the newspapers about ten years back when Mr Dadd was arrested in Paris after he tried to cut the throat of a tourist. He gave his real name to the police and confessed to his father’s murder. Hidden on his body was a list of those ‘who must die’, and his papa was number one.
In the evenings we piece together Mr Dadd’s story. We have no need of ghost stories, for he is a kind of living ghost, among us yet unseen. I am very pleased that Dr Hood wants to show him my drawings, but I must not boast to the other ladies as Dr Hood does not offer to show their flower paintings and fancy work to our ‘mad genius’. I can hear Henrietta’s voice telling me I should not be proud of such a thing, and I do not want to make them envious, for they are becoming my friends.
So that is the night view from the back. At the front, when I sit drawing or sewing or chattering during the day, I gaze out of the window at a very different view. The windows themselves are a gift from Dr Hood. Before he came there were only bars, but he has replaced them with clear glass. He has let the light into our lives, and we love him for it. During the day I look down on lawns and on the gardens we are helping to make, those of us who have decided not to be entirely mad. I used to enjoy helping my mama in the garden at Finsbury, but at Harley Street there was no garden. Is no garden. How strange that I feel so little connection with that house where I lived for five years. But darling Bella is dead, and Henrietta has stolen my place, and Tommy is away at school. I know this because Charles writes to me, not letters exactly but something between a laundry list and a prescription. I do not compare them with the letters he wrote when we were courting, for he is a different person now and so am I.
When I look down over the lawn at the front I often see Dr Hood there playing with his little boys. It is a glorious sight. When it is warmer I shall go down and make a painting of them if he does not object. If I am still here. I hope I shall be. I do not wish to get better, for better is worse. He plays with them very gently while they shriek and laugh and run around. They are happy children, and we feed off their happiness. We are so glad he lets us watch them, and if any inmate - one of those who is mad and bad - should ever harm Dr Hood or one of his children I think there would be a riot here. The miscreant would be torn apart before a policeman could be summoned.
Mrs Hood is enceinte. Her name is Jane, and she is not beautiful or young. The ladies say she is older than him. She is rather sallow with a snub nose and dresses very plain. We watch her swelling with hungry eyes, and in a few months she will have her baby for all of us. I know there will be no more children for me.
Mrs Hood is said to be very reserved, but I think she is only shy. I can see from my post at the window that she deeply loves her husband and sons. When I see her in chapel on Sunday mornings she looks ill at ease and does not return our stares.
Marian has just told me that we are all to spend Christmas with Dr Hood and his family! I think this wonderful. What need have we of presents when he gives us himself, and what need of a nativity scene when we can feast our eyes on this holy family? Marian says I am too sentimental, but I have need of such feelings, for I have lost so much of my little world,, and Dr Hood is a safe port for my frail vessel of love.
I think perhaps I will learn to love Marian. She is a most surprising person. When I see her bustling in the laundry or weeding the flowerbeds she does not seem a bit mad. Yet she imagines Albert, her dead child, is constantly with her. She talks to him with delight and takes him to bed with her and feeds him at mealtimes. Her husband, a clerk in the city, could not bear these constant reminders of their much-loved only son and begged Dr Hood to keep Marian here until she is cured. But she is not cured. Albert was with us this morning when we were raking the dead leaves on the front lawn.
I said, ‘Why do you tell him to step out of the way?’
‘He is a heedless little fellow, always walking with his head in the air.’
I paused in my work and gazed into her rosy, charming face. Marian is plump and pink, and her face beneath her blue bonnet glowed with maternal fondness. Real feeling but not for a real child. I wanted to scream out that Albert is dead as a mackerel. I had to choose between humouring her and treating her as a rational being and chose the second.
‘My dear, I know what it is to mourn a child. But would it not be better to accept that Albert is in Heaven?’
‘He most certainly is not. He is here in St George’s Fields, helping, or rather hindering, his mama. Albert! Stay away from Nina or she will tread on you and do you an injury.’
