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CHAPTER　XVIII







Suspended　animation　is　nothing　new；　not　alone　in　the　vegetable　world

and　in　the　lower　forms　of　animal　life；　but　in　the　highly　evolved；

complex　organism　of　man　himself。　　A　cataleptic　trance　is　a

cataleptic　trance；　no　matter　how　induced。　　From　time　immemorial　the

fakir　of　India　has　been　able　voluntarily　to　induce　such　states　in

himself。　　It　is　an　old　trick　of　the　fakirs　to　have　themselves　buried

alive。　　Other　men；　in　similar　trances；　have　misled　the　physicians；

who　pronounced　them　dead　and　gave　the　orders　that　put　them　alive

under　the　ground。



As　my　jacket　experiences　in　San　Quentin　continued　I　dwelt　not　a

little　on　this　problem　of　suspended　animation。　　I　remembered　having

read　that　the　far　northern　Siberian　peasants　made　a　practice　of

hibernating　through　the　long　winters　just　as　bears　and　other　wild

animals　do。　　Some　scientist　studied　these　peasants　and　found　that

during　these　periods　of　the　〃long　sleep〃　respiration　and　digestion

practically　ceased；　and　that　the　heart　was　at　so　low　tension　as　to

defy　detection　by　ordinary　layman's　examination。



In　such　a　trance　the　bodily　processes　are　so　near　to　absolute

suspension　that　the　air　and　food　consumed　are　practically

negligible。　　On　this　reasoning；　partly；　was　based　my　defiance　of

Warden　Atherton　and　Doctor　Jackson。　　It　was　thus　that　I　dared

challenge　them　to　give　me　a　hundred　days　in　the　jacket。　　And　they

did　not　dare　accept　my　challenge。



Nevertheless　I　did　manage　to　do　without　water；　as　well　as　food；

during　my　ten…days'　bouts。　　I　found　it　an　intolerable　nuisance；　in

the　deeps　of　dream　across　space　and　time；　to　be　haled　back　to　the

sordid　present　by　a　despicable　prison　doctor　pressing　water　to　my

lips。　　So　I　warned　Doctor　Jackson；　first；　that　I　intended　doing

without　water　while　in　the　jacket；　and　next；　that　I　would　resist　any

efforts　to　compel　me　to　drink。



Of　course　we　had　our　little　struggle；　but　after　several　attempts

Doctor　Jackson　gave　it　up。　　Thereafter　the　space　occupied　in　Darrell

Standing's　life　by　a　jacket…bout　was　scarcely　more　than　a　few　ticks

of　the　clock。　　Immediately　I　was　laced　I　devoted　myself　to　inducing

the　little　death。　　From　practice　it　became　simple　and　easy。　　I

suspended　animation　and　consciousness　so　quickly　that　I　escaped　the

really　terrible　suffering　consequent　upon　suspending　circulation。

Most　quickly　came　the　dark。　　And　the　next　I；　Darrell　Standing；　knew

was　the　light　again；　the　faces　bending　over　me　as　I　was　unlaced；　and

the　knowledge　that　ten　days　had　passed　in　the　twinkling　of　an　eye。



But　oh；　the　wonder　and　the　glory　of　those　ten　days　spent　by　me

elsewhere！　　The　journeys　through　the　long　chain　of　existences！　　The

long　darks；　the　growings　of　nebulous　lights；　and　the　fluttering

apparitional　selves　that　dawned　through　the　growing　light！



Much　have　I　pondered　upon　the　relation　of　these　other　selves　to　me；

and　of　the　relation　of　the　total　experience　to　the　modern　doctrine

of　evolution。　　I　can　truly　say　that　my　experience　is　in　complete

accord　with　our　conclusions　of　evolution。



I；　like　any　man；　am　a　growth。　　I　did　not　begin　when　I　was　born　nor

when　I　was　conceived。　　I　have　been　growing；　developing；　through

incalculable　myriads　of　millenniums。　　All　these　experiences　of　all

these　lives；　and　of　countless　other　lives；　have　gone　to　the　making

of　the　soul…stuff　or　the　spirit…stuff　that　is　I。　　Don't　you　see？

They　are　the　stuff　of　me。　　Matter　does　not　remember；　for　spirit　is

memory。　　I　am　this　spirit　compounded　of　the　memories　of　my　endless

incarnations。



Whence　came　in　me；　Darrell　Standing；　the　red　pulse　of　wrath　that　has

wrecked　my　life　and　put　me　in　the　condemned　cells？　　Surely　it　did

not　come　into　being；　was　not　created；　when　the　babe　that　was　to　be

Darrell　Standing　was　conceived。　　That　old　red　wrath　is　far　older

than　my　mother；　far　older　than　the　oldest　and　first　mother　of　men。

My　mother；　at　my　inception；　did　not　create　that　passionate　lack　of

fear　that　is　mine。　　Not　all　the　mothers　of　the　whole　evolution　of

men　manufactured　fear　or　fearlessness　in　men。　　Far　back　beyond　the

first　men　were　fear　and　fearlessness；　love；　hatred；　anger；　all　the

emotions；　growing；　developing；　becoming　the　stuff　that　was　to　become

men。



I　am　all　of　my　past；　as　every　protagonist　of　the　Mendelian　law　must

agree。　　All　my　previous　selves　have　their　voices；　echoes；　promptings

in　me。　　My　every　mode　of　action；　heat　of　passion；　flicker　of　thought

