SOME TYPES OF PRISONERS
There was no chapel for us on Sunday and it seemed an unusually long
day. My thoughts yearned towards my home people, and I rehearsed
the joy of my sister’s visit over and over again. The excitement of
seeing her had now given way to a wholesome and relaxed fatigue and
I looked forward to another night with a sure expectation of sleep.
In the evening at about six o’clock, our bed time, a new patient was
brought into the ward. She was carried in by 3rd Division prisoners,
helped by a head officer, sitting upright in an ordinary armchair with
carrying poles attached to the arms. She looked extremely ill and ashy
pale. She was evidently in great pain, though she did not groan or
call out. There was nothing in the way she was treated to suggest a
surgical case, and I concluded that she had been brought in for some
fever or acute internal complaint; from the look on her face I thought
it not unlikely that she might die in the night. She was a stranger
to me and after the first few minutes my instinct was to turn away
and not look at her, remembering the distressing sense of publicity
which I myself had felt so acutely on first coming to hospital. The
news quickly spread in the ward that she was a member of the Freedom
League, by name Mrs. Meredith Macdonald. She had several friends in
the ward, but they scarcely recognised her when she was first brought
in. They told me that she had fallen down that morning in the exercise
yard, which was slippery from frost, and had injured her leg at the
hip joint. I soon got to know her myself and talked much with her. No
nurse was in attendance on her during the night, only the ordinary
night officer (wardress). The anguish of acute suffering in this
newcomer and her harrowingly unassisted condition, drove all thoughts
of my own people from my mind and all question of sleep from my eyes.
The accident had taken place at about 9.30 a.m. She had slipped over a
small gutter and fallen with great suddenness to the ground. She lay
for several minutes stunned in the snow. The wardress in charge ordered
her to “go into the middle,” where those who cannot walk fast drag
round in a smaller circle, but she did not attempt to move. Some of her
fellow prisoners came to her assistance, they were immediately ordered
away by the officers. She looked across the yard to the wardress of her
own corridor who then came to help her. “I have hurt my thigh,” she
said; “I think I had better go in.” The wardress answered, “Very well.”
As soon as she began to walk she felt pain in the hip bone and put
her hand on the wardress’s shoulder for support. It was a very short
distance to her block (D X) of the building and on reaching it she was
handed over to another wardress who suggested she should sit down and
rest before going up to her cell. She was about to do this when her
right leg collapsed completely under her and she would have fallen,
but that a wardress held her up and put her into a chair. She was then
told to go upstairs “before you get any stiffer.” The leg was useless,
but by help of the double banisters she hopped up two flights to her
cell, an older wardress from the upper corridor lending her assistance.
She had no control over her foot and said to the elder wardress that
there must be something wrong. The wardress answered, “I am afraid
you have injured the muscles and that is a very painful thing,” and
offered to put her to bed. She could not face the additional pain of
being undressed. About half an hour later a doctor and the hospital
superintendent visited her, and she was subjected to extreme pain by a
reckless testing. She herself suspected a fracture and suggested having
recourse to X-rays as the only means of satisfactorily testing this.
She pleaded the special need in her case of, if possible, retaining her
walking power on account of her young children. The doctor sent her
a draught to ease the pain, but this was quite ineffective. She lay
in her cell all day unable to keep still for long on account of the
pressure of the injured part on the mattress, and yet every move was
exquisitely painful. In the evening the doctor came again and renewed
his agonising overhauling. She was then removed to hospital, the chair
in which they carried her, having no foot rest, the injured leg came in
frequent contact with the porters, causing her the intensest pain. It
is not surprising that she looked more dead than alive on reaching the
ward.
The injury and the rough methods of investigation combined produced a
feverish and most painful condition in the patient. The case was taken
over by another doctor (Dr. Sullivan) who at least handled the injury
much less brutally, but no attempt was made to treat it surgically.
A slight wound in the lower part of the leg was occasionally dressed
and bandaged by the hospital wardress, who visited us twice a day
when temperatures were taken and drugs distributed. There was no
other nursing whatever. The doctor’s examinations consisted only of
measurements to compare the length of the injured leg with the healthy
one. Nothing was done, in recognition of fracture, to reset the bones
or keep the limb in one position, no weight was applied to stretch
the shorter injured leg; there seemed to be no aim in the doctor’s
recommendations beyond that of helping to restore a bruised bone by
as nearly a natural use of it as the patient could be urged to make.
