POLICE COURT TRIAL
In the morning we telephoned to mother, supposing she would have
received my letter, telling her of the trial at Bow Street that
morning, but begging her not to come up for it unless she specially
wished to do so. This telephone message was, unfortunately, the first
news that reached her of my arrest, and was a great shock to her. She
could not have caught a train that would have brought her in time to
Bow Street; my eldest sister, Betty Balfour, and my eldest brother,
Vic, went down to her later in the day. I felt happier than I had
done for a long time. I knew that the first news would be the worst
to her, that had now reached her, all else would seem unimportant in
comparison; the most difficult, most dreaded part of my job was over.
I felt less ill in health than the day before, only played out. My
one anxiety was lest I should break down physically and be dismissed
from the prison at once “on medical grounds.” The wish to avoid this
contingency was about as stimulating a tonic as could be desired. It
had exactly the same happy effect upon me as some people seem to derive
from a glass of brandy.
My sister, Betty Balfour, drove with me in a hansom to Bow Street. A
considerable crowd was waiting outside the police station; we elbowed
our way through them with great difficulty and only by the help
of the police, to whom we appealed to ease matters “for one of the
accused.” I felt dazed with the press of people. Before long I found
myself in a sort of loose-box guard-room, or wide passage, where all
my fellow criminals and many of their friends were assembled. Many of
my personal friends were there and most heart-gladdeningly kind to me.
I had concocted a short speech, explaining the reasons of my action.
I was told it was not very likely that the magistrate would allow me
to deliver it; my friends kindly helped me to condense it as much
as possible. It consisted of about four short paragraphs, sentences
bearing on the reasonableness, justice and urgency of our demand. I
remember nothing of it but these words: “I have been more proud to
stand by my friends in their trouble than I have ever been of anything
in my life before.”
Presently there was a roll call and we were all told off to the various
policemen who had taken us prisoners. I had been so exhausted at the
moment of my capture the night before that I had not realised what sort
of a human being underlay the helmet and uniform responsible for my
arrest. In the morning I saw that he was a particularly pleasant-spoken
and obliging man, who seemed to understand all about it from our point
of view. He explained what I had to do. We were first congregated in a
sort of waiting-room with a wooden bench round the wall, and then, as
our time drew near, we were called out into a narrow passage where the
particular policemen who were charging us stood facing us against the
opposite wall. It looked as if we were _vis à vis_ partners waiting
for a country dance to strike up. We went into the court as our names
were called. I was thankful that I knew a little of the hang of the
business from having been present at the trial of Mrs. Pankhurst,
Christabel Pankhurst and Mrs. Drummond. It is the absolutely unknown
element in these kinds of ceremonies that adds considerably to their
fearfulness. My name came rather early on the list. I was thankful that
at least this time I had not to go into the awe-inspiring witness-box.
Sir Albert de Rützen was the magistrate; he seemed old for the work.
His manner throughout was querulous rather than dignified. The feeling
of publicity and exposure struck me as completely odious; I was
extremely nervous and rather dazed. I remember thinking, “If I feel
like this, what must it be for the ordinary prisoners, whether guilty
or not, who, day after day, file into this court?” I had a vague sense
that friends were present amongst the crowd at the back of the court,
but the mechanism of the official proceedings and the individuals who
worked it seemed all at enmity with us--all, that is, except my partner
the policeman. His look, manner and voice were so friendly that the
set phrases in which he told of my conduct in Parliament Square and
consequent arrest had a strangely incongruous and unreal ring about
them. Not that he accused me of anything very terrible. He reported
that I had pushed past him exclaiming, “I must see Mr. Asquith, I must
get to Mr. Asquith.” I had never said anything of the kind, but no
doubt, in the policeman’s estimation, this was a remark in keeping with
my actions, and he thought it most probable that I had said words to
that effect. I did not comment on the charge. It seemed all to be known
and settled beforehand, and the processes which had to be got through
seemed more or less farcical and unreal. When allowed to speak, I
managed hastily to blurt out some of my speech, but I felt that nobody
listened.
The sentence was one month, with the alternative of being bound over to
“keep the peace.” I was immensely relieved that there was no fine. At
the same time the length of the sentence was a surprise and somewhat
of a shock, although I had prepared myself for it. It seemed hardly
believable that what I had done was really considered worthy of four
weeks in prison. I must, nevertheless, have heard, though the fact did
not penetrate into my mind, that Miss Joachim and several others had,
less than a year ago, been given three months for this crime of going
on a deputation--they, like myself, were first offenders.
