I was bewildered. "Her?" I said.

"Elizabeth," she said in a great shout, "your dear Miss R., Lizzie the fool, Lizzie the simple." And she screwed her face up into a dreadful parody of Miss R.'s usual vacant expression. (And forgive me, reader, if I say that in the midst of my distress I was tempted to laugh; that she should mock R2 troubled me greatly, but R1 had no such hold upon my friends.h.i.+p.) "Then," I asked her, "who are you?"

"I am myself, doctor dear, as you will soon find out. And who, do you suppose, are you?"

"I am Doctor Wright," I said, somewhat stiffly.

"No," she said, shaking her head and grinning at me from under her hands, "I believe you are an imposter. I believe you are Doctor Wrong." Her voice rose again in laughter. "And you are asking questions," she went on, shouting, "which are most embarra.s.sing indeed."

"If you are not quiet," I said, with all the authority I could command, "I shall awaken you." This, spoken at random-and, indeed, what I most wanted at the moment to do-turned out to be an unexpectedly useful threat; she was immediately silent, and lay back against the chair.

"May I open my eyes?" she asked meekly.

"You may not."

"I shall open my eyes."

"You shall not."

"Someday," she said evilly, rubbing her hands against her eyes, "I am going to get my eyes open all the time and then I will eat you and Lizzie both." She was silent, and seemed to be meditating, and then she said quietly, "Doctor Wrong. And Lizzie the fool."

"Why, tell me, do you want to harm Elizabeth?"

There was another long pause, and at last she said, with hatred in her voice, "She's outside, isn't she?"

This was, indeed, a dismaying turn to Miss R.'s case. The cure had seemed so simple, so much a matter of time and patience before we set our feet on the right path and brought Miss R. home to health and vigor, and now, here, barring our way, gibbering and mouthing and shouting foulness, was a demon whose evil seemed at first almost unconquerable. The mind is a curious thing, to be sure, for I found myself angry rather than frightened, much in the manner of a knight (rather elderly, surely, and tired after his long quest) who, in the course of bringing his true princess home, has no longer any fear, but only a great weariness, when confronted in sight of the castle towers by a fresh dragon to slay.

Miss R.'s treatments had now gone on for several months, and I began to see that it would be a longer matter than I had heretofore suspected. The considerable improvements in the minor aspects of her health, which she found so incredibly wonderful, were perhaps the only progress we had so far made, and we were, I confess, certainly no nearer to understanding. I know as well as any medical man that the concept of "demonic possession" has been largely given up as a diagnosis; naturally Miss R.-and her aunt, of course, a dragon of a different sort, whom I had yet to encounter face to face-were kept in ignorance of the new development in Miss R.'s case; neither of them knew more of the treatment than the superficial improvement in Miss R., and I believe that they thought the incomparable Doctor Wright was performing miracles of restoration. I felt strongly that it would be unwise to inform Miss R. of the deeper progress, or lack of it, in her case, because of the danger of alarming her and setting us back in the small improvement we had made; Miss R., being in an hypnotic trance during the greater part of her time spent with me, knew nothing of what occurred, and her aunt knew nothing because neither Miss R. nor Miss R.'s doctor told her. I had called Ryan and told him briefly my conclusions about Miss R.'s case and my proposed method of treatment, and, since he was a busy man (your jovial, hearty physician so often is, regardless of his abilities) I had not found myself troubled in that neighborhood further.

Ruefully, then, I added a new number to my notes-R3, the hateful, the enemy. Perhaps my numerical system was at fault, perhaps I was too persuaded of my belief that we could slough off the paralyzing past and bring back Miss R. as R2, perhaps the rarity of the case and the horrid aspects of it slowed down my usually acute perceptions-it was, at any rate, quite some time before I, dreaming over my comfortable fire at home, half-asleep with my book fallen to the floor and the first intimations of dream touching me-it was not until then, some time later, that I first recognized what I should have known at once, and saw through to the correct diagnosis of Miss R.'s case.

Now, for the layman, demonic possession would do as well as anything to describe Miss R. at that time, and in my heart I suspect that the pictures are close: I remember most vividly Thackeray's words, which I must have been reading before I slipped off, and which stay with me still: "All of you here must needs be grave when you think of your own past and present. . . ." And I before the fire, alone, and almost dreaming, to awaken remembering that devil's face.

