the open street in Chicago, Guy T. Olmstead fired a revolver at a
letter-carrier named William L. Clifford. He came up from behind,
and deliberately fired four shots, the first entering Clifford's
loins, the other three penetrating the back of his head, so that
the man fell and was supposed to be fatally wounded.
Olmstead
made little attempt to escape, as a crowd rushed up with the
usual cry of "Lynch him!" but waved his revolver, exclaiming:
"I'll never be taken alive!" and when a police-officer disarmed
him: "Don't take my gun; let me finish what I have to do." This
was evidently an allusion, as will be seen later on, to an
intention to destroy himself. He eagerly entered the prison-van,
however, to escape the threatening mob.
Olmstead, who was 30 years of age, was born near Danville, Ill.,
in which city he lived for many years. Both parents were born in
Illinois. His father, some twenty years ago, shot and nearly
killed a wealthy coal operator, induced to commit the crime, it
is said, by a secret organization of a hundred prominent citizens
to whom the victim had made himself obnoxious by bringing suits
against them for trivial causes. The victim became insane, but
the criminal was never punished, and died a few years later at
the age of 44. This man had another son who was considered
peculiar.
Guy Olmstead began to show signs of sexual perversity at the age
of 12. He was seduced (we are led to believe) by a man who
occupied the same bedroom. Olmstead's early history is not clear
from the data to hand. It appears that he began his career as a
schoolteacher in Connecticut, and that he there married the
daughter of a prosperous farmer; but shortly after he "fell in
love" with her male cousin, whom he describes as a very handsome
young man. This led to a separation from his wife, and he went
West.
He was never considered perfectly sane, and from October, 1886,
to May, 1889 he was in the Kankakee Insane Asylum.
His illness
was reported as of three years' duration, and caused by general
ill-health; heredity doubtful, habits good, occupation that of a
schoolteacher. His condition was diagnosed as paranoia. On
admission he was irritable, alternately excited and depressed. He
returned home in good condition.
At this period, and again when examined later, Olmstead's
physical condition is described as, on the whole, normal and
fairly good. Height, 5 feet 8 inches; weight, 159
pounds. Special
senses normal; genitals abnormally small, with rudimentary penis.
His head is asymmetrical, and is full at the occiput, slightly
sunken at the bregma, and the forehead is low. His cephalic index
is 78. The hair is sandy, and normal in amount over head, face,
and body. His eyes are gray, small, and deeply set; the zygomæ
are normal. The nose is large and very thin. There is arrested
development of upper jaw. The ears are excessively developed and
malformed. The face is very much lined, the nasolabial fissure is
deeply cut, and there are well-marked horizontal wrinkles on the
forehead, so that he looks at least ten years older than his
actual age. The upper jaw is of partial V-shape, the lower well
developed. The teeth and their tubercles and the alveolar process
are normal. The breasts are full. The body is generally well
developed; the hands and feet are large.
Olmstead's history is defective for some years after he left
Kankakee. In October, 1892, we hear of him as a letter-carrier in
Chicago. During the following summer he developed a passion for
William Clifford, a fellow letter-carrier about his own age, also
previously a schoolteacher, and regarded as one of the most
reliable and efficient men in the service. For a time Clifford
seems to have shared this passion, or to have submitted to it,
but he quickly ended the relationship and urged his friend to
undergo medical treatment, offering to pay the expenses himself.
Olmstead continued to write letters of the most passionate
description to Clifford, and followed him about constantly until
the latter's life was made miserable. In December, 1893, Clifford
placed the letters in the postmaster's hands, and Olmstead was
requested to resign at once. Olmstead complained to the Civil
Service Commission at Washington that he had been dismissed
without cause, and also applied for reinstatement, but without
success.
In the meanwhile, apparently on the advice of friends, he went
into hospital, and in the middle of February, 1894, his testicles
were removed. No report from the hospital is to hand. The effect
of removing the testicles was far from beneficial, and he began
to suffer from hysterical melancholia. A little later he went
into hospital again. On March 19th he wrote to Dr.
Talbot from
the Mercy Hospital, Chicago: "I returned to Chicago last
Wednesday night, but felt so miserable I concluded to enter a
hospital again, and so came to Mercy, which is very good as
hospitals go. But I might as well go to Hades as far as any hope
of my getting well is concerned. I am utterly incorrigible,
utterly incurable, and utterly impossible. At home I thought for
a time that I was cured, but I was mistaken, and after seeing
Clifford last Thursday I have grown worse than ever so far as my
passion for him is concerned. Heaven, only knows how hard I have
tried to make a decent creature out of myself, but my vileness is
uncontrollable, and I might as well give up and die.