On leaving the court we were taken downstairs to the cells. Four or
five of us were put together. I was in one with Miss Daisy Solomon,
Miss Elsa Gye, my guide and friend of the day before, Miss Dugdale
and a sympathetic young girl unknown to me. These cells are narrow
compartments, unfurnished, except for a wide wooden bench running
the entire length of one wall and terminating in a lavatory seat.
This was unconcealed and without any means of drawing water from
within the cell. It was periodically flushed with water by a pulley
communicating with all the cells from outside. The door had a small
grating of iron bars, through which one could look and speak to
people outside. Many of our friends came by in the passage and spoke
to us through this grille. They also brought us some sandwiches and
fruit--very acceptable. This was the worst moment for the friends,
and several mothers who came to say goodbye to their daughters must
have left feeling very miserable. I felt thankful that my mother was
not there. For me, it seemed the best moment for many a long day. My
part was over, so far as initiative and activities were concerned,
the rest required only enduring, always a much easier job to my lazy
temperament. My sisters and youngest brother came to bid me goodbye.
Some other friends came and said “Well done,” or words of that kind.
Christabel Pankhurst came. She said “Thank you,” and seemed grateful
for my share in the day’s work. This was a most unlooked-for honour and
joy, from that moment I felt a very privileged and happy person. The
sound of her voice and the look in her eyes remained stamped upon my
mind, and played the part of a sort of talisman of consolation whenever
the trials of my imprisonment weighed upon my spirits.
As for the physical hardships of prison, these had been the first items
to be measured and prepared for when deciding to go on the Deputation;
of all the anticipatory difficulties they had been the least, and it
was a comfort to think that now, before long, one would know the worst
in this respect. I felt considerably exhausted still from the battering
about the day before, and I had a craving to be alone. Unlimited hours
of “solitary confinement” were the most desirable paradise I could
vision to myself.
It was a time of longer waiting than I had ever thought a single day
could contain. Already one began to taste that peculiar feature, most
markedly characteristic of the whole of prison life, that of being in
ignorance of what is going on outside your cell, of why you are being
kept there, and of what will happen to you when the keys jangle, bolts
rattle, the door is thrown open and you are ordered out. We passed
the time recommending to each other various dodges of how to keep in
touch while in prison. Knocks on the cell walls with a brush or boot,
and at the hour when the wardresses went to meals it was said to be
possible to communicate by speaking on the hot water pipe, which runs
through all the cells, at the point where it touches the wall. We were
to maintain the right to talk to each other at associated labour. Mrs.
Pankhurst had obtained the right to speak to her daughter when they
were in prison together. Otherwise the silence rule, at all other times
we were told, was very rigidly enforced. I showed my companions some
leg and arm exercises which I urged them to do, so as to counteract the
want of exercise and general stagnation of life which makes so many
people ill in prison. We had great fun over this. We were all able to
send messages and little scraps of letters to our relations. I was
distressed that the stranger girl seemed to have no friends, and no
one came to the grille to ask for her. It spoilt the pleasure of our
visitors. She seemed of a very retiring and unassertive nature, and I
did not like to make inquiries as to how we could help her communicate
with her friends for fear that she had none. Happily, just before the
passage was cleared of all visitors, three kind-looking women came to
the window and she sprang up. They were her friends.
The courtesy of the police continued, and Christabel Pankhurst and a
few others were allowed to remain talking to us for some time after the
general public had been sent out of the passage communicating with the
cells.
Knowing that we had yet a long day before us, we in turns took
advantage of the lavatory end of the cell, the others mounting
guard in a group round the grating to ensure privacy. This was my
first experience of the publicity attending this process throughout
prison life. It is, without doubt, one of the greatest trials to the
better-educated prisoner; my sympathy went out especially to the
younger members of our Deputation and to all young prisoners.
At about 2.30 there came a jangling of keys, rattling of bolts, and the
cell doors were thrown open. We came out and lined up in the passage
outside, and our names were called out in the order of our arrest.
