FROM THE CELLS
The following morning, Thursday, March 18, I was again summoned before
the Governor. He looked as if he had an important announcement to
make to me. “Do you still wish to leave the hospital?” he asked. I
was afraid this might mean my dismissal. “Do you mean going to the
other side?” I said. He answered “Yes.” “Rather!” I exclaimed, and
could hardly contain myself for surprise and delight. He proceeded to
explain: “The weather having changed, the medical officer gives his
consent to your being moved to the cells.” I should not be allowed to
scrub my floor nor do any of the routine “labour,” but if my health and
behaviour (!) remained good, I might be moved next day.
The weather, of course, had changed many times since we had been in
Holloway, varieties of cold or mild, damp or dry succeeding each other
day by day, after the familiar fashion of our national climate in
February and March. But I was too well content to be sarcastic over the
reasons given for the official surrender to my request. I simply said
“Thank you very much indeed.” I had already announced this decision
to several of the ward patients, when the superintendent came on her
rounds and I rushed up to her unceremoniously with, “Have you heard
my good news?” Her official mood was on and she ordered me off with a
“Hush! not now.” I gathered from various questions put to me by the
Governor that the authorities hoped I had not told of my carving-strike
to the other patients. It would never do, of course, to conciliate the
wishes of a striker! But I was not able to comfort them on this score,
and my triumph was public as well as complete.
Later in the morning the superintendent took me before the Senior
Medical Officer. With him it was a real temptation to say, “If now,
why not before?” to point out how effective had been the behaviour
which two days previously he had professed to find so incomprehensible,
also to draw the analogy between this little prison episode and the
women’s fight for the vote--a reasonable demand, continuously pressed
in a reasonable way and with great patience; result, blank refusal on
the part of responsible powers. Militant action, by means of strike
and protest; result, anger, condemnation, and the request is granted.
The vote is not yet granted to women, but who now doubts that “they’ll
get it” before long; but I restrained myself and trusted that the
lesson would sink home unassisted. The doctor pointed to a chair by the
side of his desk for me to sit while he sounded me. In my excitement
I forgot all prison decorum and shook him cordially by the hand. He
and the ward superintendent seemed nearly as pleased as I was myself.
I felt how differently the prison system would work and with what
different results if the officials were more often allowed to please
themselves by pleasing their prisoners.
That afternoon Mrs. Macdonald was released and sent, by arrangement
with the Prison Commissioners, to a private hospital. The ward
superintendent accompanied her, but on the return of this officer no
word escaped her as to how the patient had stood the transit, nor as
to the result of the further radiograph which had been taken the day
before. As soon as I was released, I heard that her leg was broken
and had been from the first. A committee was formed for her care and
her redress. The Home Secretary, Mr. Gladstone, was sure that the leg
had been broken before and refused to read our statement. It was not
till 1910, when Mr. Winston Churchill was made Home Secretary, that he
read the case and paid her £500 compensation. She was taken to another
hospital and had a serious operation to her leg. Had it been treated at
once, the fractured bone would have been restored to its own length,
but after about eighteen days of her being in prison, when nothing was
done for it, the bone had overlapped and the muscles hardened round
it. This, of course, inevitably shortened the bone. The operation was
successful, but she is lame for life.
The only item in the cell-life routine to which I looked forward with
considerable misgiving was discarding the hospital slippers and having
to wear the hard shoes continuously all day. I felt quite absurdly
pleased with the reward of my efforts. At the mid-day meal I drank,
or rather ate, the doctor’s health in rice pudding and insisted that
the wardress in charge should do the same. That day there happened to
be on duty one of the outwardly least human of her kind, but my good
spirits were irrepressible, and these being so rarely seen in prison,
they gave me a certain air of authority, I suppose, for her severity
melted and she ate the rice pudding, as ordered, with even the flicker
of a smile.
The luxury of a bath was allowed once a week, my turn was due that
evening. The superintendent said: “If I let you have it, will you
promise me not to cut yourself about or any nonsense of that kind?”
