A/N: For this chapter I indulged in a bit of light research of various asylums of the day, coming upon some interesting facts. The place where Rochester ends up finding assistance was not fully explained in Jane Eyre, and I was excited to find out what I could to weave it into the story. Hope you enjoy as I introduce a crucial character. Thank you for your comments and messages, I truly appreciate them. I cannot update this as quickly as I would like, but I want each chapter to be as quality as I can make it, and speed must not come at the expense of style. Thanks again!
Chapter 4
It must be once more explained and reiterated that it was not because Bertha was mad that I hated her so completely. In point of fact my pity for the broken woman often over-shadowed my loathing of the maniacal beast. In her ravings I was disgusted, but only so much as a man might be by a foaming, rabid dog, one he knew must be shot and by his own hand. In her lucid moments—as infrequent as they became—she knew perfectly well how she behaved. Her malice, curses and wanton lust were all practiced with such skill and excess that I knew somewhere within her a strong mind battled with a feeble one to hold sway. It was the wicked sane woman I so abhorred, not the violent raving lunatic.
Indeed, from first setting foot upon my beloved English shore, it was foremost in my thoughts to find her a restful solace, a human and kind situation where she might live in relative happiness. Horror stories of Bedlam haunted me, and I would not be so unkind as to abandon her to a place like that, no matter what her conduct had been to me. No human—no insane beast who had once been human—deserved the punishment forced upon them by perverted attendants and foul surgeons. A mere few years before my star-crossed nuptial I'd heard of new asylums where patients were treated kindly. Through activity and exercise, good meals, walking, games, gardening and the like, they might live out an existence in a harmless, even happy way. I had it in my mind to find such a place for Bertha, not only to care for her, but perhaps to atone for my own hastiness in marrying her—and in anticipation of the further sins I knowingly would commit once I was rid of my charge.
I settled on the new Hanwell House, a lunatic asylum wherein the inmates might pass life in a busy, cheerful manner. Thence I conducted my bride. The asylum's façade was an innocuous manner house with carefully trimmed lawns, trees and paved walkways. Ivy grew up the red-stoned face and windows with whitewashed shutters conveyed welcome. It looked more like a nobleman's seat than a place that housed the insane.
Because of my rank and wealth, I met with Dr. Hanwell himself; a portly, past middle-age physician with a compassionate heart. During our interview, Bertha and I were given a tour of the grounds and introduced to other residents of the asylum. Though she was skeptical, she showed no outward dislike of the situation; though that may be more as a result of my keeping the true nature of the place from her. She simply thought of it as a luxury house, much like those one finds in Bath during the beginning of the season. She seemed pleased that she had been invited for a week to remain there, dine sumptuously and enjoy the pleasures of society among the residents.
Those who lived there were well-groomed and dressed, taken care of by nurses in livery rather than traditional uniforms, for the image was not that of a lunatic asylum, but of a retreat with personal servants. It was only when one required medical attention that he was separated from the others and put under care of the doctors directly. Upon the week's closure, I returned to Hanwell House to sign papers for Bertha to remain there indefinitely. When I arrived, instead of being ushered in to see her, I was detoured for a private consultation. I was spoken to rather hesitantly by the good doctor on why my wife could not, under any circumstance, be admitted as a permanent inmate.
"Why?" came my cold and harsh inquiry.
"Mr. Rochester," said Dr. Hanwell in a simpering yet patronizing way, "You must understand my position here."
"Your position is to disappoint well-paying patrons?" I asked simply.
"Indeed it is not," replied Hanwell. "Mrs. Rochester—"
"Do not call her that," I commanded sternly.
Abasing himself thoroughly, Hanwell cleared his throat and wiped a bright red face with his handkerchief. "I do beg your pardon, sir," he said "Bertha." I nodded curtly. "Bertha has an interesting case."
"Go on."
"Bertha exhibited no uncommon behavior when she first came," said Dr. Hanwell. "She was genial enough; almost to the point where I thought you might be playing a farce with me regarding her mental state. She seemed to think it a pleasure house entirely."
"Is not that your purpose in creating such an atmosphere?" I asked.
"Indeed it is," said Dr. Hanwell, "For the families of our inmates, at least. Our patients know that they are here for treatment, and as such abide by the rules prescribed here for their conduct."
My heart began to sink. At the word "conduct" I became immediately aware that Bertha's conduct had not been above reproach. I only wondered how far she had gone.
