The Madman's Visitor

London, England, 1781



1
The Madman’s Visitor



Other than the obvious peculiarities, the madman was remarkably handsome, with a firm jaw and a high brow. He was pacing the tiny room with its small mattress and white sheets. The door was barred and locked from the outside, naturally, to prevent him from leaving it.

“He’s not a prisoner, you know,” said the nun as though expecting the visitor to object to this treatment. “He can come and go from the room when we permit it, which is often enough. However, he can become . . . violent . . . . I can’t say what his reaction will be, so I shall be certain to have two guards with you. No troubles. No worries?”

“Just a few, madam,” said the visitor with a wry smile. “But I think they are perfectly legitimate and not of the physical nature. I fear, rather, for my own peace of mind. No, no, I am perfectly sane, don’t look so startled. I merely mean . . . I assume that everyone has a lunatic living inside their head. In some ways I am the most sane person you shall ever meet; but then again, the lunatic inside my is the most vociferous of anyone else’s I have ever met.”

The nun seemed slightly worried by this statement.

“I’m perfectly sane,” said the man again.

With a nod, the attendant nun grabbed a ring of keys at her waist and began to sort through them. The correct key was produced, a padlock was removed, and the little door swung open.

The madman within lifted his head and lowered his eyebrows in an angry leer. His gaze moved accusingly to the attendant nun, whose skirts now hid the large ring of keys. The madman silently turned to the visitor and quickly dismissed him with a sniff.

“Gregory—Gregory, this man is named Jacob. He has come to visit you. He says he knows you. Shall I leave him to talk to you?”

Gregory, the madman, nodded. The attendant nun nodded and stood aside, leaving the door slightly open. Down the hall came the sound of several men’s footsteps.

“Just in case,” the nurse had said.

Jacob cleared his throat, his hands behind his back. He was flushed with embarrassment and shame. The room was not filthy, but nor was it very clean. There were little bits of food on the carpeted floor, and the window was grimy. The mattress seemed devoid of parasites, but the bedsheets were soiled.

Gregory regarded Jacob in silence as the younger man glanced around the room. Jacob was small and slight of build, with blondish hair and spectacles. His hands were clasped habitually behind his back—he had fine hands but always remembered that he had been told it seemed vain for him to hold them in front of himself.

“I don’t suppose you know who I am,” said Jacob. His voice had the forced airiness that one might find at the dinner party of a deceased person. “Dear God, it has been a long time, has it not?”

Gregory seemed to be genuinely puzzled by this. For a moment, the words seemed to be working their way off of the end of Gregory’s tongue. Then he worked his jaw, and spoke in a raspy grunt.

“I would not know. I cannot remember anyone by the name of Jacob.”

“You do not know me, then?” said Jacob, clearly disappointed. His smile faded slightly and he began to pace as Gregory stood still and stared. “I suppose it was naïve of me to assume that you would. However—“

Jacob trailed off dismally, waving a noncommittal hand in the air, as though welcoming all observers to draw their own conclusions. After another moment he looked back up again.

“Not even a glimmer of recognition? You remember who Sarah is?”

Gregory’s eyebrows, which had relaxed, now darted together in a look of mingled anger and confusion. The name clearly meant many things to him, some of them delicious to remember, some of them distinctly painful.

“And you recall London, I presume?”

Gregory gave Jacob an incredulous stare. Certainly even insane people knew of London. Jacob seemed to think much in the same way, and he brushed away the question with another gesture as he continued to pace.

“And . . . and when you left the house in London—“ Jacob was framing his words carefully. “You, er, remember the circumstances?”

Gregory’s face was now so deeply furrowed that he did not strike Jacob as handsome anymore. The look on Gregory’s features was downright nasty, full of mingled opprobrium and sadness.

“Well, then,” barked Gregory, “who in the hell are you?”

“I’m Jacob,” was the surprised answer.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” demanded Gregory in outrage. “I’m in a house for insane people! I’m locked away in this room night and day! I’m a lunatic! I can’t be expected to remember some blighter named Jacob!”

“I had hoped—“

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Gregory.

Out in the hall, there was a slight disturbance as the guards reacted to the raised voices. The attendant nun peaked in and seemed convinced that nothing was amiss.

“I’m your son,” stated Jacob, his face falling ever further. “I’m so sorry that you did not know . . . “

“Son?” demanded Gregory.

The word acted something like a forgotten name on Gregory: he stood very still and squinted indistinctly ahead of him as though trying to remember who exactly the word ‘son’ pertained to. He came to a slow conclusion, but his face did not relax.

“Show me your hands.”