She glared at me and moved away, her mouth closed tight against me. I saw that she was the one I had injured but persisted in my mad doctoring. ‘I cannot see him.’
‘You should ask the nurse for some spectacles. That’s right, darling, put them over there,’ she added in a more tender voice to the patch of grass beside her.
We continued to work in silence until we had made quite a mountain of leaves in the corner by the wall. I do not mind working and indeed enjoy it. The heat and flurry of the kitchens makes me feel active and useful, and it is a pleasure to see our garden being born. It is more interesting to see how food and gardens are made than to give orders to a cook or a gardener.
Marian and I wore our outdoor clothes, for the air is Novembery now with that cold, smoky fragrance I love. We have asked Dr Hood if we may have a bonfire and fireworks, but he is afraid it would excite the other patients too much (for we are the pattern lunatics, trusted to behave well). I felt very cheerful as I stood on the lawn with my lungs full of richly rotting leaves. As Marian was not disposed to talk I drifted back to other Novembers.
When I was a child this time of year was both thrilling and terrifying. For Guy Fawkes was a Catholic, and our mother used to make us stay at home on the 5th of November in case there was a ‘No Popery’ riot and the Finsbury urchins wanted living effigies to toss upon their bonfires. I remember one evening when I was about seven I snuggled against Mama in the warm parlour and sang as she played the piano. Above the music I could hear the bangs and whoops and crashes in the darkness outside that could not harm me. Papa came home from visiting some gouty old merchant, and I ran to him at the door and buried my face in the cold fog on his black greatcoat.
‘And you! You saw an elephant!’
Startled, I backed away as Marian strode towards me, brandishing her rake like a sword.
‘But I really did …’ I met her ferocious eye and could not finish my sentence.
She had won, simply by silencing me.
The elephant, Albert and Jonathan all exist. They are all ‘real’, although perhaps it would be wiser not to talk about them. If I had not written that letter to Charles and had not spoken of my experiences I would still be a matron living in Harley Street. If Marian had mourned her child inwardly and had not told her husband that Albert is still alive for her she would not be here either. In the other wards there are women (and men, but we are not allowed to meet them) who have truly lost their wits. They scream and slobber and hurl abuse and blows at all who pass. Marian and I have only little corners of our minds that do not fit in with the rest of the world. Our wits are not lost but only separated, like eggs: the yoke at our centre remains bright and healthy, but the white has been whipped up into peaks and troughs, and so the omelette … Charles always used to tease me about my mixed metaphors.
When I am alone in my room at night I search the darkness for Jonathan. I do not speak aloud to him as Marian does to Albert, but he is just
as real to me. If I have changed it is because those few days with Jonathan showed me another way of life. If there is a future when women will be free as birds - free as men - then I do not need to squeeze myself back into the strait-waistcoat of Mrs Sanderson. I would do so for Charles if we still loved each other. But we do not. Perhaps it is not fair to say that Charles is ‘dead but does not know it’. He is respected, admired, he hobnobs happily - far too happily - with the grandees of Portman Square. The Charles I loved is dead, but he died so quietly that nobody noticed - not even Charles himself. I am a kind of widow. The black dress I wear for Bella envelops me in its shadowy wings and flies me away from Harley Street.
At night the silence quivers and rustles, and I feel Jonathan beside me. His presence comforts me because he carries the wonderful future with him. We are all going to a better place, which is much jollier than Henrietta’s Heaven because we don’t have to die but have only to live hopefully. I won’t live to see it, but I am so much happier now that I have caught a glimpse of it. Jonathan is part of the invisible army that surrounds us always; the beloved dead and the absent and the unborn and the longed for. I think it very strange that we are only approved of when we pretend not to feel or see or hear them. If Jonathan is a delusion he is as necessary to me as fresh air and cottage pie.
Dr Hood says I may draw and write whatever I please. I have the right to furnish the secret chambers of my mind as I like, and he will not pry or show this little book to Charles. He has set me free to put down whatever comes into my head, and so I will.
Nina In Utopia Page 17