“Well, shall we go home?” my attendant said.

How could I say, “Yes”?  I had no home.  I feel sure I should finally have said, “No”, had he continued to put the question in that form.  Consciously or unconsciously, however, he altered it.  “Shall we go to 30 Trumbull Street?” That was what I had been waiting for.  Certainly I would go to the house designated by that number.  I had come to New Haven to see that house; and I had just a faint hope that its appearance and the appearance of its occupants might prove convincing.

At home my visit came as a complete surprise.  I could not believe that my relatives—­if they were relatives—­had not been informed of my presence in the city, and their words and actions upon my arrival confirmed my suspicion and extinguished the faint hope I had briefly cherished.  My hosts were simply the same old persecutors with whom I had already had too much to do.  Soon after my arrival, dinner was served.  I sat at my old place at the table, and secretly admired the skill with which he who asked the blessing imitated the language and the well-remembered intonation of my father’s voice.  But alas for the family!—­I imagined my relatives banished and languishing in prison, and the old home confiscated by the government!

XI

Though my few hours at home failed to prove that I did not belong in an institution, it served one good purpose.  Certain relatives who had objected to my commitment now agreed that there was no alternative, and, accordingly, my eldest brother caused himself to be appointed my conservator.  He had long favored taking such action, but other relatives had counseled delay.  They had been deterred by that inbred dread of seeing a member of the family branded by law as a mental incompetent, and, to a degree, stigmatized by the prevailing unwarranted attitude of the public toward mental illness and the institutions in which mental cases are treated.  The very thought was repellent; and a mistaken sense of duty—­and perhaps a suggestion of pride—­led them to wish me out of such an institution as long as possible.

Though at the time I dreaded commitment, it was the best possible thing that could befall me.  To be, as I was, in the world but not of it, was exasperating.  The constant friction that is inevitable under such conditions—­conditions such as existed for me in the home of my attendant—­can only aggravate the mental disturbance.  Especially is this true of those laboring under delusions of persecution.  Such delusions multiply with the complexity of the life led.  It is the even-going routine of institutional life which affords the indispensable quieting effect—­provided that routine is well ordered, and not defeated by annoyances imposed by ignorant or indifferent doctors and attendants.