There were again some delays and waiting in different passages. One
seemed to be dealt with much like goods at a custom house, certain
facts about one being recurringly inquired after, investigated, noted
in a book, and the goods then passed on for the same process to take
place elsewhere. Eventually we filed out into a courtyard where the
prison van, “Black Maria,” as the hull of a great dead ship, awaited
her cargo. The grim appearance of that celebrated vehicle had always
been a signal to me, when passing it in the street, for having to
repress an instinct to follow it, an awed reverence for the distressful
plight of those inside it, an almost maddening craving to know what
had been the cause of their law-breaking, the nature of their crimes,
how far their present degradation could morally uplift them, what was
happening to their human belongings, what would happen to themselves
when they were once more free, whether indignation, revolt, dull
indifference, remorse, or the harrowingly abject penitence so frequent
in suffering beings was uppermost in their minds. Now I myself was one
of the criminals. I should know the sensations from actual experience,
literally from within. Of course I in no sense regarded myself as a
criminal, and was aware of a detached spectator’s commentary running
through my mind all the while. It suddenly struck me, perhaps, after
all, this is a sensation common to many criminals. A good number of
them no doubt either know they have not, or think they have not,
committed the offence for which they are condemned. Many, while
admitting their acts, probably have a moral standard with regard to
them quite different from that which controls the law. Others, perhaps,
like myself, think their acts were entirely justified and right;
some, again, would feel consciously and aggressively at war with all
recognised standards.
I had several times seen men arrested and male prisoners in the
streets, travelling, outside prisons and police courts, but I had never
seen any women prisoners. Suddenly the picture of them and of women’s
crimes came into my mind with a rush. Who were the women who, day by
day, trod the very stones on which my feet now stood, whose eyes would
look up, a few minutes after mine, to the terrifying form of Black
Maria? How and why had they broken the law, in what way were they
enemies of Society? The impress of their feet seemed to be one with
mine, and up from that criminals’ pavement their mind seemed to get
into my own. Child-burdened women who were left without money, without
the means or opportunity or physical power to earn it, who had stolen
in order to save their lives and that of their children,--thieves!
Women who from their childhood had been trained to physical shame,
women who at their first adolescence had borne children by their own
fathers under circumstances when resistance was inconceivable. Women
who had been seduced by their employers. Women deceived and deserted
by their friends and lovers. Women employed by their own parents for
wage-earning prostitution. Women reduced to cruelty after being for
years the unconsulted churning mills for producing in degradation
and want and physical suffering the incessant annual babies of an
undesired family. Women who had been stolen in their bloom and
imprisoned for purposes of immoral gain. If amongst such women, such
criminals, there are many who are professionally thieves, prostitutes
“by choice,” immoral “past redemption” as it is called, sodden with
drink, undermined by drug taking, their maternity transformed into
cruelty, their brains worn to madness, what cause is there for surprise
or reproach, and what hope is there of cure by imprisonment? Before
they took to these muddy lanes have they not been driven out from the
fair road? What was their training, what their choice from the start?
Are not the doors of the professions and many trades still barred to
them? Their right to work, a fair value for their work, is it not
denied to them? When they undertake the burdensome but joyous labour
of maternity, is there any security to them of physical respect and
choice, of economic security, of rewardful honour and social influence?
Where is the recognition of the woman’s great service, how is she
helped to render it suitably and efficiently; does the State, the race,
the family, the individual, see to it that she has her reward?
I moved forward after the others. Black Maria looked like a sort of
hearse with elephantiasis--warranted to carry many coffins concealed
in her body and to bear them to as many graves. She fairly set one
shuddering. To get inside her seemed a sort of living death, certainly,
most literally, entry into another world. For a moment I hesitated and
thought, “Suppose I refuse to get in?” The mere notion called up the
forces arrayed against one and made me realise my utter helplessness.
The gates, the bolts, locks and chains, the cells we had just left, the
court and magistrate, the high walls all around, the enormous policemen
on every hand. The one who stood at the open door of the van said,
“Come along, please.” His words were civil enough and linked one back
to the normal outer world, but his voice and beckoning gesture were
authoritative and the sense of physical power seemed to wedge one in.
It was clear that henceforth all one’s actions would be initiated and
carried out without choice, solely by necessity of obedience.