A circular air-cushion was supplied and extra pillows; also a night
table by the side of the patient’s bed, and a bed pan was kept in the
ward which could be used for bed-patients with the voluntary assistance
either of the wardress in charge or of the fellow-prisoners. Mrs.
Macdonald was kept in bed for the first few days, but the extremely
painful pressure from lying on the injured bone with the legs in
flat position caused her incessant restlessness, and before long she
begged leave to get up and sit in an armchair. This was allowed and
soon she was urged to move about, walk and use the leg as much as
possible. In spite of the most heroic efforts, the last recommendation
was impossible. She moved about leaning on a chair by way of crutch
and getting up or sitting down with the help of her fellow-prisoners.
The complete loss of control over the injured leg pointed, in my
estimation, to much more serious harm than mere bruising. I felt the
greatest indignation from that first evening of her entrance among us
at the way this prisoner was treated. Her suggestion about the X-rays
was ignored, her request to the Governor, and eventually her petition
to the Home Secretary, that she might be visited by her own doctor was
refused. When the doctors talked with her about her case they seemed to
pay no attention to her own views, but rather accentuated the official
prison manner of ignoring individuals as though she had been a child or
an irresponsible person. Yet there was no trace of exaggeration or a
tendency to work up grievances over her own case. Through all her acute
and continuous physical suffering she showed keen powers of observation
and a sense of humour that constantly relieved the nightmare of horror
with which I watched her pain. Her heroism under physical suffering
surpassed anything I have ever come across or imagined possible. During
the nights I was with her in the ward, about four or five, I slept very
little myself and whenever I looked at her she was awake. I did not
once see her asleep by day or night while I was with her in prison. It
is only since seeing her in free life that I have been able to compare
her face under normal conditions and realised the intensity of distress
which must have caused the continually strained expression she had in
Holloway, varied at times by contortions due to acute pain. Yet she
spoke little of her sufferings, seldom complained of anything, never
once was irritable under her trials or indignant at the treatment of
them, never once groaned or cried. She was uniformly patient, gentle,
self-contained, considerate of others.
I still was unable to get any sleep at night, but when a few days had
gone by I ventured to make up my bed so that I faced the wall instead
of the ward. This gave a greater sense of privacy and sheltered my
eyes from the blinding light of the naked gas jet. I very much missed
a habit I have of doing various physical exercises before going to
bed. About halfway through the night I made amends for this by going
to the little ante-room near the sink and lavatory, the door of which
communicating with the ward was left unlocked at night. Here, taking it
corner ways, there was just room for me to stretch my arms full length.
I consider it was thanks to this midnight practice that I was able to
keep my digestion in better order than is usual among prisoners.
Hospital patients are not allowed to go to the daily service in chapel,
but occasionally we were taken down to a morning service, in the nature
of family prayers, which was held in the ward below ours. This was
given over mostly to feeble-minded patients, several of whom were in
bed. My place was always the same, close to the bed of a woman whose
face will haunt me, I think, as long as I live. I never saw her move,
she lay quite flat, her head alone appearing above the bed clothes.
She took no part in the service and seemed to be unconscious of it.
She was young, her skin was remarkably smooth and devoid of expressive
lines, but yellow as if she had jaundice. Her appearance illustrated
to me the meaning of despair more clearly than I have seen it hitherto
in any living being. She was entirely passive and unresentful, but if
hope had tried to enter into her mind it would find no lodging there.
It seemed to me that neither life nor death had anything to offer her,
nor was there anything she possessed of which they could rob her. While
I stood or sat through the service my back was turned on her, but when
I knelt down I was facing her. One could not feel pity for her--there
was a rigid dignity and detachedness about her as of someone living
in an atmosphere different from our own. All my thoughts and prayers
were bent towards her, but I never had the sensation of in any way
communicating with her.
I noticed regretfully that there were no hymns, hardly any passages
from the Bible were read, the prayers selected were of a dolorous
order, and the greater part of the time was taken up by an address
from the chaplain. He spoke to us of the temptation in the wilderness,
how that Christ was tempted in the same way that we are, but that
He was good and we were bad. He instanced how wrong it would be if,
when we were hungry, we yielded to the temptation of stealing bread.
