“I'm a coffee man, myself.”
He frowns, disapprovingly.
“But I do enjoy a little indulgence from time to time,” I lie, as he fills a third glass. “Yes, I would like one after all, thank you.” I lift the golden liquid to my mouth; loathe to taste that which leads to perversion of the mind. I sip it tentatively, and it travels down my throat like liquefied nails.
Mr Stanbury has drunk his fill before I lifted the glass to my lips.
I swirl the liquid, and place it on the desk.
“To answer your question, Mr Stanbury, your wife is suffering from a mental illness called 'Puerperal Mania'. I believe you have both heard this term before, at the time of her first assessment shortly following her arrest on October 5th, 1885. I stand by that diagnosis. Puerperal Mania, in Lady Stanbury's case, is the cause of her insanity. Just as others may go mad because of epilepsy, or alcohol, or fever; pregnancy and childbirth has caused Anne to become temporarily insane.
“My Lord, Puerperal Mania tends to have an element of inheritance. Indeed, it is the chief cause: pregnancy itself being only a secondary factor. How did your wife fare after giving birth? Can you remember whether she displayed any signs of seeing to the baby too much, or too little? Did she retreat to her bed and sleep at unusual times of the day, or suffer insomnia of a night-”
He interrupts me.
“My wife died in childbirth, Doctor. She never got the opportunity to even hold her daughter.”
I make a note.
Patient may have dwelt upon the misfortune of her mother – whom expired during labour, contributing to stress and anxiety during her own pregnancy. Clear precipitating factor. Unknown whether mother might have suffered from puerperal mania – the possibility remains: in which case the patient had a strong disposition towards insanity.
“Right. Mr Stanbury, did your wife display any of those signs I just mentioned during or after the pregnancy? Did she act strangely in any way, or was it only after having the child she became unstable?”
“Nothing seemed amiss until after our son was born,” he says.
“My Lord?”
“I barely saw her during her confinement, Doctor, though I hear she kept well enough.”
“How was your relationship with your wife, Mr Stanbury?” Puerperal mania has more social aspects than other forms of insanity, and I have to consider the kinship of Lady Stanbury not only to her child, but to her home and her husband.
“It was fine,” he says, crossing his arms. Despite his statement to the contrary, his body language betrays his words. I make a mental note to return to this at a later date, when I am alone with him.
Possible relationship difficulties – to follow up on this.
“How was the birth? Did she cope well?”
“She suffered badly,” Mr Stanbury says. “The doctor eventually gave her Chloroform.”
Recent research established that anaesthetics can bring on an attack of insanity. My pen is now moving continuously across the cream page.
“And was there a copious amount of blood? Did she haemorrhage?”
Lord Damsbridge winces. Mr Stanbury says that he wouldn't know: he wasn't present in the room for the birth, and it wasn't something he thought to ask.
Insanity appears to have developed following parturition; no marked insanity before expulsion of the baby. Pronounced emotional state may have been brought on by the pains of labour, and compounded by the intake of Chloroform. Unknown amount of blood loss, but possibly she could have become anaemic.
“How was she towards you after the birth, Mr Stanbury?”
“She was normal, at least initially she seemed to be, but as time went by she became restless. She wandered the house at night unable to sleep, checking on John constantly. Occasionally she would wake him just to check he was still breathing...” He opens his mouth to say more, but stops mid-sentence.
“Yes?” I prompt him.
He fidgets.
“Well, that’s the thing, Doctor. She was very protective towards John. I don’t understand. How she can change from being so over-bearing and affectionate, to...” He stops and clears his throat. “To being the person to cause him harm? She worried about dirt, for heaven’s sake!” Tears well up in his eyes, threatening to fall, and underneath the angry exterior I see a man filled with grief, and love. He discreetly removes a handkerchief from his top pocket, and continues onwards, dabbing at his eyes. “How can she, a mother, hurt her own baby? Why?”