I wonder if
the doctors knew that after emasculation it was possible for a
man to have erections, commit masturbation, and have the same
passion as before. I am ashamed of myself; I hate myself; but I
can't help it. I have friends among nice people, play the piano,
love music, books, and everything that is beautiful and
elevating; yet they can't elevate me, because this load of inborn
vileness drags me down and prevents my perfect enjoyment of
anything. Doctors are the only ones who understand and know my
helplessness before this monster. I think and work till my brain
whirls, and I can scarce refrain from crying out my troubles."
This letter was written a few days before the crime was
committed.
When conveyed to the police station Olmstead completely broke
down and wept bitterly, crying: "Oh! Will, Will, come to me! Why
don't you kill me and let me go to him!" (At this time he
supposed he had killed Clifford.) A letter was found on him, as
follows: "Mercy, March 27th. To Him Who Cares to Read: Fearing
that my motives in killing Clifford and myself may be
misunderstood, I write this to explain the cause of this homicide
and suicide. Last summer Clifford and I began a friendship which
developed into love." He then recited the details of the
friendship, and continued: "After playing a Liszt rhapsody for
Clifford over and over, he said that when our time to die came he
hoped we would die together, listening to such glorious music as
that. Our time has now come to die, but death will not be
accompanied by music. Clifford's love has, alas!
turned to deadly
hatred. For some reason Clifford suddenly ended our relations and
friendship." In his cell he behaved in a wildly excited manner,
and made several attempts at suicide; so that he had to be
closely watched. A few weeks later he wrote to Dr.
Talbot: "Cook
County Gaol, April 23. I feel as though I had neglected you in
not writing you in all this time, though you may not care to hear
from me, as I have never done anything but trespass on your
kindness. But please do me the justice of thinking that I never
expected all this trouble, as I thought Will and I would be in
our graves and at peace long before this. But my plans failed
miserably. Poor Will was not dead, and I was grabbed before I
could shoot myself. I think Will really shot himself, and I feel
certain others will think so, too, when the whole story comes out
in court. I can't understand the surprise and indignation my act
seemed to engender, as it was perfectly right and natural that
Will and I should die together, and nobody else's business. Do
you know I believe that poor boy will yet kill himself, for last
November when I in my grief and anger told his relations about
our marriage he was so frightened, hurt, and angry that he wanted
us both; to kill ourselves. I acquiesced gladly in this proposal
to commit suicide, but he backed out in a day or two. I am glad
now that Will is alive, and am glad that I am alive, even with
the prospect of years of imprisonment before me, but which I will
cheerfully endure for his sake. And yet for the last ten months
his influence has so completely controlled me, both body and
soul, that if I have done right he should have the credit for my
good deeds, and if I have done wrong he should be blamed for the
mischief, as I have not been myself at all, but a part of him,
and happy to merge my individuality into his."
Olmstead was tried privately in July. No new points were brought
out. He was sentenced to the Criminal Insane Asylum.
Shortly
afterward, while still in the prison at Chicago, he wrote to Dr.
Talbot: "As you have been interested in my case from a scientific
point of view, there is a little something more I might tell you
about myself, but which I have withheld, because I was ashamed to
admit certain facts and features of my deplorable weakness. Among
the few sexual perverts I have known I have noticed that all are
in the habit of often closing the mouth with the lower lip
protruding beyond the upper. [Usually due to arrested development
of upper jaw.] I noticed the peculiarity in Mr.
Clifford before
we became intimate, and I have often caught myself at the trick.
Before that operation my testicles would swell and become sore
and hurt me, and have seemed to do so since, just as a man will
sometimes complain that his amputated leg hurts him.
Then, too,
my breasts would swell, and about the nipples would become hard
and sore and red. Since the operation there has never been a day
that I have been free from sharp, shooting pains down the abdomen
to the scrotum, being worse at the base of the penis. Now that my
fate is decided, I will say that really my passion for Mr.
Clifford is on the wane, but I don't know whether the improvement
is permanent or not. I have absolutely no passion for other men,
and have begun to hope now that I can yet outlive my desire for
Clifford, or at least control it. I have not yet told of this
improvement in my condition, because I wished people to still
think I was insane, so that I would be sure to escape being sent
to the penitentiary. I know I was insane at the time I tried to
kill both Clifford and myself, and feel that I don't deserve such
a dreadful punishment as being sent to a State prison. However, I
think it was that operation and my subsequent illness that caused
my insanity rather than passion for Clifford. I should very much
like to know if you really consider sexual perversion an
insanity."
When discharged from the Criminal Insane Asylum, Olmstead
returned to Chicago and demanded his testicles from the City
Postmaster, whom he accused of being in a systematized conspiracy
against him. He asserted that the postmaster was one of the chief
agents in a plot against him, dating from before the castration.
He was then sent to the Cook Insane Hospital. It seems probable
that a condition of paranoia is now firmly established.