I answered: “Is it likely now that I’ve achieved all that I’ve been
struggling for?” That evening, when she came to my bed for a last
inspection, I said, “You see, they have given way after all.” “Yes,”
she answered; “I never thought they would, but there, you never can
tell what is happening behind the scenes.” I cordially agreed with
this last sentiment. “That is why,” I answered, “one should never grow
disheartened when things seem to be impossible.”
The next morning, while dusting the ward, the little 3rd Division
cleaner came up to me and, without looking at me after the manner of
prisoners, said in a low voice, “I shall miss you.” I took her to mean
that my housemaiding had to a certain extent lightened her labours, and
I was filled with pride; I have seldom received praise that gave me
more pleasure. I redoubled my energies and turned over and dusted the
beds that were unoccupied. The superintendent passed and said, “What
are you doing there?” I explained. “Oh!” she answered, “That’s good
of you.” It’s wonderful how luck, good or bad, never comes singly.
Everything seemed to win approval that day.
In the afternoon I was sewing a new stripe on to Mrs. Duval’s sleeve, a
good conduct badge that had been dealt out to her, as the first month
of her sentence had been served (she was in for six weeks), when a
stranger wardress came into the ward and summoned me to “bring your
things and come with me.” This meant the other side at last! Now that
the long-fought privilege was actually mine I felt self-reproachful at
leaving Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, but she thought I had done right to try
and join the others. No time was allowed for goodbyes. As I retreated
through the gate I waved the hated shoes at my companions, in token
of my good wishes. I was made to change all my clothes. The wardress
was reluctant to allow me to wear my nightdress, as I had done from
the first in the day time. I insisted, fearing that I might catch cold
without it, and I promised the doctor to care for my health in every
way if allowed out of hospital. She relented, but told me I must inform
the matron about it. I was taken over to the new building “D X,” and
shown to a cell on the third floor, No. 10. It was very clean, had no
bars on the window and no gate, and was in every respect much brighter
looking and without so much of the death’s-head element as the hospital
cell I had just left in the older part of the prison. It had a hot pipe
and, to my surprise, was considerably warmer than the hospital cell or
general ward, so that the official excuse about the change of weather
seemed less to the point than ever. After depositing the sheets,
towel, soap, etc., which I had brought with me, I was taken to join
the others, who were sitting at associated labour on the ground floor
passage. The building had a strange appearance, as of an enormous bird
cage. The cells are ranged on either side of a barrack-like hall giving
on to narrow galleries with iron rails. The different storeys are
reached by a small iron stairway in the centre. These and the balconies
are covered over with wire netting for the prevention of suicide, a
precaution in every way most characteristic of the prison system,
a symbol of the suicide of its own success. The wire netting gives
the building an abnormal appearance; newcomers question “Why is it
there?” The explanation fills the mind with horror and revolt. A deeper
investigation into prison life brings to light the fact that nothing is
done to prevent or counteract the desire for suicide in prisoners, the
evil is only met by artificial prevention of its consequences when the
mutilation of all spontaneous wishes, human instincts and reasonable
paths of self-interest have engendered the passionate longing to cease
existing.