At this remark an old woman stood up. She was tall and gaunt, her
face seamed with life, her hands gnarled and worn with work. One saw
that whatever her crimes might have been she had evidently toiled
incessantly. At this moment her face wore an expression of strained
intensity as though some irresistible tide of inward emotion had forced
her to act. The tears streamed down her furrowed cheeks as she said
in a pleading, reverent voice, “Oh, sir, don’t be so hard on us.” The
wardresses immediately came up to her, took her by the shoulders and
hustled her out of the ward; we never saw her again. The Chaplain
did not answer nor even look at her, and continued his address as if
nothing had happened. A feeling of passionate indignation took hold
of me, succeeded by the feeling of helplessness and irresponsibility
which stifles vitality and above all every good impulse in prison.
Sympathy for the ejected prisoner, disagreement with the man who
officially represented the teaching of Christianity, neither of these
thoughts could find vent in words or actions; they become stored up
in a brooding, malignant attitude of resentment towards the whole
prison system, its infamous aim, its profound unreason, and the cruelly
devitalising distortion of its results.
When we were back in our ward the Chaplain came to visit us. This time,
he knew who I was. I asked him about the prison library which was under
his charge. I wished to send some books when I was free, amongst others
George Moore’s story of “Esther Waters.” I thought that novel ought
to be in every woman’s prison because of the heroic and triumphant
struggle depicted in it of the mother of an illegitimate child. I
asked the Chaplain if he knew it and would allow me to send it. He
answered that he did not know the book, and added, “But your ladyship
is such a good judge of literature, I should leave the choice of books
entirely to you.” Whenever officials visited the ward we were supposed
each to stand at the foot of the bed allotted to us. Complete silence
was the rule. This remark of the Chaplain’s was, therefore, overheard
by many of my fellow-prisoners. From that moment I was nick-named
“your ladyship.” As soon as the official round was over several of
us came together and, as was inevitable, compared the attitude of
the Chaplain towards the prisoner who had appealed to him during his
address and towards myself. It was on this occasion I first noticed
that the dress-jacket I wore was different from those of my companions;
mine was evidently quite new and without the broad arrow markings. A
fellow-prisoner, Miss Povey, member of the Freedom League, to whom I
had brought a glass of water during the first night, came to my rescue.
She was now sufficiently recovered to be out of bed during part of the
day. She had a great sense of humour and immediately responded to my
need. We seized a brief moment when the wardress was standing in the
doorway, we took shelter behind the open door and swopped each other’s
serge shirts. She was small made and for once this portion of the
clothing had been more or less well adapted to our respective sizes.
The sleeves of my shirt were half a length longer than she required,
and though she put a large tuck in them they retained their superfluity
of size. The sleeves of her shirt did not reach my wrists and as the
solitary button at the neck did not secure the closing of the jacket
down the front, I had continually to be pulling it together again in
the course of the day. It was marked in many places with the broad
arrow, but had been so well worn, as the lining of the neck and cuffs
attested, that the white paint of the markings had almost chipped off
in several places. From this time onward it became a sort of game to
watch for the privileges that were accorded to me. Prisoners who had
been in before explained that until I came there were never knives and
forks supplied as we now enjoyed, the fare, too, had been made more
luxurious.
After three or four days I had practically recovered from the effects
of the treatment meted out to the Deputation, and, but for the want
of sleep and its results, had regained my normal health. I was very
anxious to leave the hospital, partly because I wanted to share the lot
of the bulk of my Suffragette companions and to ensure that they should
benefit by whatever unusual privileges were accorded to me. Secondly,
I wished to know from my own experience the routine life of ordinary
prisoners and to see more of them, which I supposed would be possible
away from the ward. Finally, my appetite for solitude grew from hour
to hour. I feared that continued lack of sleep (I am a slave to sleep)
might tell on me in a way to seriously handicap my health and cause my
friends and belongings anxiety after my release, which could easily be
avoided. Consequently, every morning when the Governor and doctor came
on their round I asked leave to go to “the other side,” as the ordinary
cell buildings were called. My monotonous request was as monotonously
refused from day to day. The Governor replied that I must first
obtain consent from the doctors, the doctors insisted that my heart
was in a condition to make the routine of floor-washing, plank bed,
etc., injurious to me. One of the doctors did not trouble to continue
feeling my pulse, he simply dismissed my request to be moved with the
statement, “As for you, you are suffering from serious heart disease,
you can’t be let out of hospital.”