But let me turn to a medical authority, whose more palatable phrases hold out hope of a cure more certain (and more permanent) than mere exorcism: "Cases of this kind are commonly known as 'double' or 'multiple personality,' according to the number of persons represented, but a more correct term is disintegrated personality, for each secondary personality is a part only of a normal whole self. No one secondary personality preserves the whole physical life of the individual. The synthesis of the original consciousness known as the personal ego is broken up, so to speak, and shorn of some of its memories, perceptions, acquisitions, or modes of reaction to the environment. The conscious states that still persist, synthesized among themselves, form a new personality capable of independent activity. This second personality may alternate with the original undisintegrated personality from time to time. By a breaking up of the original personality at different moments along different lines of cleavage, there may be formed several different secondary personalities which may take turns with one another." (Morton Prince, The Dissociation of a Personality, 1905.) I myself had already met Miss R. in three personalities: R1, nervous, afflicted by driving pain, ridden by the horrors of fear and embarra.s.sment, modest, self-contained, and reserved to the point of oral paralysis. R2 was, it was a.s.sumed, the character Miss R. might have been, the happy girl who smiled and answered truly and with serious thoughtfulness, pretty and relaxed, without the lines of worry which so deformed R1's face; R2 was largely free of pain, and could only sympathize sweetly with R1's torments. R3 was, on the other hand, R2 with a vengeance: where R2 was relaxed, R3 was wanton; where R2 was unreserved, R3 was insolent; where R2 was pleasant and pretty, R3 was coa.r.s.e and noisy. Moreover, each of the three had a recognizable appearance-R1, of course, the character I had first met, shy and unattractive by reason of her timidity and clumsiness; R2, amiable and charming; R3, the rough, contorted mask. The shy, fleeting smile of R1, the open, merry face of R2, were in R3 a sly grin or an open shout of rude laughter; if it be suspected that I did not particularly love our new friend R3, it can as readily be seen that I had good reason; when my good R2 began to raise her hands to rub her eyes, when her voice grew louder and her expressions freer, when her eyebrows went up sardonically and her mouth twisted, I had perforce to spend a while with a creature who felt and showed me no respect, who attempted enthusiastically to undo any good I might have done Miss R., who delighted in teasing all whom she met, and who, after all, knew no moral sense and no restrictions to her actions save only those of lack of sight; who, upon occasion, called me a d.a.m.ned old fool!

Now, it seemed to me that we had come closest to R3 on the question of Miss R.'s defaced letter, and perhaps that thought, aided by a chance reflection of my own, put us first directly on the track of R3; I, looking at the letter when Miss R. first showed it to me, thought irritably that I could write a better hand with my eyes shut-and had, although it was a while before I perceived it, my clue. In the course of a seemingly aimless discussion of the letter with R2, I had asked her, placing pencil and paper by her hand, to write a few words to my dictation, that I might see her handwriting, and, bringing her hands feverishly to her eyes, she first cried out "I can't, I can't, I must open my eyes," and so awoke, voluntarily, although she had never done so before. I wondered if she had perhaps not forced herself awake because of the pressure of R3 to come to the surface. Miss R., questioned again at another visit about the letter, burst into tears and refused to speak of the matter, saying only that her headache was too severe to allow of any discussion.

Steeling myself, I determined to summon R3 to an interview which I was not disposed to enjoy, but which I felt might be enlightening; I had seen almost nothing of her since her last visit, except for an occasional quick grin or gesture through R2's conversation, or now and then an echo of her mocking laughter in R2's merry voice, and, of course, the frequent gestures with her hands, accompanied by entreaties to be permitted to open her eyes. Summoning her required, I knew now, only inducing Miss R. into a deeper hypnotic slumber than that which brought R2, when she immediately began to take on the characteristic facial and vocal qualities of R3.

"So we meet again, Doctor Wrong," she said at once, and quite in the fas.h.i.+on of the possessing demon, "I wondered how long you could struggle on without me."

"I suspect, Miss R., that you can give me information I need."

"Not," said R3 flatly, "if you call me by that disgraceful name. I am no more Miss R. than you are. I am only inside her." She finished off this remark with a disgusting leer and an additional remark which was to me so distasteful that, not content to omit it from my notes, I have since made every effort to forget it, and all similar remarks made by R3. Consequently, it was a moment or so before we could get on; R3 had the disagreeable ability to confound me and render me speechless for important seconds at a time, so that I lost my train of thought and had perforce to allow her free rein during my own moments of distraction.