The moment of joining my companions was most exhilarating. They
were sitting on chairs placed in regular rows, knitting stockings
or sewing women’s underclothes and men’s shirts. I was put into a
vacant place about six rows from the front. Patients who had returned
to the cells from hospital had spread the news of my continued but
vain attempts to rejoin the bulk of my fellow-prisoners, so that my
appearance among them caused great surprise. Some of them were almost
unrecognisably changed by the prison dress, others I was distressed
to see looked extremely ill, but, as the news spread amongst them of
my presence, they looked my way in turn and gave me a welcoming smile
that momentarily changed prison into paradise. I quickly understood
that the right we had claimed to talk with one another at associated
labour had been effectively maintained, but for the sake of not getting
the wardresses into trouble we talked only in low voices or whispers
to our immediate neighbours. The greatest eagerness, of course, was
for news of Mrs. Lawrence. She had sent a special message of thanks to
Mrs. Corbett and to Miss Carling, news having reached the hospital that
these two had been particularly active in maintaining the rights and
decencies that had been won by our predecessors through much hardship,
also in their efforts to secure fresh reforms of the same kind. These
were mostly connected with ordinary prison routine and affected
the welfare of all prisoners besides ourselves. They were, amongst
others--the use of an earthenware mug for drinking purposes instead of
a tin; permission to empty slops more frequently; a chair with a back
to it had been substituted for the stool; a better standard of food,
cooking and clothing through complaint whenever these were amiss; the
right to appeal direct to the Governor--previously the applications
to see the Governor had frequently not been delivered, this being, of
course, more especially the case when it was suspected that complaint
would be made about any of the officers; protest whenever prisoners
were unjustly punished for offences they had not committed; the right
to speak to each other at associated labour.
The prisoners near me were eager to point out these two valiant women
and cordially endorsed the report of their splendid persistency. They
were sitting near the front, and it was several days before I achieved
getting a place near enough to convey to them Mrs. Lawrence’s message.
They were immensely pleased. One of the reforms for which they had
asked most continuously, but always in vain, was for alteration in the
lavatory doors. These, which we nick-named “the cowsheds,” were only
about three feet in depth and left a space of one foot from the ground,
there was no lock or bolt or catch of any kind and they could not be
fastened. As the lavatories occupied a position next door to the sink
and in the very centre of the gallery, there was no sense of privacy
whatever. Both feet and head of the occupant could be seen from the
passage, and in the hurried passing to and fro of prisoners to the sink
to draw water or empty slops the lavatory door was frequently flung
open. The excuse given for this arrangement was that it was in the
interests of cleanliness and because of the tendency amongst prisoners
to commit suicide. If they were invisible or could lock themselves
in, it was stated that besides foul behaviour they would seize the
opportunity to kill themselves. Obviously neither of these precautions
were necessary in the case of Suffragettes, and we pleaded that when
our numbers exceeded sixteen, the number of cells to which a lavatory
was provided, one might be set apart for our use. With the W.S.P.U.
and Freedom League together the Suffragette prisoners during my time
amounted to about forty. We asked that a bolt should be put on the
inside of the door, and a curtain hung from the top of the doorway.
This would have been easy and inexpensive, and the wardress in charge
could, at any time necessary, draw the curtain and open the bolt from
outside the door. It is difficult to see how this arrangement would be
harmful even to the ordinary prisoner. The modern cells are fitted with
electric light, the lamps of which have glass shades. The prisoners
are locked into these cells and pass the night without inspection. If
they intended suicide nothing would be easier than to break the glass
and open a vein with it. The lavatories contain no such easy implements
for suicide. The almost unanimous experience of our prisoners, and
of many ordinary prisoners with whom I have compared notes since my
release, is that prison life disorganises digestion. The unaccustomed
food, the many hours of sitting still, the want of air, the inability
to leave the cell except at stated times, and the great depression of
spirit, are all of them certain to produce digestive disorders. Bread
is the staple food of prisoners. The prison brown bread is excellent
in quality and in nutritive properties to those who can digest it,
but to most moderns, of whatever class or sex, it is an unaccustomed
food. To some people it is too coarse and acts as an irritant, while
producing the opposite effect on others. The white bread of the
hospital, also excellent of its kind, though not so irritating, is also
not easily digested because of the stagnant life and small quantity
of vegetables or butter allowed. The part played by the drug-basket
in prison routine, and the surprise of its attendant if purgatives
were not required, is proof sufficient that prison conditions in this
matter are abnormal. The cells are supplied with tin chambers fitted
with a lid which can be used in an emergency, but the close atmosphere
of the cells makes this extremely undesirable to people trained in any
sense of cleanliness. Every cell has an electric bell for summoning
a wardress, but frequently no notice is taken of such a summons, and
the bells are often out of order and do not work. Many of our Suffrage
prisoners have had their health permanently impaired, some have had to
undergo operations, as a result of the prison life in these respects.