To harden myself for the cell routine I shared more and more in the
cleaning processes of the ward. Besides the emptying of basins and
dusting the walls as high as my arms could reach, the big table had
to be moved for floor polishing, and I helped the little 3rd Division
ward-cleaner with this. She was very small and worked unremittingly all
day. She used to flush very much over the floor-polishing, although she
was most dexterous with the heavy, long-handled polisher, and did all
her duties with admirable labour-saving skill and sequence. I wondered
how much her heart condition was considered. I felt a great interest
in her. Her face, expression, and manners were those of an essentially
good woman, she was intelligent, had a sense of humour, was loyal to
both the officials and her fellow-prisoners; she seemed in every way
above the average of mortals. I wondered what offence against the law
could have brought her to prison, she had several bars on her sleeve,
implying a long sentence. I found she had committed one of the most
grievous crimes which it is possible to commit, the most unnatural, and
opposed to all that lies at the root well-being of a race or nation.
She had killed her own child. Yet when I came to know the facts, it
seemed to me that her actions were fully accounted for, and even
had her child-killing been more deliberate than it actually was, it
was impossible to condemn this action in a human being who had been
squeezed by such opposing forces. Her story was told me in snatches
partly by the other prisoners, partly by one of the wardresses, and
partly by herself as I used to kneel by her side to put floor refuse
into the fire at the rare moments when the enormous padlock of the
fender door had been released. Her story was this. She was a servant,
and had been seduced by her master. She, of course, was dismissed from
his service. When the child was born, he had at first contributed to
its support, but after a while had ceased to do so and disappeared,
leaving no address. She had taken the greatest pride in bringing up her
child, a boy, to whom she was devoted. Her cell was one of those just
outside the general ward. It was sometimes used for the reception of
visitors to hospital patients who were too ill to go across the way.
When this happened she always asked the prisoners eagerly on their
return, “Did you see the photo of my boy?” Having been in prison many
months she was allowed to receive and keep this photograph. To return
to her story, as time went on the struggle to maintain herself and her
child was considerable. She made a friend, a man of her own class, who
knew her history, respected her for her good motherhood and promised
to marry her as soon as a sufficiently good job came his way. Before
long the job was said to have been offered him, marriage was in sight,
and they plighted their troth with the seal which knows no undoing. The
work failed, marriage prospects paled, her friend deserted her and she
found herself faced with the prospect which she now understood only too
well, of disabled health, unemployment, disgrace, and a second child to
maintain unaided. She kept on at her employment--in a laundry--until
the very hour of her premature confinement. Then worn out in body and
spirit, and quite alone at the moment of her trouble, she had in her
distraction and misery strangled her baby. She went on with her work
at the laundry. It was the father of her child who gave her up to the
police; according to one rendering, he did so because she was so ill he
thought it the only way to secure for her “a rest.” She had an uncle,
a citizen of London, a publican, who used his influence on her behalf
at her trial so that she was condemned on the charge of “concealment
of birth,” not of child-murder. Prisoners are allowed visitors once a
month, but no one had been to see her for several months. I determined
I should be one of her visitors as soon as I was again free, so
that we might hold a sustained conversation of a kind impossible to
fellow-prisoners.
I often tell the story of this girl as an example of the neglect of
women’s interests and the consequent need for the recognition of their
citizenship so that legislation and administrators of the law should
be responsible to both sexes. My listeners have sometimes commented:
“But what difference could the vote make? and how could legislation
alter these admittedly tragic situations?” At this very time (March,
1909) the women of Norway who had recently been enfranchised, but had
not yet exercised the vote, were drafting a bill for the protection
of illegitimate children. I think there could not be a better example
of how a fundamental change could be made in both the educative and
protective side of legislation as between men and women, pre-eminently
just and without any reactionary vindictiveness on the part of women.
