Her first committal to a private institution was voluntary, lasting three months. Vivian returned home, rested and eating, seeming restored to sanity. In a few weeks, the darkness began to return.
It became a pattern: irritability, silence, the first signs of chewing at the edges of her body, then an outburst—invariably against Edward, which even he agreed was something of a blessing, since he was the one most able to defend himself. Committal would follow, as she acknowledged that she was in need of a “rest.” This went on for three and a half years. Then came the fifth such cycle, in 1920. Instead of attacking her half-brother, Vivian went after herself, using another purloined knife. A chambermaid found her. The next committal was not voluntary.
By this time, Vivian Beaconsfield had exhausted the patience of private hospitals. For some ungodly reason—a mix-up? Her brother’s pique?—she was taken to Bedlam, London’s home for the mad since the fourteenth century. Her sister-in-law was appalled, her brother refused to speak her name—but strangely enough, Bedlam of all places saved her life.
One’s first reaction to the name—which in fact was Bethlem Royal Hospital—was a queasy horror: Bedlam as a charnel-pit of cries, filth, brutality, the chaining of inmates, and visitors in Regency silks paying to be amused by the inmates’ antics. However, even by Dickens’ time, the humane treatment of the insane had made enormous progress. Now, Bedlam housed the educated mad, from schoolmasters to seamstresses, with a handful of talented artists for whom the outside world was too much. Nonetheless, the hospital’s image was softened neither by its location in a rough district south of the River, nor by its hulking grey appearance. I admit, despite my intellectual knowledge of improvements, my thoughts of the place tended towards Hogarth’s image of writhing and half-naked lunatics.
Still, Ronnie felt that her aunt was happy there—that yes, the blood in Lady Vivian’s veins might run a shade bluer than that of the other inmates, but she seemed to have found her peers.
Ronnie took me once to visit her aunt. It was a wintry October afternoon in 1922, and not an ideal time to be crossing London with an infant in arms. Still, my old University friend was determined to introduce her young son to his great-aunt, and asked me to accompany her—why, I was not sure, other than my being one of her few friends who might not be shaken to the core by a trip to Bedlam. But as we motored through the rough streets of the South bank, I noticed how closely Ronnie held the child, and how warily she eyed the windows. Perhaps I was more of a bodyguard—certainly more so than the white-haired driver.
Bedlam was tucked behind high stone walls, the better to keep the wandering mad on one side and any tormenting onlookers on the other. The hinges screeched as the iron gates were pulled open by the guard, an aged fellow who looked barely adequate to corral young Simon, much less several hundred of London’s mad.
Inside the walls, the dark and dirty stones of Southwark gave way, unexpectedly, to a garden: trees, lawn, a flower bed neatly mulched over for winter. Over to our left, some well-bundled women walked along a path-way, giving no indication that they were even aware of the gates, much less eager to flee through them.
Had it been a sunny morning, the stone fa?ade might have given off an air of dignity, even welcome, but as we circled around to park, it simply…loomed. Four storeys high, with sixty or more windows on each floor, centred around a portico with columns resembling massive bars and a high dome that looked like a stone tea-cosy. The portico, ten steps above the drive, faced north, putting the entranceway in shadows. Even young Simon protested, although that could have been a reaction to the slowing of the motor. Ronnie wrapped the blankets around him as the driver came back to open the door. Bitter air rushed in—along with a high, drawn-out wail from the building itself that raised the hairs on the back of the neck. Ronnie gathered her soft armful and dashed up the steps, with me hastening to follow her through the columns to the hospital doors.
Inside, visitors were greeted by two immense stone carvings of male nudes, one cringing but hopeful, the other stretched in agony and bound by chains (named, I later found, Raving Madness and his brother, Melancholy). But the air was warm, as were the greetings of the staff, and smelled less of the expected despair and cabbage than it did of coffee and furniture polish.
The porter, a nurse, and soon the hospital superintendent himself appeared, greeting Ronnie as an old friend and making much of the tiny creature, yawning and stretching in her arms. Our coats were taken, our hats (and their pins) laid aside, and we were ushered across a hallway to what looked like a Victorian sitting room, with solid furniture, marble statues, potted palms, ancestral portraits, and comfortable chairs dotted with crisp white antimacassars. A radiator ticked on one side and a fire crackled on the other; the curtains were drawn back from high windows that looked out on a neatly tended garden. Despite the cold, three women strolled the paths, one of whom appeared to be carrying on a learned debate with an invisible friend.
The nurse who had brought us in lingered to coo over the lad, clearly tempted to prise him bodily from his mother’s grasp. Before open battle could break out, an older woman in a grey dress stepped through the doorway, her authority sending the attendant scurrying back to work.
This woman Ronnie had no hesitation about, freely plunking the armload of blankets into the experienced hands, then turning to introduce me. It was the hospital matron, competent, iron-willed—and with an unexpected trace of humour at the back of her eyes. The sort of person no young mother would hesitate to entrust with her progeny—or her beloved aunt.
“How is she?” Ronnie asked once the initial fuss over the five-month-old was over.
“A bit sad,” Matron replied without hesitation. “Her favourite nurse has just left to be married, and a patient she was friends with was moved to a private hospital nearer her family. But she’ll be much cheered to see you.”
“I’m so sorry, I should have come sooner, but—”
“Child, that’s not what I was saying. Indeed, you’d have worried her by coming here in a…vulnerable state. Your letters have been quite pleasure enough.”
Ronnie looked at the child in Matron’s strong arms. “She will be fine with him, won’t she? I needn’t…”
“Worry about the little mite?” Matron gazed at the pink face with affection, then transferred him easily back to Ronnie’s care. “She’ll be perfectly fine with him. She’s in a good phase at present. Even when she’s not, the only person she tries to hurt anymore is herself.”
With this sorry pronouncement, Matron left us alone with our thoughts and the child.
In a few minutes, the door opened, and in came two women. One was a tall, black-haired Sister in a dark blue uniform with stiff white collar, cuffs, and belt. Her right hand grasped the other woman’s arm—which might have brought to mind control, strait-jackets, and shackles except that there was a degree of what almost seemed like affection in the gesture. I did not know if she showed that respect to all her patients—Vivian had to be one of the most high-ranking patients she would ever treat—but to my eye it looked more like helping a myopic friend across an uneven floor than it did controlling a certified lunatic.
Once inside the Sister let go, allowing Vivian Beaconsfield to continue across the room towards her niece.