From the writings of ordinary prisoners and from what I have heard from
them direct, digestive disorders seem to be common to most prisoners.
My own comparative immunity I ascribe to the following precautions:
Doing physical exercises twice or three times a day, saving potatoes
from the midday dinner so that I had some vegetable food at every
meal; keeping my allowance of bread until it was stale; the extra milk
and butter allowed to vegetarians; the freedom from drug taking made
possible by these precautions; the privileges extended to me in the
way of occasional permission to leave my cell out of the drill routine
limitations.
After we had returned to our cells the Matron came to visit me. I
reported the fact that I was wearing my nightgown under my day clothes.
She said I could not be allowed to do this without special permission
from the medical officer. I accordingly put in “an application” to see
him the next day.
I think there must be something of Asiatic origin in me, for, contrary
to Western customs, I never feel that meals are a suitable time for
conviviality, but, on the contrary, that eating should be in solitude.
I enjoyed the change to the cell routine in this respect. It was good
to have always the same drinking mug, the cleaning of which I had
done myself, and I was glad to be rid of the hospital tablecloth,
for this was changed only once a week, and the over-filled dishes of
fish and vegetables, as well as tea and milk, left their mark upon
it abundantly, so that during the last days of the week it presented
anything but an appetising appearance. In the cells, milk was poured
into my own pint mug, vegetables were served in an unpolished tin which
looked very dirty and sometimes smelt objectionably, but the potatoes
were in their skins and I ate of the vegetables only that part which
did not touch the tin. A tin plate and spoon were provided in the
cells, and a curious piece of tin, oblong in shape, doubled over up one
side to make a rounded surface and corrugated on the other to make an
uneven saw-like edge, was handed in with the meal to serve as knife.
This I used as it was put out again with the empty tins, but I soon
learned that if the plate and spoon were greased with food it was very
difficult to get them clean again, as they can only be washed in cold
water. The pail of water allowed to stand in the cell quickly became
greasy itself, and there was no time, when let out to the tap to draw
water, to wash up these things at the sink. I therefore used some of
the freely supplied brown toilet paper to cover my plate and helped
myself with my fingers instead of the spoon as they were much easier
to wash. We were allowed a small supply of hot water at the same time
that supper, consisting of hot milk and bread, was brought round. It
was rather a trial that under conditions where luxuries were scarce,
two should be supplied together in a way to make the full enjoyment
of them both impossible. I preferred a hot wash to a hot supper and
performed my ablutions first.
I had hoped that having left hospital I should be allowed to sleep
in the dark, but it was a disappointment to find I was still an
“observation case” because of my “heart disease.” I did not sleep much
and when morning came I felt strangely tired, but supposed it was due
to the unusual excitement of rejoining my companions and of having
at last attained to “the other side.” One of the hospital patients
had kindly given me elaborate instructions as to the mysterious and
dexterous craft of bed-rolling in the cells. As the failure to achieve
this correctly was a frequent cause of reproof and as the instructions
given by wardresses were often inadequate I was very grateful for
this special training. I remember that the patient, Mrs. Manson, of
the Freedom League, was reading George Elliot’s “Mill on the Floss,”
and it was on the cover of this book that she elaborated to me the
furniture of the cell, where each thing should be placed and how the
bedding was to be folded, then rolled into a kind of Swiss-roll coil.
In the cells the mattress is stuffed with some kind of chaff, a not
uncomfortable form of bedding if not stuffed too full. But mine was
a new one, it seemed filled to its utmost capacity, so that it was
as hard as a pincushion to lie upon, and it was only after repeated
efforts, requiring my utmost strength for about fifteen minutes, that
I succeeded at last in curling it up and buttoning it together in the
required fashion. I was sufficiently exhausted after doing this to
necessitate a long pause before I started afresh on the folding of
the sheets and blankets which had to be done with minute exactness.