The following cases are all bisexual, attraction being felt toward both
sexes, usually in predominant degree toward the male:--
HISTORY XXVII.--H.C., American, aged 28, of independent means,
unmarried, the elder of two children. His history may best be
given in his own words:--
"I am on both sides distantly of English ancestry, the first
colonists of my name having come to New England in 1630. Both my
mother's and my father's families have been prolific in soldiers
and statesmen; my mother's contributed one president to the
United States. So far as I am aware, none of my antecedents have
betrayed mental vagaries, except a maternal uncle, who, from
overstudy, became for a year insane.
"I am a graduate of two universities with degrees in arts and
medicine. After a year as physician in a hospital, I relinquished
medicine altogether, to follow literature, a predilection since
early boyhood.
"I awoke to sexual feeling at the age of 7, when, at a small
private school, glimpsing bare thighs above the stockings of girl
schoolmates, I dimly exulted. This fetishism, as it grew more
definite, centered at last upon the thighs and then the whole
person of one girl in particular. My first sexually tinged dream
was of her--that while she stood near I impinged my penis upon a
red-hot anvil and then, in beatific self-immolation, exhibited
the charred stump to her wondering, round eyes. This love,
however, abated at the coming of a new girl to the school, who,
not more beautiful, but more buxom, made stronger appeal to my
nascent sexuality. One afternoon, in the loft of her father's
stable, she induced me to disrobe, herself setting the example.
The erection our mutual handlings produced on me was without
conscious impulse; I felt only a childish curiosity on beholding
our genital difference. But the episode started extravagant
whimsies, one of which persistently obsessed me: with these
obviously compensatory differences, why might not the girl and I
effect some sort of copulation? This fantasy, drawn exclusively
from that unique experience, charmed with its grotesqueness only,
for at that time my sense of sex was but inchoate and my
knowledge of it was nothing. The bizarre conceit, submitted to
the equally ignorant girl and approved, was borne to the paternal
hay-loft and there, with much bungling, brought to surprising and
pleasurable consummation.
"In the four ensuing years I repeated the act not seldom with
this girl and with others.
"When I was 11 my sister and I were taken by our parents to
Europe, where we remained six years, attending school each winter
in a different city and, during the summer, travelling in various
countries.
"Abroad my lust was glutted to the full: the amenable
girl-playmate was ubiquitous, whom I plied with ardor at Swiss
hotels, German watering-places, French pensions,--
where not?
Toward puberty I first repaired at times to prostitutes.
"Masturbation, excepting a few experiments, I never resorted to.
Few of my schoolmates avowedly practised it.
"Of homosexuality my sole hearing was through the classics,
where, with no long pondering, I opined it merely our modern
comradery, poetically aggrandized, masquerading in antique
habiliments and phraseology. It never came home to me; it attuned
to no tone in the scale of my sympathies; I possessed no
touchstone for transmitting the recitals of those ambiguous
amours into fiery messages. The relation to my own sex was,
intellectually, an occasional friendship devoid of strong
affection; physically, a mild antagonism, the naked body of a man
was slightly repellant. Statues of women evoked both carnal and
esthetic response; of men, no emotions whatever, save a deepening
of that native antipathy. Similarly in paintings, in literature,
the drama, the men served but as foils for the delicious maidens,
who visited my aërial seraglios and lapped me in roseate
dreamings.
"In my eighteenth year we returned to America, where I entered
the university.
"The course of my love of women was now a little erratic; normal
connection began to lose fascination. As long ago I had
formulated untutored the _rationale_ of coitus, so now
imagination, groping in the dark, conceived a fresh fillip for
the appetite--_cunnilinctus_. But this, though for a while quite
adequate, soon ceased to gratify. At this juncture, Christmas of
my first college year, I was appointed editor of a small
magazine, an early stricture of whose new conduct was paucity of
love stories. Such improvident neglect was in keeping with my
altering view of women, a view accorded to me by self-dissipation
of the glamour through which they had been wont to appear. I had
wandered somehow behind the scenes, and beheld, no footlights of
sex intervening, the once so radiant fairies resolved into a
raddled humanity, as likable as ever, but desirable no longer.
"Soon after this the Oscar Wilde case was bruiting about. The
newspaper accounts of it, while illuminating, flashed upon me no
light of self-revelation; they only amended some idle conjectures
as to certain mystic vices I had heard whispered of.
Here and
there a newspaper allusion still too recondite was painstakingly
clarified by an effeminate fellow-student, who, I fancy now,
would have shown no reluctance had I begged him to adduce
practical illustration. I purchased, too, photographs of Oscar
Wilde, scrutinizing them under the unctuous auspices of this same
emasculate and blandiloquent mentor. If my interest in Oscar
Wilde arose from any other emotion than the rather morbid
curiosity then almost universal, I was not conscious of it.