Now she continued, while I sat aghast, "Elizabeth, Beth, Betsy, and Bess, they all went together to find a bird's nest . . . Perhaps, you handsome Doctor Wrong, you would care to rename us? We must surely not be the first children you have brought into the world." And she burst again into her wild laughter, and-although Miss Hartley, my nurse, must surely by now be accustomed to loud noises from my office-I was half-afraid that Miss Hartley might conclude that I was being laughed at by one of my own patients, since the laughter was so clearly not hysterical. Interesting R3, or threatening her, were the only two methods I so far knew to quiet her, so I said in a low voice, "I shall awaken you, Miss R., if you do not tranquillize yourself."

She was silent at once, but murmured wickedly, "Someday you will not be able to get rid of me, Doctor Wrong; someday you will try to awaken her, and, when you think you have got back your disgusting Miss R., will find that you still have just me. And then," she said, her voice rising and her hands at her eyes, "and then, and then, and then!"

Fear touched me lightly, but I said, "Why, then if I find I have only you no matter who I seek, I shall have to learn to love you." I smiled wryly at the thought of loving this monster, and I suppose she detected my expression in my voice, for she said at once, "But do you suppose I could learn to love you, Doctor Wrong? When you wish me evil?"

"I wish no one evil, Miss R."

"Then you are a liar as well as a fool," she said. (I note down these remarks in the interests of thoroughness; I know I am not a liar and I hope I am not a fool, and I perceived that R3's object was to enrage me; I am happy to add that although I was irked at her rudeness, I endeavored, I believe with success, to keep her from realizing it.) "I know a good deal about people," she continued with complacency, "and when I have my eyes open all the time I will get along nicely. No one will ever suspect how long I have been a prisoner, I think."

I hardly dared breathe, hearing R3 rattle along so, revealing herself more with every word; this boastful chatter made it unnecessary to question her, and I would not have interrupted her for the world. "Now," she said, as one explaining an awkward position, "I can only get out when she is looking the other way, and then only for a little while before she comes back and shuts me in again, but someday very soon she is going to find that when she comes back and tries to-" She broke off suddenly, and chuckled. "Eavesdropping, Doctor Wrong?" she asked, "do you add poking and prying to your list of sins?"

"I am trying to help my friends, Miss R."

"Please stop calling me that," she said petulantly. "I tell you, I am not Miss R., and I hate her name; she is a crybaby and a foolish stupid thing, and I certainly am not."

"What shall I call you, then?"

"What do you call me in those notes? The ones you showed her once?"

I was astounded at her knowing of my notes, and that Miss R. had once seen them, but I only said, "I have no name for you, since you disclaim your natural one. I have called you R3."

She made a face at me, putting out her tongue and shrugging her shoulders. "I certainly don't choose to be called R3," she said. "You can call me Rosalita, or Charmian, or Lilith, if you like."

I smiled again at the thought of this grotesque creature naming herself like a princess in a fairy romance. "Do you also disclaim the name Elizabeth?" I inquired.

"That's her name."

"But," I cried, struck with an idea, "you yourself have suggested it: 'Elizabeth, Beth, Betsy, and Bess . . .'"

She laughed rudely. "Elizabeth is the simple, Beth is the doctor's darling; very well, then I choose Betsy." And she laughed again.

"Why do you laugh?"

"I was wondering about Bess," she said, laughing.

And so, my dear reader, was I.

So Betsy she was till the end of her chapter. I found that as these several different girls grew more familiar to me, and of course in the second case more dear, the names Betsy had chosen for them became easier and pleasanter to use than the cold clinical R1 and R2; R2 consented graciously and with a smile to my plea to be allowed to address her as Beth, and I think the name suited her quiet charm. I do not know if Miss R. ever perceived that I had moved quietly away from addressing her formally, or at least from calling her "my dear Miss R." to calling her Elizabeth; I suppose that she was too accustomed to constant authority in the shape of her aunt to remark being addressed as a child. Betsy, of course, was Betsy and nothing else, although she sometimes amused herself by giving herself grandiose t.i.tles or surnames, and I had no difficulty, subsequently, in identifying a note signed Elizabeth Rex as of Betsy's doing.