Much more prolonged physical labours in hospital had never produced
this effect upon me even during the first days when my heart was
in an actively disturbed state. I wondered whether there was some
health-maiming condition in this much-yearned-after “other side” which
had really justified my retention in hospital. I then remembered the
ventilation system of the cells against which Suffragette prisoners
had made such a determined stand. The Governor and doctors had never
once mentioned this lack of air in the cells as among their reasons
for keeping me out of them, but now I became convinced that this was
the cause of my faintness. Beyond a general feeling of what might be
described as extreme slackness I did not notice anything peculiar
until I exerted myself, but then the absolutely stagnant quality of
the atmosphere seemed to overwhelm me. The window had no opening of
any kind, the sixteen small panes of glass in their wooden framework
were hermetically sealed. There were three ventilators in all, but on
placing my hand upon them there was no feeling whatever of a current
of air. The window was not fogged, so proving that the air was not yet
vitiated to that degree, but whatever the scientific diagnosis of the
results of this ventilation, there could be no doubt to an occupant of
the cell that it was difficult to breathe in it after the eleven or
twelve hours of close confinement.[7]
FOOTNOTE: [7] In the Report of the Commissioners of Prisons for
the year ending March 31, 1911 (Part I.), the Surveyor of Prisons
tells that: “The provision of opening panes and clear glass in cell
windows has been continued ... another two years’ work (if funds are
forthcoming) should complete the prisons.” Two years to wait--and for
want of money from the richest exchequer in the world! But they would
have waited much longer if it had not been for the Suffragettes.
During the morning, following on my “application,” I was visited by
the medical officer. I put the request, as ordered by the Matron, of
wearing my nightgown in the day time. He turned to the wardress and
said, “What an extraordinary request to put before a doctor. That
has nothing to do with me.” I explained that the leaving off of this
garment would probably affect my health injuriously, but as it was
contrary to prison discipline a doctor’s permit was required. He made
some contemptuous remarks, but, when pressed, reluctantly gave his
consent. This seems a very trifling incident as I record it here,
but I vividly remember how it seemed another link in the chain of
degradation which is forged afresh continuously around every prisoner.
Some exceptional treatment becomes necessary, one is ordered to apply
for it through some particular channel, on application the prisoner is
refused, reproved or laughed at, as if this were a fresh instance of
misdeed or foolishness. In this instance I reminded the doctor that the
authorities were anxious that my health should be good at my release,
and that in making this request I was assisting them, otherwise I
should prefer to go without a privilege which would not be extended
equally to all prisoners under like conditions. I had intended bringing
forward the question of ventilation, but felt that it would be useless
to appeal to this particular official, who had invariably treated all
my requests as unreasonable. On looking back after my release on this
man’s conduct, it has occurred to me that possibly he adopted his
attitude towards me from a righteous indignation at the orders for
specially favourable treatment which were ordered for my case from
headquarters. I have heard from other Suffragette prisoners and also
from ordinary prisoners of his considerate kindness to them on several
occasions. I afterwards told the Chief Medical Officer about the
airlessness of these cells, I think with some effect.
We were exercised in the morning, not in the afternoon as from the
hospital. It was a moment of great delight to see my companions in the
yard, where I had a better view of them than at associated labour. We
were exercised in sections of about sixteen at a time for an hour, in
the central yard of the prison, as it seemed, a triangular yard flanked
by high walls of the oldest blocks of cells and adjoining the high
central tower, which enables Holloway prison to stand as a landmark
for many miles distant. It can be seen from the Great Northern Railway
on the line between Holloway and Finsbury Park Stations. I never
look at it without recalling the sensations that gripped my soul and
checked my breath when I first set eyes on this inner yard. It seemed
the quintessence of prison, the very heart of it. The length of each
side of the rough, triangular formation is, I should think, about
twenty-four feet. The walls facing south-west and east are very high,
so that a deep shadow lies across the yard at all hours; on the right,
as we entered from D X, is a low walled building used apparently, for
cooking and laundry purposes and facing south. This seems to be a
more modern erection, and from its low, single-storey construction is
responsible for most of the sunlight allowed to enter the enclosure.
