shortcomings of his Ticehurst attendants. Hervey the butler infuriated Mr Perceval by pouring out his medicine one day with the words, ‘Pretty colour, isn’t it, sir?’, as though he was a child. After getting rid of two local lads in succession, for insubordination, Mr Perceval ended up with young Tom Rolfe as his servant, who quickly disappointed him by never having heard of the House of Lords and claiming that he only washed himself once a year. After Mr Perceval made a run for it one day, while out walking with Rolfe, he was condemned to have the servant sit with him all day, and to be manacled at night, with Rolfe and another male servant sleeping in his room. He was no longer allowed to be alone.
Ticehurst’s position on a hilltop was not appreciated by Mr Perceval, who noted angrily in his diary every time a cold northerly blew, and he would spend hours by the fire with his feet on the fender. Now that the spirit voices had departed, a thousand indignities intruded themselves upon his thoughts. He disliked the fact that he could be watched by so many people – the staff and patients, both indoors and in the grounds. He felt exposed and under surveillance. He was not able to lock anyone out, but the doors of his suite could be bolted from the outside and had a peephole. He was not even allowed a lock on his own privy, and many a time a servant would pull open the door and see him at stool. His excrement was to be left in the pan and not removed until a physician had been to examine it, as a marker of physical health.
Privacy and dignity were thus persistently denied to those shattered souls who probably had greatest need of them. In the corridors outside his rooms, the high jinks of the servants, attendants and patients – running, whistling, singing, fluting, fiddling, jig-dancing and wrestling – made him ever more irritable. Much more enraging, though, were his interactions with the local magistracy and the asylum’s visitingphysician, Dr Thomas Mayo. Three Sussex justices of the peace were the parties who were supposed to comprise the safeguard against the incarceration of the sane, or the prolonged detention in an asylum of a patient who had recovered. Mr Perceval was lying on his sofa one rainy Monday morning with his waistcoat unbuttoned, reading
Henry IV Part 2
, when his own Justices Silence and Shallow burst in, accompanied by Dr Newington and Dr Mayo. Asked if he had any complaints, Mr Perceval told them that it was clear that he was recovered and should be allowed to leave; his detention here was solely to allow Dr Newington to earn even more in fees and in repute. He complained that he was never allowed one moment alone, but he was interrupted and told that he was imagining these things; it became apparent to Mr Perceval that the JPs were not going to listen to him and try to understand his concerns. ‘The magistrates are little better than the mere executors of the laws that confine the liberty of the subject,’ Mr Perceval decided. For his part, Dr Mayo commented that his complaints were frivolous and that Lady Carr was doing her utmost to help her son. Couldn’t he see that? Mayo spent the rest of the interview gazing out of the window at the pigsty.
When the visitors had left, Mr Perceval realised that in his haste to fasten up his waistcoat, he had wrongly buttoned it and he feared that this dishevelment had undermined his claim that he was of sound mind. How unfair it was, he thought, that doctors and magistrates could expect an individual who had been through his terrible ordeal instantly to regain the demeanour and tone of voice of someone unscathed by mental torment. Mr Perceval began to keep a small looking-glass in his pocket, and after any interaction with another person he would whip it out to check whether his facial expressions might appear to be those of a madman.
Dr Newington seemed to find ever new grounds to prove that Mr Perceval was still not fit to be at large. Why, the
Ticehurst’s position on a hilltop was not appreciated by Mr Perceval, who noted angrily in his diary every time a cold northerly blew, and he would spend hours by the fire with his feet on the fender. Now that the spirit voices had departed, a thousand indignities intruded themselves upon his thoughts. He disliked the fact that he could be watched by so many people – the staff and patients, both indoors and in the grounds. He felt exposed and under surveillance. He was not able to lock anyone out, but the doors of his suite could be bolted from the outside and had a peephole. He was not even allowed a lock on his own privy, and many a time a servant would pull open the door and see him at stool. His excrement was to be left in the pan and not removed until a physician had been to examine it, as a marker of physical health.
Privacy and dignity were thus persistently denied to those shattered souls who probably had greatest need of them. In the corridors outside his rooms, the high jinks of the servants, attendants and patients – running, whistling, singing, fluting, fiddling, jig-dancing and wrestling – made him ever more irritable. Much more enraging, though, were his interactions with the local magistracy and the asylum’s visitingphysician, Dr Thomas Mayo. Three Sussex justices of the peace were the parties who were supposed to comprise the safeguard against the incarceration of the sane, or the prolonged detention in an asylum of a patient who had recovered. Mr Perceval was lying on his sofa one rainy Monday morning with his waistcoat unbuttoned, reading
Henry IV Part 2
, when his own Justices Silence and Shallow burst in, accompanied by Dr Newington and Dr Mayo. Asked if he had any complaints, Mr Perceval told them that it was clear that he was recovered and should be allowed to leave; his detention here was solely to allow Dr Newington to earn even more in fees and in repute. He complained that he was never allowed one moment alone, but he was interrupted and told that he was imagining these things; it became apparent to Mr Perceval that the JPs were not going to listen to him and try to understand his concerns. ‘The magistrates are little better than the mere executors of the laws that confine the liberty of the subject,’ Mr Perceval decided. For his part, Dr Mayo commented that his complaints were frivolous and that Lady Carr was doing her utmost to help her son. Couldn’t he see that? Mayo spent the rest of the interview gazing out of the window at the pigsty.
When the visitors had left, Mr Perceval realised that in his haste to fasten up his waistcoat, he had wrongly buttoned it and he feared that this dishevelment had undermined his claim that he was of sound mind. How unfair it was, he thought, that doctors and magistrates could expect an individual who had been through his terrible ordeal instantly to regain the demeanour and tone of voice of someone unscathed by mental torment. Mr Perceval began to keep a small looking-glass in his pocket, and after any interaction with another person he would whip it out to check whether his facial expressions might appear to be those of a madman.
Dr Newington seemed to find ever new grounds to prove that Mr Perceval was still not fit to be at large. Why, the
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