Jacob halted in his pacing, his hands still clasped behind his back. For a moment, his eyes were wide, then he shook his head. This simple demand seemed to have cracked the overly-polite demeanor of young Jacob, who now began mumbling to himself.

“Let me see your hands!” said Gregory more loudly. “Your hands, boy, your hands!”

Jacob leapt backwards as Gregory tried to snatch at Jacob’s hands.

“No, no, no; no bruises! No, no beating, I’m not bad!” screeched Jacob, his calm demeanor shattered. He went to the door and pounded on it, even though it was being forcibly opened. He was shoved aside, knocked to the ground as the guards rushed in. One restrained Gregory, who quickly became calm. Jacob cowered behind the open door, whimpering and still muttering odd things to himself.

“Wolfganerl ist ner acht,” he said, loudly enough to be heard. “Of all the things she might have said, and all she could say about the angel was ist ner acht.”

The second guard crouched before Jacob. He was a large man, as was necessary for such a job, and balding. He reached out a large square hand to Jacob, who recoiled.

“Mama said no music. I should have known. I always got beaten when I mentioned it . . . I should have known. But then, I thought he was so kind, but he beat it out of me, didn’t he? Well, no, not completely!”

“Come on, now, Jacob, it’s perfectly all right. We shall leave here presently, and you won’t have to think on it ever again.”

From behind them, Gregory stated sulkily, “I only asked to see his hands.”

“Please,” said the kind guard to Jacob, who rose tentatively to his feet.

“I want to see his hands, still,” said Gregory. “I just want to know.’

“Know what?” asked the attendant nun suspiciously.

Gregory refused to answer.

“What harm could it do, Jacob?” demanded the kindly guard. “What harm at all could be done? Please, show him your hands, it will please him and calm him.”

Jacob seemed to have collected himself. He stood with a rigid back, his hands clasped again behind his back. His spectacles were askew.

“My hands are none of his concern,” said Jacob.

“Please?”

Jacob frowned but finally nodded.

“If it shall be of any help, I suppose I must,” he said. The guards and the nun exchanged looks of bewilderment in Jacob’s sudden turn of behavior.

The hands were brought out from behind his back. The nun, who had not noticed the young man’s hands, gave a startled yelp. The guard at Gregory’s side raised his eyebrows, and the guard at Jacob’s side drew in a sharp breath.

“I assume that this is the . . . er . . . reason that he has been brought here,” said Gregory simply. “Not just to visit me. He is a patient, too.”

Jacob was staring at his hands in bewilderment.

“Whatever is happening?” he demanded faintly. “I don’t understand. I ought to have such fine hands . . . “

“Come, now,” said the nun with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “There is a fine chamber overlooking the grounds. Trees. There is even a trellis with flowers. Delightful, with a little bench under the maple tree. Fine, fine indeed. You will enjoy it. Paid for, of course, by your gracious grandfather. This place is a charitable place, but as such we are in need of money . . . “

“But what . . . happened to my hands?”

“Tried to burn it out of you, did they?” said Gregory. He laughed sardonically and jabbed a finger vaguely into the air. “Why the hell do you think I’m here? It isn’t because I’m insane!”

“Now, Gregory, we don’t like to—“

But Gregory was laughing.

“They tried to cut it out of me. Everyone. In the end it was my wife who found the way to tear it out of me. She put me in here! And it died. Do you realize that? That it died? I’m too far gone, now, I can’t remember any of it . . . but, Jacob, don’t let it die within you, too.”

“Shush,” said the nun.

“It’s already dead in him,” muttered the kindly guard.

Jacob began to quake and it appeared the bout of politeness was fading away. He was led away, keeping his hands clasped behind his back.

“Am I insane?” he asked as he was brought down the corridor. He bumped his spectacles with his shoulder to set them straight. “I’m not, am I?”

The nun sighed. “We don’t use that word.”

“But I am, aren’t I? But I’m puzzled. What could have possibly—“

“Here we are, Jacob. Ah, look how lovely. I put those flowers there myself, they’re from the garden. Very lovely. You won’t be sorry to be here. We will help you and you can continue on in whatever way you please. Our only task is to make sure you don’t make any mistakes that you cannot fix. Isn’t that wonderful? Someone to watch over you like that? I rather wish I had someone like that myself. It was a long journey, so you must get to sleep, I think. Some tea, first?”

“No, thank you,” said Jacob, gazing blankly out the window. Then, suddenly, “It has to do with my hands, doesn’t it?”

“We needn’t speak of that, now,” was the answer.

“But I am crazy, aren’t I?” Jacob sighed. He shook his head and gazed around this place of agreeable confinement “I always knew I would end up that way. I was just too sensible to be sane.”