The remarkable feature of the yard, which caused the first feeling of
horror that has remained a nightmare in my mind ever since, is the
tier upon tier of cell shutters, they could not be called windows, in
the two high walls giving on to the yard. They are designed to let in
the very minimum of light or air, the shuttered layers of wood are,
moreover, coated with refuse of the pigeons which fly freely about the
yard, and are in every other respect a great delight to prisoners.
The prison from here looks like a great hive of human creeping things
impelled to their joyless labours and unwilling seclusion by some
hidden force, the very reverse of natural, and which has in it no
element of organic life, cohesion, or self-sufficing reason. A hive of
hideous purpose from which flows back day by day into the surrounding
city a stream of evil honey, blackened in the making and poisonous in
result. The high central tower seemed to me a jam pot, indicative of
the foul preserve that seethed within this factory for potting human
souls.
Sometimes, in momentary reaction from the pent-up feelings of
indignation and revolt, which were chronic with me during my
imprisonments, I could have laughed out loud at the imbecility and
pathos of human fallibility, that civilised (?) educated beings could
continue such processes by way of ridding themselves from the dangers
and active harmfulness of crime. Wardresses stood at different points
of the yard. Whenever in our march round there was a tendency for
the single file to draw closer together, the wardresses would say
nothing, but catch hold of one of us by the arm until the spacing was
again correct. This handling of prisoners instead of appealing to
their ordinary intelligence was typical of the mistaken routine, as in
hospital, imposed upon prison officials.
Once, to my delight, I recognised among these superintending wardresses
one who had been with us, and exceptionally kind, in hospital. I hoped
that she would manage somehow to give me news of Mrs. Pethick Lawrence
and possibly also of my friend with the injured leg, whose fate I
thought must surely have filtered through to the wardresses. For some
days no opportunity occurred, although this officer smiled at me once
or twice with a friendly recognition that was quite unofficial, but
only at carefully chosen moments, showing that such a smile would not
be allowed by higher authorities. At last, when I purposely crowded up
rather near to the prisoner ahead of me, she took the opportunity to
check my progress by putting her arm in front of me in the recognised
fashion, meanwhile telling me in a hasty whisper and without looking
at me, just as prisoners communicate, that Mrs. Lawrence was well, but
that Mrs. Macdonald had been found to have a fractured hip-joint and
would have to stay in hospital a long while.
Although my cell was considerably warmer than that in the hospital,
I still had not grown accustomed to the insufficiency of my
underclothing, and as now there was no worse condition of things ahead
of me I put into use the strip of flannel that had been given me for
knee-binders. I found that either they slipped off immediately or had
to be bound so tight that they impeded circulation and the free use of
the limbs. As one had to be constantly kneeling down for bed making,
etc., this device proved quite impracticable. Fearing lest fresh
suggestion on my part would have to be passed by a series of officials
and finally submitted to the judgment of a doctor who might, as in
the nightgown question, satirically exclaim that this was a point not
suitable to put to him, I took advantage of the light that was left
on all night, and during the uninspected hours sewed the strips of
flannel on to the flannel drawers; this enabled me to tuck them into
the stockings knickerbocker-wise.