“Quite,” Lord Damsbridge adds. “That's the part we don't understand. People go insane all the time, but they don't go around killing others, least of all their own flesh and blood.”
This is the hard part for me to explain, and I make the decision to keep it simple.
“Puerperal mania is almost always directed at the child. It is the nature of the beast, unfortunately. It is a special type of insanity. The woman in question invariably believes that for one reason or another, the child is better dead, but the mother, in these cases, is not accountable for her actions.”
“I think she damned well should be held responsible.” Mr Stanbury says.
“What, Stanbury...would you prefer your wife to be dead too?” Lord Damsbridge says, his face turning a deep shade of red. “Is that how you plan on punishing her?”
“Of course not! How dare you suggest such a thing, I simply-”
I sense this is a disagreement they've had before, and try to halt the situation before it develops into a domestic dispute.
“Gentlemen?” I start to rise slowly from my chair. They stop arguing, and stare at me. “I don't wish to keep you, and I realize there have been very difficult things discussed this morning. Perhaps we do better to meet again at a future date: say, in a week’s time?”
Mr Stanbury sniffs, looking at the floor. Lord Damsbridge also remains silent.
I push my chair back.
“So, gentlemen, once again, I thank you for coming here today-”
“I would like to see her,” Lord Damsbridge says suddenly, standing and looking me in the eye. “Immediately. Stanbury,” He nudges his son-in-law; the dispute evidently forgotten or swept aside for later. “Get up. We are going to see your wife.”
Oh dear.
“My Lord, we don't normally allow family or friends to visit with the patients at this stage. We remove them from their home environment for good reason. I fear that seeing you both will only do her harm.”
“No, Doctor, removing my daughter from those that she loves, and placing her in a lunatic asylum, alone, compounded with the loss of her child, will be doing her 'harm'. Seeing her father and her husband will lift her spirits, and assure her of our love for her. I would strongly suggest that our ongoing support will only serve to boost her morale.”
Spoken like a true layman. And of course spoken like a true Earl, who somehow managed to get his daughter into Bethlem as opposed to Broadmoor; where she should by rights and by law, been sent.
Evidently, he does not appreciate that her insanity alone saved her from the gallows.
“My Lord, your daughter is still suffering the effects of puerperal mania, and I fear, delusions. We could arrange a day for you to visit her, in a week or so-” I say, faltering in my attempt to reinforce my opinion.
“I demand to see her now, Doctor. It is a dreadful thought for me to imagine her re-awakening to reason inside a madhouse, side-by-side with maniacs and lunatics. I beg you not to forget who I am, or the contributions I make to this very hospital.”
I sigh. My point exactly.
“Very well, gentlemen. I do wish that I had time to better prepare you, for I fear that you will be shocked when you see her. But if you insist.” I reach down and ring the bell on my desk. Within a second, my attendant appears, almost falling through the doorway. She quickly rights herself, smoothing her skirts and blushing.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“Nurse Ruth, Lady Stanbury's father and husband would like to see her right away. Can you please make sure that
she is ready to receive them?” I roll my eyes to the side, minutely, and she catches my meaning.
“Why, of course Doctor! Let me go and prepare her. I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”
I sit back in my chair, gesturing for the two men to do the same.
“Here, another glass, gentlemen? In a few moments, you can see for yourself how Lady Stanbury fares.”
Lord Damsbridge refuses my offer, whilst Mr Stanbury thirstily accepts.
This time, it is I who downs my drink before he lifts his from the table.
Put Into A Sack!
Anne
October 16th, 1885
Royal Bethlem Hospital
My arms are pinned to my sides, my hands stuck fast inside deep, itchy pockets. I can't straighten my fingers, and my long nails dig painfully into my palms. It must be made of some sort of stout linen, or possibly even wool. I lean against the wall and rub my body up and down; right arm, left arm, stomach, back, ah. It brings me welcome relief for roughly two minutes before the itching starts up again.
Are there insects in this thing?