The essence of this law is simply recognition of the fact that
every child has two parents and that the burden and responsibility
of producing children should, therefore, be shared by both in so
far as law can secure equality. According to this Norwegian law,
_the mother is given the right during pregnancy to inform the local
authorities of the name of the father. The man whose name is given
may deny responsibility within fourteen days. If he does not, he is
registered as the father; if he denies it the burden of proof rests
with the mother. The father can be compelled to support the mother
for three months before_ (in England the law gives her no claim upon
the father until after the birth of the child), _and, in certain
instances, for nine months after confinement, and he is bound to
support the child until it is sixteen years old_. A man at the time
of intimacy is comparatively willing to undertake his share of these
situations; after the lapse of many months he is more inclined to
try and shirk them. In the case of denial on the part of the man,
how much easier it would be for the woman to prove her case when the
friendship had been recent and witnesses could be brought forward in
support of corroborating evidence. Ten or twelve months later such
witnesses have often dispersed or their memories grown hazy. Owing to
the undefended, economically unsupported position of these mothers,
certain results inevitably follow--loss of respectable situations and
consequent necessity for the women to have recourse to more precarious,
more laborious, and worse paid employment, with their lowered social
status pressing heavily upon them in every direction. These conditions,
reacting on the exceptional physical state of the mother, claim their
inevitable toll from the life-blood of the child. It is not surprising
that the deaths of illegitimate children are nearly double those of
children born in wedlock; for 1911, the statistics, the latest issued,
show deaths of infants under one year in England and Wales, in wedlock
249.37 per thousand births, illegitimate 489.99. With the mother’s
maintenance secured, something tangible is being done to save the
health as well as the life of future generations. _The woman can draw
the amount of her claim through the local authorities who recover
it from the father._ This is an immense safeguard. Constantly under
the legal conditions here, when the mother’s claim has been proved,
admitted by the father and paid by him for a few weeks, he moves away
before long, leaving no address and the woman, even if she knows of his
whereabouts, cannot enforce her claim without irksome and difficult
legal procedure. It is far easier for the public authority to pursue
him, but even if this proves in some cases impossible, it is better for
the State to lose its money than the life or health of its citizens.
The State always pays in the end. _The child has the right to bear the
father’s name and, in the event of his intestacy, has the same rights
of succession as his legitimate children._ Just imagine how this clause
would alter the outlook of parents when educating their sons, more
especially in those spheres of society where such unions on the part of
men are almost invariably with women of a lower class than their own,
and it is these unions which produce tragic and evil results far more
socially and racially injurious than illegitimate unions among men and
women of the same class.[6]
FOOTNOTE: [6] This bill, I believe, was passed in Norway, with some
alterations.
Another of the hospital patients, a member of our Deputation, Miss
Leslie Lawless, was gravely ill with her lungs. She seemed in a high
fever and we were very anxious about her. The prison clothes hang
loosely upon one, and, though this is healthy in principle, they
seem draughty and cold after modern garments, such as close-fitting
undervests, etc. She had caught a severe chill waiting about for more
than an hour in the draughty passages after the reception bath. She had
been very ill and suffered much in her cell before being brought, only
after the third day, to hospital. Mrs. Duval, a member of the Freedom
League, was another really suffering patient. She had come up to London
to see the results of the Freedom League Deputation. She was walking
about the street when the Deputation had already been arrested. She
was not taking part in any form of disturbance or demonstration. She
was arrested on the ground that she was “known to be one of them.” Two
gentlemen, total strangers, who witnessed her arrest, volunteered to
come into court and speak on her behalf. She was nevertheless found
guilty and sentenced to six weeks’ imprisonment. She had twice been
in prison before; she had not intended to risk arrest as she was in a
very delicate state of health, having suffered considerably from her
previous imprisonments. She was now in hospital with acute neuritis and
a most irritating rash. She had many children at home and was anxious
about them, not having been able to make adequate arrangements for them
owing to her sudden and unexpected imprisonment. When I looked into her
suffering face and heard from our whispered conversation that this was
her third imprisonment I felt overcome. I envied her courage, but felt
myself quite incapable of following her example.
Flowers were provided by the prison authorities, both in our ward and
the one below; sometimes, too, our friends sent them to us. We were not
allowed to know from whom they came, and they could not be destined
for any particular prisoner, but flowers are expert ambassadors, and
their messages of good-will from our friends were generally understood.
They had to be taken out of the ward at night and returned to the
ward in the morning; they had to be refreshed, the water changed and
dead leaves picked off. I usurped this office. I feel ashamed, on
looking back, to remember with what selfish greed I took it over,
never giving the others a choice or chance in the matter. The joy of
handling the flowers seemed like food and rest rolled into one. All
the patients rejoiced in them. When a new lot were sent in they were
handed round for each prisoner to see them and smell them at close
quarters. Their appearance in prison used to remind me of Filippino
Lippi’s Florentine picture of the Virgin appearing through the sky with
a trail of coloured angels behind her to St. Bernard in his ascetic and
joyless surroundings. They brought moments of rapture which revitalised
one’s spirit and counteracted many of the stunning effects of prison
existence. Some people whom I told of this have resented the fact
that prisoners should be given the joy of flowers, but unless it be
recognised as part of the punitive system to impose physical illness, I
think the prison hospital authorities are to be congratulated on their
wisdom in this respect; the flowers did more than the drug-basket to
heal our complaints.