The chaplain kindly came to visit me and remained for quite a long
talk. He is the only male prison official who visits the prisoners
without an attendant, the Governor and Deputy Governor being
accompanied generally by the Matron, and the medical officer by
a hospital attendant or wardress. He told me that many prisoners
after release wrote to him with gratitude for his kindness and help;
nevertheless he seemed to me to have but little fellow-feeling for
the flocks he shepherded in Holloway. I appealed to him, in a way
I had not been able to do within hearing of the other patients in
the hospital, about the case of Mrs. Macdonald. I told how it seemed
to me an instance of the way in which prison officials left to
themselves could not possibly have shown such brutality and neglect
as was actually the case, had not the tradition of the prison system
exacted a lower standard of conduct than was natural. I summed up the
special grievances--her being made to walk across the yard, to walk
up the three flights of stairs, being left a whole day in her cell
before being conveyed to hospital, the refusal of the doctors to use
the X-rays for investigation in the first instance, the contempt with
which they had ignored the suggestions of this unusually intelligent
woman, the refusal to allow her to see a doctor from outside when she
was dissatisfied with their diagnosis, in spite of the fact that she
could not in any sense be regarded as a criminal, having been charged
for “obstruction” only when on a perfectly peaceable deputation to the
House of Commons. The difficulties put in the way of her communication
with her husband relative to her release. The cruel, needless
physical suffering as well as mental worry which such treatment had
entailed, perhaps resulting in maiming her for life. He had no word of
sympathy to offer in connection with this case, and when I compared
the treatment with that meted out to myself, when much greater
consideration was shown with much less need, he took the official line
that all that was done by officials must be right, and that his own
wife had had a similar fall, some friends had advised X-rays, others
had said they would be useless. Nothing was done, the injury turned
out to be slight and her recovery had been complete. At the time he
was using such arguments to me, it was already known that in Mrs.
Macdonald’s case the hip-joint had been fractured.
I know that it is a very serious matter to tell of these things in a
published book. I shall be reminded that officials are unable to answer
back or to defend themselves in public. It must, however, be remembered
that prisoners are in a yet more defenceless position, and that having
personally witnessed and experienced the effect on prisoners of certain
kinds of official infallibility, it is a matter of conscience to speak
out. But in all these instances it is the bad tradition, the wrong
standard of conduct exacted, not the personal character of officials,
that has to be attacked. This chaplain, given ordinary surroundings,
would no doubt be according to his light a well-meaning, and according
to his powers a well-doing man. If his work were in a West End parish
or in a rural district among people whom he genuinely revered, I can
conceive that his sympathy and understanding would be considerable.
The blame of his attitude towards prisoners should rest on those who
selected him for a prison job and on the many elements responsible for
a system which instils contempt for the prisoner as a fundamental tenet
of the prison official. I was told by a fellow-prisoner, a Suffragette,
who on admission had entered her religious beliefs under the title
“atheist,” that this chaplain several times discussed religious
matters with her in a spirit of tolerant reverence for points of view
differing from his own. The combination of the two offices, priest
and prison official, seem to be almost incompatible, anyhow while the
prison system rests upon its present basis. It would be more suitable
if religious and moral teachers could come into the prison solely as
representatives of the ethical bodies they represent. They could then
offer their spiritual guidance and consolations to the unfortunate
inmates, as they would to free individuals, without in any way
compromising the “system” or the officials who have to carry it out.
On Sunday we were allowed to go to Holy Communion. This impressed one
very strangely. An attempt was made to treat one more freely, combined
with many of the same restrictions as at other times. There were about
ten or twelve women altogether, of whom about six were Suffragettes. To
our great delight Mrs. Lawrence was one of them. It seemed ages since I
had left her, and I was delighted to see her again. The beautiful words
of the service were almost more than one could bear, and every one of
them seemed to contain freedom. It seemed as if we must be holding
it privately among ourselves. “Drink ye all of this, for this is My
Blood of the New Testament, which is shed for you and for many for the
remission of sins: Do this as oft as ye shall drink it, in remembrance
of Me.” Yet there was the wardress with her face from which neither
good nor bad could be told, neither kind nor unkind, and the face of
the parson which seemed of the very nature of officialdom. After the
service we left the chapel by different doors, Mrs. Lawrence’s batch
and ours, and we did not see each other again.