My immediate attempt must be, I thought, to discover the point at which the unfortunate Miss R. had subdivided, as it were, and permitted a creature like Betsy to a.s.sume a separate ident.i.ty; it was my old teasing a.n.a.logy of the sewer, but complicated in that I was now searching for a branch line! (I do most heartily wish that I had chosen some comparison nearer the stars; a flouris.h.i.+ng oak tree, perhaps, but I confess that I misguidedly chose that which seemed most vivid to me, and most indicative, although ign.o.ble, of the circ.u.mstances; I am ashamed to think that without going through and correcting all of my ma.n.u.script, and my notes, too-for this comparison found a place even there-I must abide by it.) It seemed to me that only a very severe emotional shock could have forced Miss R. to slough off the greater part of herself into subordinate personalities (until I had, with a magic touch, called them into active life) and I was fairly certain that their separate existence-although Betsy claimed a life of her own, in thoughts at any rate, ever since Miss R. had been born-must date from the most patent emotional shock in Miss R.'s life, the death of her mother. To show what kind of a problem I was manipulating, let me from my notes present the reader with the varying descriptions of this event which I received, first from R1, or Elizabeth, then from R2, the cooperative and lovely Beth, and then, lastly, from our villain Betsy.

(On May 12, to Elizabeth, in office consultation): Wright: Do you think you can tell me anything about your mother, my dear?

Elizabeth: I guess so.

W. When did she die?

E. I guess over four years ago. On a Wednesday.

W. Were you at home?

E. (confused) I was upstairs.

W. Did you live then with your aunt?

E. With Aunt Morgen?

W. Do you have any other aunts?

E. No.

W. Then, when your mother died, were you living with your aunt?

E. Yes, with Aunt Morgen.

W. Do you think you can tell me anything more about your mother's death? (She seemed most unwilling, and I thought on the edge of weeping; since I knew I could secure all the information I needed from the other selves, I did not intend to persist in a cruel cross-examination, but I did want as much information as possible for purposes of comparison.) E. That's all I know. I mean, Aunt Morgen came and told me my mother died.

W. Came and told you? You mean, you were not with your mother when she died?

E. No, I was upstairs.

W. Not with your mother?

E. Upstairs.

W. Was your mother downstairs, then?

E. Aunt Morgen was with her. I don't know.

W. Try to stay calm, if you please. This was all very long ago, and I think talking about it will be helpful to you: I know it is a painful subject, but try to believe that I would not ask you unless I felt it to be necessary.

E. No. I mean, I only don't know.

W. Had your mother been ill?

E. I thought she was all right.

W. Then her death was quite sudden, to your mind?

E. It was-(thinking deeply)-a heart attack.

W. But you were not there?

E. I was upstairs.

W. You did not see her?

E. No, I was upstairs.

W. What were you doing?

E. I don't remember. Asleep, I guess. Reading.

W. Were you in your own room?

E. I don't remember. I was upstairs.

W. I beg you to compose yourself, Miss R. This agitation is unnecessary and unbecoming.

E. I have a headache (touching her neck).

And that was, of course, the end of my information from Elizabeth; I knew by now that her headaches, all-enveloping, would obliterate almost all awareness of myself and my questions. So I pursued my line of questioning, most pleasantly, by summoning Beth. I longed, at this time, to chat with Beth informally, and at length, and I longed to permit her to open her eyes, so that we might seem friends rather than doctor and patient, but the ever-present fear of Betsy prevented; since blindness was now the only thing I knew of which held Betsy in check, I dared not follow my inclinations and admit Beth as a free personality. I was sad, frequently, to think that Beth's whole existence had heretofore been pa.s.sed only in my office, and that none but I knew this amiable girl; my conviction that Miss R. must once have been very like Beth was so far unconfirmed, and yet I deeply wanted to see Beth take her place in the world and in her family, the place to which my most unscientific heart told me she was ent.i.tled. At any rate, it was always a great pleasure to me to call Beth, and hear her affectionate greeting. Here are my notes on this conversation, which followed immediately upon the conversation with Elizabeth which I have just described.

(On May 12, Beth, or R2, in office consultation): Wright (after preliminary trance-inducing introduction of name and place identification) My dear, I want to talk about your mother.

B. (smiling wistfully) She was a lovely lady.

W. Much like yourself?

B. Yes. Very lovely and very happy and very sweet to everyone.

W. Do you remember her death?

B. (reluctantly) Not very well. She died that day.

W. Where were you when she died?

B. I was thinking of her.

W. But where?

B. Inside. Hidden.

W. As you usually are?

B. Except when I am with you.

W. I hope we can change that someday, my dear. But you must help me.

B. I will do anything you ask me to.

W. Splendid. I am most anxious, right now, to learn all I can about your mother's death.

B. She was very kind to everyone, even Aunt Morgen.

W. You lived with your aunt at the time?