The melancholy delusion of the Stewart sisters
In 1860s Glasgow, Marion and Catherine Stewart withdrew from all contact with the outside world.
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The singing of psalms told the neighbours that someone was alive in there.
The door remained locked. Sometimes, the postman slid a letter under it, and people thought the coalman might have visited once or twice. The rent and bills had always been paid on time.
But the occupants of 116 South Portland Street, Glasgow, no longer crossed the threshold. Their story is ‘a singular, and withal melancholy chapter of domestic life’1 that intensified into a shared delusional disorder and tragic deterioration of their living conditions.
Marion and Catherine Stewart (born 1816 and 1823 respectively) moved to the South Portland Street tenement flat from nearby Paterson Street in about 1860. Their much-loved brother, a captain in the merchant marine, intended to live there too when not at sea. Shortly after the move, however, he left on a voyage and the sisters later received news that he had died on the coast of west Africa.
This bereavement acted as the catalyst for their complete withdrawal from society. At first, they occasionally left the house under cover of darkness to do essential errands, but no one was allowed in. A boy sometimes went to the door and, without looking at him, they passed out some money for him to purchase food.2
Then in November 1863, when one of the sisters went to pay the half-yearly rent, she was frightened by the landlord opening a blind and casting light from within onto her face. Six months later, payment did not appear and the landlord asked his agent, Mr Robertson, to find out what had happened.
With no answer at the flat, Mr Robertson obtained a warrant to enter the premises, and two Sheriff’s Officers forced open the door.
They found the interior ‘destitute of a single ray of light.’ An eerie voice from the darkness told them this was the house of God with the seal of the Apostle Peter on the lock, and anyone entering would be condemned to the fires of hell. The sisters accused the intruders of being agents of the devil sent by the Free Church Presbytery. But at last, one of the women promised that she would take the rent to the landlord, and the officers left.
The incident caused alarm among the neighbours, who had long been intrigued by the strange situation. One of them had the address of the women’s cousin, Mary Tait, and she travelled from Edinburgh to try to persuade them to open the door. When she failed, the spooked neighbours insisted that the police get involved, and accordingly a second warrant was issued. On 10 August 1864 the police, Mrs Tait, and several Poor Law officials entered the apartment. What they found was shocking and heartbreaking.
The first three rooms, although filthy, appeared unoccupied. Thick dust enshrouded the beautiful quality furniture.
A further room was bare of such contents but appalled the visitors. The occupants had used this room as a ‘dungstead’ and ‘a horrid accumulation of refuse and filth’ covered the floor. In the kitchen, not a scrap of food could be found, but a startled white cat dashed through the group and took refuge in a drawer.
One final room, with a closed door, remained. From within, terrified voices once again invoked St Peter and warned the ‘devils’ away.
The visitors broke in and found a darkened room, where one ‘haggard-looking’ sister loudly tried to repel them and the other huddled in a corner. They dragged them out into the unused dining room.
When got out into the light, the appearance they presented was shocking in the extreme. They seemed to be emaciated as if from semi-starvation. Their apparel consisted of some scanty underclothing in a sadly filthy condition, and old black merino wrappers, and they wore neither shoes nor stockings. Their hands and faces looked as though they had not been washed for years, and their hair hung about their faces and over their shoulders in matted and dishevelled masses.3
The sisters prayed earnestly and expressed the belief that the visitors were the spirits of dead people. Catherine, the younger of the two, took the lead while Marion repeated whatever she said. If Marion attempted to speak of her own accord, Catherine rebuked her and told her to hold her tongue as she had lost her mind.
Their room contained a filthy bed, a chest of drawers, a few books, a stool and a broken chair. The floor was covered in a layer of ashes and rubbish a foot deep.
As may be supposed, the medical gentlemen who had accompanied the exploring party soon saw enough to satisfy them that the two unhappy females were in a deranged state of mind.4
With some difficulty, the sisters were conveyed by cab to Gartnavel Lunatic Asylum. The fate of the white cat is not recorded.
Asylum records describe how Marion appeared to be under the control of her sister, who often scolded her. The house surgeon who wrote the notes recognised that Marion was ‘a gentle, amiable person.’ Catherine, meanwhile, was ‘very loquacious’ and ‘less amiable’ than Marion. The latter saw her younger sister as ‘an oracle, an authority not to be doubted.’ 5
The women’s physical health improved quickly and, a couple of weeks later, visitors from the Govan Parochial Board found them with a ‘clean and comfortable appearance.’ They had refused to wear the standard uniform provided for asylum inmates so clothes retreived from their home had been cleaned and returned to them. Marion, whom the visitors described as ‘a very genteel person’, still did not speak other than as directed by Catherine. Mrs Tait visited them too and did not believe they were insane. She said that, on further inspection, the living conditions at South Portland Street were not as bad as they had first appeared. The asylum doctors, however, disagreed.6
The matron reported that they did not interact at all with the other residents. Every evening, they read out a Bible passage, sang their devotions and prayed together before retiring to the same bed.7
In the asylum, Marion and Catherine required constant supervision to ensure they ate, washed, and took exercise.8 Their mental health did not recover. Marion died in 1869, with the asylum annual report saying that ‘she passed peacefully and happily away’.9
Catherine was immediately removed to the Govan Poorhouse Asylum, where she remained until her own death almost 20 years later.10
I am very glad to have discovered you and your stories, thank you, carpe diem.
Another look behind the curtains of society. Fabulous storytelling and such seamless stitching of research and narrative.