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Authors: Nellie Bly
Tags: General, Social Science, Medical, Biography & Autobiography, Editors; Journalists; Publishers, Psychology, Mental Illness, Psychiatry, People With Disabilities, Hospital Administration & Care
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would use force and that it
would not be very gentle. At this I noticed one of the craziest women
in the ward standing by the filled bathtub with a large, discolored
rag in her hands. She was chattering away to herself and chuckling
in a manner which seemed to me fiendish. I knew now what was to
be done with me. I shivered. They began to undress me, and one by
one they pulled off my clothes. At last everything was gone
excepting one garment. “I will not remove it,” I said vehemently, but
they took it off. I gave one glance at the group of patients gathered at
the door watching the scene, and I jumped into the bathtub with
more energy than grace.
The water was ice-cold, and I again began to protest. How useless it
all was! I begged, at least, that the patients be made to go away, but
was ordered to shut up. The crazy woman began to scrub me. I can
find no other word that will express it but scrubbing. From a small
58
Ten Days in a Mad-House
tin pan she took some soft soap and rubbed it all over me, even all
over my face and my pretty hair. I was at last past seeing or
speaking, although I had begged that my hair be left untouched.
Rub, rub, rub, went the old woman, chattering to herself. My teeth
chattered and my limbs were goose-fleshed and blue with cold.
Suddenly I got, one after the other, three buckets of water over my
head–ice-cold water, too–into my eyes, my ears, my nose and my
mouth. I think I experienced some of the sensations of a drowning
person as they dragged me, gasping, shivering and quaking, from
the tub. For once I did look insane. I caught a glance of the
indescribable look on the faces of my companions, who had
witnessed my fate and knew theirs was surely following. Unable to
control myself at the absurd picture I presented, I burst into roars of
laughter. They put me, dripping wet, into a short canton flannel slip,
labeled across the extreme end in large black letters, “Lunatic
Asylum, B. I., H. 6.” The letters meant Blackwell’s Island, Hall 6.
By this time Miss Mayard had been undressed, and, much as I hated
my recent bath, I would have taken another if by it I could have
saved her the experience. Imagine plunging that sick girl into a cold
bath when it made me, who have never been ill, shake as if with
ague. I heard her explain to Miss Grupe that her head was still sore
from her illness. Her hair was short and had mostly come out, and
she asked that the crazy woman be made to rub more gently, but
Miss Grupe said:
“There isn’t much fear of hurting you. Shut up, or you’ll get it
worse.” Miss Mayard did shut up, and that was my last look at her
for the night.
I was hurried into a room where there were six beds, and had been
put into bed when some one came along and jerked me out again,
saying:
“Nellie Brown has to be put in a room alone to-night, for I suppose
she’s noisy.”
59
Ten Days in a Mad-House
I was taken to room 28 and left to try and make an impression on the
bed. It was an impossible task. The bed had been made high in the
center and sloping on either side. At the first touch my head flooded
the pillow with water, and my wet slip transferred some of its
dampness to the sheet. When Miss Grupe came in I asked if I could
not have a night-gown.
“We have not such things in this institution,” she said.
“I do not like to sleep without,” I replied.
“Well, I don’t care about that,” she said. “You are in a public
institution now, and you can’t expect to get anything. This is charity,
and you should be thankful for what you get.”
“But the city pays to keep these places up,” I urged, “and pays
people to be kind to the unfortunates brought here.”
“Well, you don’t need to expect any kindness here, for you won’t get
it,” she said, and she went out and closed the door.
60
Ten Days in a Mad-House
A sheet and an oilcloth were under me, and a sheet and black wool
blanket above. I never
would not be very gentle. At this I noticed one of the craziest women
in the ward standing by the filled bathtub with a large, discolored
rag in her hands. She was chattering away to herself and chuckling
in a manner which seemed to me fiendish. I knew now what was to
be done with me. I shivered. They began to undress me, and one by
one they pulled off my clothes. At last everything was gone
excepting one garment. “I will not remove it,” I said vehemently, but
they took it off. I gave one glance at the group of patients gathered at
the door watching the scene, and I jumped into the bathtub with
more energy than grace.
The water was ice-cold, and I again began to protest. How useless it
all was! I begged, at least, that the patients be made to go away, but
was ordered to shut up. The crazy woman began to scrub me. I can
find no other word that will express it but scrubbing. From a small
58
Ten Days in a Mad-House
tin pan she took some soft soap and rubbed it all over me, even all
over my face and my pretty hair. I was at last past seeing or
speaking, although I had begged that my hair be left untouched.
Rub, rub, rub, went the old woman, chattering to herself. My teeth
chattered and my limbs were goose-fleshed and blue with cold.
Suddenly I got, one after the other, three buckets of water over my
head–ice-cold water, too–into my eyes, my ears, my nose and my
mouth. I think I experienced some of the sensations of a drowning
person as they dragged me, gasping, shivering and quaking, from
the tub. For once I did look insane. I caught a glance of the
indescribable look on the faces of my companions, who had
witnessed my fate and knew theirs was surely following. Unable to
control myself at the absurd picture I presented, I burst into roars of
laughter. They put me, dripping wet, into a short canton flannel slip,
labeled across the extreme end in large black letters, “Lunatic
Asylum, B. I., H. 6.” The letters meant Blackwell’s Island, Hall 6.
By this time Miss Mayard had been undressed, and, much as I hated
my recent bath, I would have taken another if by it I could have
saved her the experience. Imagine plunging that sick girl into a cold
bath when it made me, who have never been ill, shake as if with
ague. I heard her explain to Miss Grupe that her head was still sore
from her illness. Her hair was short and had mostly come out, and
she asked that the crazy woman be made to rub more gently, but
Miss Grupe said:
“There isn’t much fear of hurting you. Shut up, or you’ll get it
worse.” Miss Mayard did shut up, and that was my last look at her
for the night.
I was hurried into a room where there were six beds, and had been
put into bed when some one came along and jerked me out again,
saying:
“Nellie Brown has to be put in a room alone to-night, for I suppose
she’s noisy.”
59
Ten Days in a Mad-House
I was taken to room 28 and left to try and make an impression on the
bed. It was an impossible task. The bed had been made high in the
center and sloping on either side. At the first touch my head flooded
the pillow with water, and my wet slip transferred some of its
dampness to the sheet. When Miss Grupe came in I asked if I could
not have a night-gown.
“We have not such things in this institution,” she said.
“I do not like to sleep without,” I replied.
“Well, I don’t care about that,” she said. “You are in a public
institution now, and you can’t expect to get anything. This is charity,
and you should be thankful for what you get.”
“But the city pays to keep these places up,” I urged, “and pays
people to be kind to the unfortunates brought here.”
“Well, you don’t need to expect any kindness here, for you won’t get
it,” she said, and she went out and closed the door.
60
Ten Days in a Mad-House
A sheet and an oilcloth were under me, and a sheet and black wool
blanket above. I never
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