"To speak plainly, sir…" said Dr. Hanwell, though his voice trailed off and he began to fumble through the pockets of his jacket. "Your wife was most assuredly surprised to learn that the other residents of the House… eh… were not residents as such…" He fished out a snuff box and opened it, then perceiving that it was empty shut it in disappointment and returned it to his pocket.
I unhurriedly removed my own snuffbox and placed it upon the wooden desk which separated myself and the doctor. With my finger and thumb still resting on it, I sighed and finished for him. "When she found out this was, in effect, a mad house, she turned on you." Dr. Hanwell flinched at my harsh descriptive, but shrugged in acknowledgement. I gingerly slid the snuff box toward him then linked my fingers, resting them on the desk.
Dr. Hanwell reached for the box, opened it, and pinched out a liberal amount of the expensive snuff. Once he had indulged, he slid the box back toward me then and said, "I have never, in my professional practice of twenty-seven years, beheld such behavior, Mr. Rochester." Almost bored, I described what her conduct must have been, even to the details of shattering glass, self-mutilation and seducing one or more of the inmates. The doctor shrugged again, shrewdly tilting his head and saying, "More or less, sir."
"And?"
"And, sir?"
"And so you cannot keep her here?"
"No, no, sir," said the man, shifting his substantial person in his seat and wiping his face once more. "It is out of the question. Our inmates are mentally incapable of living in the world it is true, but they are mostly harmless; to others, at least. A woman like Bertha belongs in Bedlam under restraint," he said, "And perhaps, though I cannot condone all the practices of such a place, the word lobotomy surfaces in my mind."
Disgusted with this man ever more than I had been with Bertha's conduct, I stood, pocketed the snuff box, and with a curt "I wish you good day" intended on leaving his study.
"Now, sir, there are, of course, other alternatives…"
"Where is she?" I asked.
"There are other places…" said Dr. Hanwell, "Places much more human than Bedlam… I know the very place!"
"Where the Deuce is Bertha?" I asked once more, still calm, but cold and commanding.
"In… seclusion," said Hanwell and he rose. "I will take you to her."
I followed him through the door from his study into a corridor, then through a panel in the wall which, had I not been looking for it, I would not have noticed. "It is this way to the treatment rooms, sir," said Hanwell. We passed into a room that was brightly lit by windows and skylights, where nurses (in traditional uniform) cared for various and sundry patients, some in wheeled chairs, some lying in beds propped up with pillows, others playing games. Many had bandages, and all were clad in similar dressing gowns, but the room was still as cheerful as the others in this place. There was nothing to frighten an inmate here.
At the far wall there was another door, which we passed through into an additional corridor. This hallway was lined with doors and guarded by policemen. He ushered me to one on the left, and peeking through a small window he said, "It is safe." I looked in before her unlocked the door and beheld her, crouched in a corner, wearing a straight waistcoat her jetty mass of hair covering her face. I'd seen her in that attitude before; after one of her ravings. But somehow, in this place, with walls lined with padding and white, white light all around, she looked like a vulnerable child, and my hearth throbbed within me. It seemed to me in that moment that she was not meant to be in such a place after all. The society of harmless madmen was not to be hers, nor could I stomach the idea of a place such as Bedlam.
"You said you knew of another place?" I asked, my throat constricted with pain on behalf of this woman I hated.
"In the north of England, sir," said Dr. Hanwell, "The Grimsby Retreat, sir."
"I've heard something of it," I said.
Indeed, sir, it is a most agreeable situation. Good care, much like we offer, but with a more direct approach to the inmates. It houses the mild and the criminal.
"I find I do not wish to house her anywhere that this," I pointed toward Bertha, now groaning softly, "Is the norm. Restraints are needed at times, but this… this is inhumane."
Dr. Hanwell shrugged. "We are not as equipped for such rages as this woman has displayed, sir. We could do no better."
"I wish to care for her within the confines of my own house. Can that be done with assistance from someone who is more equipped? More competent?"
The doctor's face reddened, but he smiled gently. "Indeed, sir. The Grimsby Retreat has often sent out its own handlers to assist in private homes. And good hands they are, sir, no mistake."
"Good," said I, turning the handle to enter the room where Bertha still sat. "I will go there directly, once I see to her comfort. Who is proprietor?"
"Mr. Pollex Poole, sir," said Hanwell as we approached Bertha carefully. "And he shares his duties with his mother, I believe… Grace. Grace Poole."