About the middle of January the doctor in charge of my case went for a two weeks’ vacation.  During his absence an older member of the staff took charge of the violent ward.  A man of wider experience and more liberal ideas than his predecessor, he at once granted me several real privileges.  One day he permitted me to pay a brief visit to the best ward—­the one from which I had been transferred two months earlier.  I thus was able again to mingle with many seemingly normal men, and though I enjoyed this privilege upon but one occasion, and then only for a few hours, it gave me intense satisfaction.

Altogether the last six weeks of the fourteen during which I was confined in the violent ward were comfortable and relatively happy.  I was no longer subjected to physical abuse, though this exemption was largely due to my own skill in avoiding trouble.  I was no longer cold and hungry.  I was allowed a fair amount of outdoor exercise which, after my close confinement, proved to be a delightful shock.  But, above all, I was again given an adequate supply of stationery and drawing materials, which became as tinder under the focussed rays of my artistic eagerness.  My mechanical investigations were gradually set aside.  Art and literature again held sway.  Except when out of doors taking my allotted exercise, I remained in my room reading, writing, or drawing.  This room of mine soon became a Mecca for the most irrepressible and loquacious characters in the ward.  But I soon schooled myself to shut my ears to the incoherent prattle of my unwelcome visitors.  Occasionally, some of them would become obstreperous—­perhaps because of my lordly order to leave the room.  Often did they threaten to throttle me; but I ignored the threats, and they were never carried out.  Nor was I afraid that they would be.  Invariably I induced them to obey.

The drawings I produced at this time were crude.  For the most part they consisted of copies of illustrations which I had cut from magazines that had miraculously found their way into the violent ward.  The heads of men and women interested me most, for I had decided to take up portraiture.  At first I was content to draw in black and white, but I soon procured some colors and from that time on devoted my attention to mastering pastel.

In the world of letters I had made little progress.  My compositions were for the most part epistles addressed to relatives and friends and to those in authority at the hospital.  Frequently the letters addressed to the doctors were sent in sets of three—­this to save time, for I was very busy.  The first letter of such a series would contain my request, couched in friendly and polite terms.  To this I would add a postscript, worded about as follows:  “If, after reading this letter, you feel inclined to refuse my request, please read letter number two.”  Letter number two would be severely formal—­a business-like repetition of the request made in letter number one.  Again a postscript would advise the reader to consult letter number three, if the reading of number two had failed to move him.  Letter number three was invariably a brief philippic in which I would consign the unaccommodating doctor to oblivion.