One of the reasons I took on as many housemaiding jobs as I could
was that it enabled me to be let out of the ward for the emptying of
slops, and this afforded a good opportunity for seeing and occasionally
communicating with ordinary prisoners. They seemed to come and go
pretty quickly from our floor of the hospital, and I seldom saw any
of them more than twice or three times. The prisoner’s dress has a
wonderfully disguising and unifying power, and it was a never-ending
interest to try quickly to diagnose the type of prisoner, so as to
make the most of any possible communication by whispers. Washing up
was done in the bath-room cell and the door left open. Sometimes the
handling of plates would prove that such work was unaccustomed and
uncongenial, others were skilled but sullen and grudging in their
service, some again would be keen and willing and showed the pathetic
eagerness of a newcomer to inquire as to rules, to be friendly with her
fellow-prisoners, to court the approval or advice of the wardresses.
But such liveliness was not the fashion and was always repressed. One
could watch the light and spirit of these human beings wane, as a
lamp wanes for want of oil. Sometimes many days would go by without
opportunity for the smallest communication with ordinary prisoners,
then again there would be occasions of unexpected good luck. Once when
emptying a basin at the sink a little woman, newcomer, who was dusting
the top of the walls and fittings with a long-handled broom, came close
up behind me. In prison one seems to develop eyes at the back of one’s
head and that kind of cunning which is engendered in human beings and
animals who are much restricted. I realised that no official eye for
the moment was upon us. The splashing of the tap covered the sound of
our low voices; without looking round, without changing expression
or gesture so as not to arouse suspicion, the following conversation
took place. _Self_: “The dust collects quickly here, doesn’t it?”
_Prisoner_: “Yes, how long have you got?” (The invariable first
question for all prisoners.) _Self_: “A month.” _Prisoner_: “I’m on
remand for a week.” _Self_: “What is it for?” _Prisoner_: “Attempted
suicide.” _Self_: “Poor you. Why did you do that?” _Prisoner_: “Well,
I had a pot of trouble and I thought it was the quickest way out.”
_Self_: “I remember feeling like that too, once, but I don’t now.”
_Prisoner_: “And nor do I now, life’s sweet while it lasts, isn’t it?”
This with a beaming smile. We had meanwhile exchanged furtive glances
at each other. She had a round, rose-like face, with a look of abundant
health and kindliness. Apparently, the “pot of trouble” had been of no
long duration. _Self_: “It seems odd to send people here for suicide?”
_Prisoner_ (eagerly): “Yes, it does indeed. It seems a shame.” Then,
with some hesitation, “What are you in for?” _Self_: “Suffragette.”
She looked at me wonderingly, as if she supposed this to be the
technical term for some form of vice unknown to her, though her
sympathy and respect were not withdrawn. We were, however, interrupted
at this point and I was summoned to return with my much scrubbed basin
to the ward. I never saw the little rose-like face again.
Beside the sink there was a tiny sash window about the level of my
head. When this was open I could catch sight of the yard where remand
prisoners exercised. I was surprised to see that many of them wore
prison dress. This meant either that they had been made to change
their clothes, or that remand and convicted prisoners were exercising
together. Seeing a great number of prisoners in a group was a most
depressing sight. They were packed quite close, touching each other as
they went round the narrow asphalt path in single file. They nearly
all of them looked ill. Their faces wore an expression of extreme
dejection; the lifeless, listless way they walked, enhanced the look of
entire detachment of one from the other; in spite of being so closely
herded, each seemed in a world of her own individual sorrow. Anxiety,
suffering, bitterness, and a harrowing tale of want or degradation was
told by the clothes of those not in prison dress. The procession was
more heartrending than anything my imagination could have conceived;
it took away my breath to look at them. Why are they there? What has
driven these poor wrecks into this harbour? What is being done for
them here to give them courage, self-reliance, hope, belief in better
possibilities for themselves and their children, opportunity to mend
their own lives, better conditions of work, fairer payment, and above
all a more honourable recognition of their services as women, of
their needs, and of their rights; the vitality to fight for their own
welfare against unjust handicaps, prejudiced ignorance of their wants
and tyrannous repression of their attempts to cry out for wider labour
markets?