The policeman who had special charge of us for the journey was a man
of jovial disposition, and he cracked witticisms as he played his
’bus-conductor’s part. We readily responded to his mood. An antidote
was needed to the grimness of the proceedings, but the merriment was
by no means all forced. As soon as I laid aside the remembrance of the
real prisoners and limited the outlook to that of our own immediate
experience, the comic element was rampant and seemed to dig one in
the ribs, making me laugh with heartiness. We were all, it seemed,
playing some ludicrous, babyish game, unsuited to our years, but all
the more absurd for that. The ’bus-conductor-policeman got inside; we
followed him one by one into the narrow central gangway that forms
the spinal marrow of Black Maria. On either side are tiny separate
cells, like the compartments of a cupboard, the doors of which when
opened completely obstruct the passage so that only one prisoner at a
time can be admitted or released. On first getting in it seems quite
dark, and the sensation of being rapidly pushed into a very small
hole, squeezed back, the door shut and locked to the accompanying
sound of banging and much jangling and turning of keys, is extremely
disagreeable. The cell contains a seat and is ventilated by a grating
in the door, by groups of small holes on either side, in the floor at
one’s feet, and by a wire-netted ventilator running under the roof of
the van, as in a ’bus. The cell was so small that my legs, which are
long, had to be tucked up almost under my chin; I could imagine that
in hot weather the want of air would be oppressive, but though the
sense of being so closely confined was disagreeable, the draughts from
the ventilators seemed to play upon one almost excessively and I felt
very cold. When the cells were all filled the passage was duly packed
with prisoners, standing one against the other like tinned sardines.
As the van was not high enough to admit of standing upright, this
must have been a most tiring position. Presently there was a final
shutting and locking of the outer door, in which was a small grating
window, as we know it from the outside. Then followed a rumbling jerk
and Black Maria’s great overcharged body began her long, jolting drive
to Holloway. The sensation reminded me of a bathing machine when it
sets out for the sea, but the noise and jolting and darkness were all
greater in degree. We tried to communicate with each other, to find
out who was in which cell and who was standing in the passage. We
started singing the Women’s Marseillaise and other of our songs. Those
in the passage managed to put a scarf with our colours through the
ventilator under the coachman’s seat, others passed a scarf through
the grating window of the door at the opposite end. These feats were,
of course, communicated to the whole Maria-full of us, and the news
that the police were allowing the scarves to remain was greeted with
much cheering. Possibly, the driver was unconscious of his magnanimous
action, since the scarf end, I expect, flowed out somewhere near his
feet. The colours every now and then were seen and loudly cheered
by friends in the street. This woke in me an appreciation of the
colours and understanding of their meaning in a way I had not grasped
before. There is so little need for symbolism in these days of print,
newspapers, advertisements, etc., but our movement has had to combat
all the conditions of an era of darkness, ignorance, and barbaric
repression. When newspapers will not accept, publishers will not print,
and booksellers will not sell the true facts concerning us, then a
rapid means of irrepressible communication had to be sought through the
symbolism of colours, purple, white and green--justice, purity, hope.
Wherever you see them you know we are there, and you know our meaning.
I joined in the songs for as long as I could and in the
counter-cheering whenever we had a cheer from the streets, but I soon
withdrew into the luxury of my solitude. I was exhilarated and happy
in mind, but my physical exhaustion was considerable. The physical tax
of the Deputation and the nervous tax of the trial proceedings had
strained my powers to their uttermost. At last I was alone with myself.
The sense of release from the necessity of keeping up appearances,
of having to put on a good front, was great. I wondered how often
the occupants of my cell in that black hive must have felt the same
after the anguish, suspense, complication of fears, connected with
their trial. I noticed that if for a moment I entertained the idea
of initiative, action, the wish to touch normal existence, to be and
behave like an ordinary being, then the sense of subjection, of being
buried alive was all but insufferable and might quickly drive one to
the verge of insanity. But the physical exhaustion which leads to the
craving for inanition, for solitude and privacy, turned that locked-up
slice of the van into a welcome sanctuary.
After a long drive, for seemingly the better part of an hour, the
sounds changed and Black Maria quivered over a courtyard pavement,
filling us with expectations of arrival. The jolting and noise ceased,
the doors were unlocked, one by one as we had been packed in we emerged
again and were quickly ushered into Holloway Prison, through what
seemed a back door in a yard surrounded by high walls. It made no
particular impression upon me. It might have been another police court,
less dingy and more clean.