"Erotic dreams, precluded hitherto by coition, came now to beset
me. The persons of these dreams were (and still are) invariably
women, with this one remembered exception: I dreamed that Oscar
Wilde, one of my photographs of him incarnate, approached me with
a buffoon languishment and perpetrated _fellatio_, an act
verbally expounded shortly before by my oracle. For a month or
more, recalling this dream disgusted me.
"The few subsequent endeavors, tentative and half-hearted, to
repristinate my venery were foredoomed, partly because I had
feared they were, to failure: erection was incomplete,
ejaculation without pleasure.
"There seemed a fallacy in this behavior. Why coitus without
sensual desire for it? No sense of duty impelled me, nor dread of
sexual aberration. The explanation is this: attraction to females
was not expunged, simply sublimed; my imagination, no longer
importing women from observation, created its own delectable
sirens, grown exacting and transcendental, petitioned reality in
vain. Substance had receded for good now, and soon even these
tormenting shadows of it became ever dimmer and dimmer, until
they too at length faded into nothingness.
"The antipodes of the sexual sphere turned more and more toward
the light of my tolerance. Inversion, till now stained with a
slight repugnance, became esthetically colorless at last, and
then delicately retinted, at first solely with pity for its
victims, but finally, the color deepening, with half-conscious
inclination to attach it to myself as a remote contingency. This
revolution, however, was not without external impetus. The
prejudiced tone of a book I was reading, Krafft-Ebing's
_Psychopathia Sexualis_, by prompting resentment, led me on to
sympathy. My championing, purely abstract though it was to begin
with, none the less involved my looking at things with eyes
hypothetically inverted,--an orientation for the sake of
argument. After a while, insensibly and at no one moment,
hypothesis merged into reality: I myself was inverted. That
occasional and fictitious inversion had never, I believe,
superposed this true inversion; rather a true inversion, those
many years dormant, had simply responded finally to a stimulus
strong and prolonged enough, as a man awakens when he is loudly
called.
"In presenting myself thus sexually transformed, I do not aver
having had at the outset any definitive inclination.
The instinct
so freshly evolved remained for a while obscure. Its primary
expression was a feebly sensuous interest in the physical
character of boys--in their feminine resemblances especially. To
this interest I opposed no discountenance; for wantonness with
women under many and diverse conditions having long ago medicined
my sexual conscience to lethargy, no access of reasons came to me
now for its refreshment. On the other hand, intellectual delight
in the promises of the new world, as well as sensuality, conduced
to its deliberate exploration. Still, for a year, the yearning
settled with true lust upon no object more concrete than youths
whose only habitation was my fancy.
"A young surgeon, having read my copy of _Psychopathia Sexualis_,
fell one evening to discussing inverts with such relish that I
inquired ingenuously if he himself was one. He colored, whether
confirmatively or otherwise I could not guess, in spite of his
vehement no. Presently he very subtly recanted his denial. But to
his counter-question I maintained my own no, lest he propose some
sexual act, a point the esthetics of my developing inversion
would not yet concede, the boys of my imagination being still
predominant.
"One evening, soon after this, he convoyed me to several of the
café's where inverts are accustomed to foregather.
These trysting
places were much alike: a long hall, with sparse orchestra at one
end, marble-topped tables lining the walls, leaving the floor
free for dancing. Round the tables sat boys and youths, Adonises
both by art and nature, ready for a drink or a chat with the
chance Samaritan, and shyly importunate for the pleasures for
which, upstairs, were small rooms to let. One of the boys,
supported by the orchestra, sang the 'Jewel Song'
out of
'_Faust_.' His voice had the limpid, treble purity of a
clarinet, and his face the beauty of an angel. The song
concluded, we invited him to our table, where he sat sipping neat
brandy, as he mockingly encountered my book-begotten queries. The
boy-prostitutes gracing these halls, he apprised us, bore
fanciful names, some of well-known actresses, others of heroes in
fiction, his own being Dorian Gray. Rivals, he complained, had
assumed the same appellation, but he was the original Dorian; the
others were jealous impostors. His curly hair was golden; his
cheeks were pink; his lips, coral red, parted incessantly to
reveal the glistening pearliness of his teeth. Yet, though
deeming him the beautifulest youth in the world, I experienced no
sexual interest either in him or in the other boys, who indeed
were all beautiful--beauty was their chief asset.
Dorian,
further, dilated on the splendor of his female attire, satin
corsets, low-cut evening gowns, etc., donned on gala nights to
display his gleaming shoulders and dimpled, plump, white arms.
Thus arrayed, he bantered, he would bewitch even me, now so
impassive, until I should throw myself, in tears of happiness,