Oh, woe is me.
I try yanking my hands upwards and outward as hard as I can, but this only makes me almost topple over backwards. Where are the buttons, or laces?
Can I get it out of it somehow?
This is harsh punishment indeed for simply throwing the chamber pot at my captors. What did they expect me to do? Let them carve out my eyes? I'm not sorry for doing it, though I am regretful to be partially restrained because of it. They don't seem to take too kindly to my defensive strategies. But they must understand that they can't just go around the world, taking people from their homes in the middle of the night and putting them into cells.
Perhaps the best thing I can do is stay quiet, and wait to be rescued.
I shuffle over to my bed and lie down awkwardly, not sure how I'm going to stand up again, but not caring. I close my eyes and try to imagine what must be happening on the outside, back at the Manor. What I wouldn't give to be back at home, amongst the people whom love me.
I must have dozed off, because one minute I'm sat in my father's library, my favourite place in the whole world, and the next I'm being poked by a fat finger telling me to get up.
“And quickly about it!”
Another poke.
“Wha-”
“Now!”
I'm still sleepy when Fat-Ruth lifts the brown sack over my head, accomplishing in mere seconds what I failed to do given hours. Unfortunately, she mashes my face into the mattress as she does so without a care nor thought for my well-being. The smell of faeces invades my nose as she sits me up, and I can't help but gag.
“My arms have gone numb,” I say, swallowing vomit. “And can't you open a window?”
“It's your own fault your arms are numb and no, the windows don't open. People would throw themselves out of them,” she says, throwing the tangled sack into a corner by the door. “And, if you hadn't emptied your chamber-pot over me, we wouldn't have had to restrain you, would we?”
I wonder briefly why people would be compelled to throw themselves out of a window, but become distracted by Fat Ruth bustling about with another porcelain jug whilst keeping it discreetly out of my reach. I smile a little at that, until she dips a sponge into the water, and wrings it out over my head. I utter a few profanities. When I'm all soaked through, she pulls the sodden nightgown off me and I sit there, naked and ashamed, on the edge of what has become 'my' bed, trying ineffectually to cover myself with crossed legs and folded arms. She starts washing my feet.
“Ah! Wash my stomach first, I've been asleep you bloody degenerate! You are going to destroy my circulation!”
She ignores me.
“You're absolutely filthy, you are a disgrace.” She repeats the motion over and over again, adding some soap into the mix, rubbing my arms, my legs, my back, my face, and last of all, my stomach. Now all of my blood which has been involved in digestion is bound to stay there, and I shall feel sluggish and woeful for the rest of the day. I suppose that's how the lower classes wash themselves, which explains why she's so fat.
The rest of the water in the jug gets poured directly on my head. A towel is produced from somewhere which she starts roughly drying me with, turning my skin pink.
I tell her not to rub so hard. She tuts, and finishes up, ignoring my request.
“My god, you’re leaking again. Wait a second.” She disappears out the door in a rush, and comes back in with a bowl. Dipping her hands into it, she grabs hold of both my breasts.
I shriek.
“What on earth are you doing!” I scream, and try to push her off me. She holds on tight, and starts squeezing them and rubbing them. It hurts.
“Dear god! You foul, immoral degenerate!”
“Oh, be quiet Anne,” she says, letting go abruptly and picking something up from the floor. “Now, put these on, and be quick about it,” she says, flinging a clean nightgown onto my lap as she bends down to pick up the empty jug. I stare at the top of her head and consider staying naked for a while; putting my shame to one side just to offend her.
“I'm going to have you arrested,” I tell her. “You just abused me.”
“Anne, the doctor is coming,” she says, standing up and ignoring my threat. “Do you want him to see you like this?” Her keys jangle as she makes her way over to the cell door, bending over to retrieve the sack from the floor. “Do you know what men do to women who are exposed in such a manner?” She leaves with a smile, slamming the door.
I get dressed quickly, scoot myself over to the wall and start picking.