We of the remand hospital No. 2 most often exercised in this same yard
in the afternoon. We were only about six in number, sometimes only
two or three, but, since seeing the procession of the morning, their
personalities seemed to haunt the yard. I thought of them as beads of
a necklace, detached, helpless and useless, and wondered how long it
would be before they were threaded together by means of the women’s
movement into a great organised band, self-expressive yet co-ordinated,
and ruled by the bond of mutual service. The test of a chain’s strength
is in its weakest link. Where is our chain weakest? Not in the wretched
victims who daily paced this yard, not in the debtor, the drunkard, the
thief, the hooligan, the prostitute, the child murderer. These miseries
were mostly the direct outcome of harmful and unjust laws. Amongst
the few that remain of spontaneously criminal type, their number is
insignificant, their influence negligible; they act as cautions rather
than instigators, although they call for all the remedial forces which
the State or individuals can devote to them. They themselves are
diseased exceptions, but they belong to groups of women, home workers,
wage earners, skilled craftswomen, who have kept alight the old
traditions of serviceableness, utility, and the powers of women. They
have already made many efforts to unite and to preserve their nobility
of independence. They, moreover, are quick to respond and eager to
serve the modern women’s movement. No, the weakest link in the chain of
womanhood is the woman of the leisured class. Isolated and detached,
she has but little sense of kinship with other women. For her there is
no bond of labour, no ties of mutual service; her whole life is spent
in the preservation of appearances, and she seems hardly ever to probe
down to the bone of realities. Child-having remains her glory, the one
bit of full-livedness in an otherwise most arid desert. This is the one
basis on which she feels herself united to other women, and the wrongs
and sufferings of child-bearers stand out as the exception on which you
can sometimes get her to move on behalf of other women. Until these
women can be educated as to the lives of the bulk of women, brought
up against the laws with regard to them that now disgrace the statute
book, made to feel the horror of custom which still undermines their
own existence, and to burst through the gilded bars which hold their
own lives in bondage, they act upon the social organism in a way that
is almost wholly harmful. Only when their eyes have been opened will
their “influence” and “example” bear out a reasonable meaning of those
words and their position of privilege make them worthy to lead.
As I had watched the prisoners I saw before me a counter-procession
of women of this leisured class, herded as I have so often seen them
at ball-rooms and parties, enduring the labours, the penalties,
of futile, superficial, sordidly useless lives, quarrelling in
their marriage market, revelling in their petty triumphs, concerned
continually with money, yielding all opinion to social exigencies,
grovelling to those they consider above them, despising and crushing
those they think beneath them, pretending to be lovers of art and
intellect, but concerned at heart only with the appearance of being
so. Subservient to a superficial morality, tested not by the question,
“What has been done?” but “What is the general opinion about what has
been done?” And immediately the procession of Holloway yard seemed
human, dignified, almost enviable by the side of that other. It is
these leisured women the women’s movement has hitherto cast aside.
They are the dross, the dead fruit. All others have responded in some
way, however feeble their power of service, when they have heard the
call; but these have not. As I thought of them my pity moved from the
procession in Holloway to these other women. Success is impossible for
a social system that takes no heed to its outcasts, the pathological
victims of national existence are the symptoms which can lead us to
diagnose its fundamental flaws. Whether or not the women alive to-day
in the ruling class can be cured is of comparatively little importance,
but clearly the causes which have brought them forth must be altered
at the root. The conditions which go to produce a ruling caste are
shifting their ground throughout the world. Such things are moulded
by involuntary forces; they cannot, except in the immediate future,
be foreshadowed or decreed. But it is now obvious that, whatever this
basis, women must have a fair and honourable share in it. Rulers
of the best are not reared by bondwomen. The bi-sexual powers must
be released at all costs in those sections of the community which,
whether by intellect, by birth, or by wealth, have the guiding reins of
national life in their hands. The question of what that basis shall be
is an altogether separate matter. Who can turn the force of our women’s
movement in that direction, who can be a missionary to preach war in
their peace-bedeadened country? The answer that came to me in Holloway,
and ever since it has seemed to me the only answer, was this--the
example of working class organisations, and above all, of those few
splendid women who have given their lives to lead this movement. Where
doctrine, precept and example all fail to penetrate, the spirit of
sacrifice, which wakes an echo in all human hearts, will find a way.