is　shaded；　toned；　infinitesimally　shaded　and　toned；　by　that　vast

array　of　other　selves　that　preceded　me　and　went　into　the　making　of

me。



The　stuff　of　life　is　plastic。　　At　the　same　time　this　stuff　never

forgets。　　Mould　it　as　you　will；　the　old　memories　persist。　　All

manner　of　horses；　from　ton　Shires　to　dwarf　Shetlands；　have　been　bred

up　and　down　from　those　first　wild　ponies　domesticated　by　primitive

man。　　Yet　to　this　day　man　has　not　bred　out　the　kick　of　the　horse。

And　I；　who　am　composed　of　those　first　horse…tamers；　have　not　had

their　red　anger　bred　out　of　me。



I　am　man　born　of　woman。　　My　days　are　few；　but　the　stuff　of　me　is

indestructible。　　I　have　been　woman　born　of　woman。　　I　have　been　a

woman　and　borne　my　children。　　And　I　shall　be　born　again。　　Oh；

incalculable　times　again　shall　I　be　born；　and　yet　the　stupid　dolts

about　me　think　that　by　stretching　my　neck　with　a　rope　they　will　make

me　cease。



Yes；　I　shall　be　hanged　。　。　。　soon。　　This　is　the　end　of　June。　　In　a

little　while　they　will　try　to　befool　me。　　They　will　take　me　from

this　cell　to　the　bath；　according　to　the　prison　custom　of　the　weekly

bath。　　But　I　shall　not　be　brought　back　to　this　cell。　　I　shall　be

dressed　outright　in　fresh　clothes　and　be　taken　to　the　death…cell。

There　they　will　place　the　death…watch　on　me。　　Night　or　day；　waking

or　sleeping；　I　shall　be　watched。　　I　shall　not　be　permitted　to　put　my

head　under　the　blankets　for　fear　I　may　anticipate　the　State　by

choking　myself。



Always　bright　light　will　blaze　upon　me。　　And　then；　when　they　have

well　wearied　me；　they　will　lead　me　out　one　morning　in　a　shirt

without　a　collar　and　drop　me　through　the　trap。　　Oh；　I　know。　　The

rope　they　will　do　it　with　is　well…stretched。　　For　many　a　month　now

the　hangman　of　Folsom　has　been　stretching　it　with　heavy　weights　so

as　to　take　the　spring　out　of　it。



Yes；　I　shall　drop　far。　　They　have　cunning　tables　of　calculations；

like　interest　tables；　that　show　the　distance　of　the　drop　in　relation

to　the　victim's　weight。　　I　am　so　emaciated　that　they　will　have　to

drop　me　far　in　order　to　break　my　neck。　　And　then　the　onlookers　will

take　their　hats　off；　and　as　I　swing　the　doctors　will　press　their

ears　to　my　chest　to　count　my　fading　heartbeats；　and　at　last　they

will　say　that　I　am　dead。



It　is　grotesque。　　It　is　the　ridiculous　effrontery　of　men…maggots　who

think　they　can　kill　me。　　I　cannot　die。　　I　am　immortal；　as　they　are

immortal；　the　difference　is　that　I　know　it　and　they　do　not　know　it。



Pah！　　I　was　once　a　hangman；　or　an　executioner；　rather。　　Well　I

remember　it！　　I　used　the　sword；　not　the　rope。　　The　sword　is　the

braver　way；　although　all　ways　are　equally　inefficacious。　　Forsooth；

as　if　spirit　could　be　thrust　through　with　steel　or　throttled　by　a

rope！







CHAPTER　XIX







Next　to　Oppenheimer　and　Morrell；　who　rotted　with　me　through　the

years　of　darkness；　I　was　considered　the　most　dangerous　prisoner　in

San　Quentin。　　On　the　other　hand　I　was　considered　the　toughest

tougher　even　than　Oppenheimer　and　Morrell。　　Of　course　by　toughness　I

mean　enduringness。　　Terrible　as　were　the　attempts　to　break　them　in

body　and　in　spirit；　more　terrible　were　the　attempts　to　break　me。

And　I　endured。　　Dynamite　or　curtains　had　been　Warden　Atherton's

ultimatum。　　And　in　the　end　it　was　neither。　　I　could　not　produce　the

dynamite；　and　Warden　Atherton　could　not　induce　the　curtains。



It　was　not　because　my　body　was　enduring；　but　because　my　spirit　was

enduring。　　And　it　was　because；　in　earlier　existences；　my　spirit　had

been　wrought　to　steel…hardness　by　steel…hard　experiences。　　There　was

one　experience　that　for　long　was　a　sort　of　nightmare　to　me。　　It　had

neither　beginning　nor　end。　　Always　I　found　myself　on　a　rocky；　surge…

battered　islet　so　low　that　in　storms　the　salt　spray　swept　over　its

highest　point。　　It　rained　much。　　I　lived　in　a　lair　and　suffered

greatly；　for　I　was　without　fire　and　lived　on　uncooked　meat。



Always　I　suffered。　　It　was　the　middle　of　some　experience　to　which　I

could　get　no　clue。　　And　since；　when　I　went　into　the　little　death　I

had　no　power　of　directing　my　journeys；　I　often　found　myself　reliving

this　particularly　detestable　experience。　　My　only　happy　moments　were

when　the　sun　shone；　at　which　times　I　basked　on　the　rocks　and　thawed

out　the　almost　perpetual　chill　I　suffered。



My　one　diversion　was　an　oar　and　a　jackknife。　　Upon　this　oar　I　spent

much　time；　carving　minute　letters　and　cutting　a　notch　for　each　week

that　passed。　　There　were　many　notches。　　I　sh