Yellow Paint
Dr George Savage
October 16th, 1885
Royal Bethlem Hospital
Leaving my office, the three us make our way to the female ward. Our footsteps clack a staccato against the floor, and every now and then Mr Stanbury stops and calls to me, pointing out one curiosity or another. You'd think the man had never seen a woman scratching her skin off with her teeth. Thankfully, people don't get the opportunity to do so anymore.
Decades have passed since the public were allowed and indeed, encouraged, to darken the asylum's doors twice a week to study the oddities within. Although I understand the nature of human curiosity, I am thankful that the patients are no longer treated like animals. No poking with sticks under my rule. I point out a few things as we go.
"This is the dayroom, where patients are free to roam, sit, and pass the day at their pleasure: though they are strongly encouraged to engage in various moral activities. Even games are encouraged; they engage the mind. An author once said: 'the philosophy of games to me forms the philosophy of life', and I tend to agree. I encourage the staff to play with the patients to open up channels of communication. Here is the female day room; the entire male department is over on the other wing. Patients of the opposite sex do not interact with one another. I actively discourage such behaviour outside of rare social functions, balls and such." The corridor opens out into a large room, and the gentleman stop behind me.
“And here is where we host those balls. Dancing is wonderful for the mind: restoring the self-control lost during madness; and is actually one of the rare occasions where members of the opposite sex are allowed to mix here at Bethlem. For one evening only, the residents and staff become an extended family without distinction of neither status nor rank." I look at the men in turn. "Under strict observation mind, you understand. We've not had anyone escape yet."
"Will Anne be engaging in such activities?" Lord Damsbridge asks, looking around the hall.
"Yes, when she is well enough. Don't worry; all of our patients are escorted by the attendants."
We continue through the hall and into another corridor, where we come across Grace, one of our incurable patient's in her usual spot, obscuring the corridor.
"Good morning, Grace," I say, momentarily bending down to touch her forehead. No response. I ceased writing notes regarding this patient a long
time ago. She is, sadly, more of a pet now than a human-being.
"Good morning, Nurse Agnes.”
"Good morning, Sir," the attendant replies cheerfully, waving at me and smiling at the two men behind me. Despite her newness she is an absolute delight to work with. Dedicated and gentle, she is well on her way to being the one of the best attendants, despite coming from an obscure background with no prior experience in the field.
"Gentlemen, may I ask you to kindly step around Grace, she is one of our patients here."
"What ails her?" asks Mr Stanbury from behind me.
"I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss patients with you, laws of confidentiality-I'm sure you understand," I reply. A faint grunt of acknowledgment answers me. We continue on our way, and I inwardly curse the attendants when I observe a pool of urine underneath a table. Thankfully, the gentlemen don't notice: instead whispering amongst themselves and pointing to various paintings on the walls.
Their earlier disagreement seems to be all but forgotten, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief as we come to a halt outside Lady Stanbury's room.
I lift the large metal ring attached to my belt with a chain, and flip through the keys. "Gentlemen, this is one of our segregation rooms, that is to say, Lady Stanbury is alone in here. The reasons for this are long and varied, but in a nutshell, she cannot be trusted amongst other inmates at present.” I find the key and insert it into the lock. “We do not give her freedom in the hospital based on these grounds, but we do try to escort her around the ward on a daily basis when permissible.” I turn my hand and the door unlocks with a quiet click.
“You mean to tell me that my daughter is locked up like a common criminal?” Lord Damsbridge says, coldly.
“Not at all,” I say, pulling the key out of the lock and putting the bunch into my pocket. Does he forget that his darling daughter committed a crime? “I believe in the gaol, she would have been forced to work the crank wheel, amongst other, most unpleasant things that they make prisoners do. Here, she is simply segregated for the good of her health. We don’t treat any of our patients like criminals, My Lord. But you need to understand that she is dangerous.”
The Medea Complex Page 4