The next morning when we were returning, through the many halls of the
building, single file, our huge boots ringing out on the stone floor,
at one door a hospital superintendent stood and said to each one as she
passed: “Any application for the doctor?” When it came to my turn, I
saw that it was my friend from the hospital, but no look of recognition
betrayed itself in her face. She put out her arm to stop me and wheeled
me round to the back. When several others had passed her she turned to
me, began quickly undoing my dress and said rapidly, but with still
no look of recognition: “Well, have you been all right?” “Oh, yes,”
I said, “but surely you are not going to look at it here?” She made
no answer, but began to inspect me even more quickly. I insisted on
turning my back on the long file which seemed never to end. She asked
kindly questions, and said she would come and see the other wound that
afternoon. She did not come, however, but sent one of the younger
superintendents. She came once in the early morning, and it was very
nice to see her again; it was the last time.
On one of the latter days a girl was wrongfully accused of laughing in
chapel, and confined to her cell in consequence the following day. It
is possible that someone was guilty of this. The severity which some
of the wardresses used at chapel seated above the prisoners, one at
every two or three rows, their backs to the altar and their attention
completely taken up with the prisoners, gave one a strange sensation
in church; it took away all reverence of the usual kind, and made
one nervous and possibly inclined to laugh. But, as it happened, the
girl punished for this offence was far removed from the possibility
of laughing. She was one of those I had noticed with particularly long
hair; it must have reached below her knees. We had come away together
once from an Albert Hall meeting in a four-wheel cab when I had been
lucky in securing it, and a wet evening made me invite strangers who
were anxious to get away. She was particularly deferential and modest
in her ways, her manner in chapel was irreproachable, and that she
was picked out for punishment was most singularly ill-judged. We
volunteered punishment of the same order as hers, and neither chapel,
exercise, nor concerted labour had the benefit of us during the day.
The last days were spent in burning excitement. Nothing that I can
say will explain the feeling I had that I was going to be free once
more. The food, the clothes, the getting up at 5.30 a.m., these
were bad enough, but they were as nothing compared to the incessant
brutal treatment of the official manner, as with Mrs. Macdonald more
especially, but also with Mrs. Duval, Miss Lawless, and others; in the
constantly being ordered about and spoken to as if one had no feelings
or perceptions, there was nothing but an extreme severity of manner
without the smallest variation. On the third or fourth day before our
last, someone had a visitor while we were at associated labour. On her
return along the line she said to me: “A speech is expected of you;
they hope great things of you at the feast.” My heart gave one bound.
This meant release without a doubt, but a speech! How was it such a
thing was expected of me? “I’ll simply tell some of the things that
take place here,” I thought, and I felt that this was necessary.
The morning of March 24 we were released. My excitement was great, I
had not slept, and from 4.30 onwards it was impossible to keep quiet.
At 5.30 we were called in the regulation way and towards 7 we were
taken down to other cells. I was put into one with a stranger whom I
had not seen before. She was a servant, a lady’s maid, who had left her
last place, or, rather, they had left her, because of her opinions.
She had determined to go in for the Deputation, although probably it
would mean that she got no place again.[8] The cell where we were was
dirty and smelt horribly, but I said nothing, hoping that my companion
would not notice it. She soon did, however, for the smell nearly made
her faint. I was given a packet of letters--a large heap from friends
and strangers all the world over. At the head of the telegrams was a
two-sheet one from our baker in the country, sent off the moment I was
a prisoner, addressed to “The Castle where Suffragettes are confined,
Holloway,” most anxious about my food, and might he send the special
bread he always made for me! I read my mother’s letter again and again;
it was all kindness, and I could hardly wait to see her. We were
arranged in a long, close file, in the same order in which we had been
ushered in, and put to stand in the big gateway. I never knew what it
was that kept us, but there we stood for nearly an hour. A wardress or
two were watching us, and we were not allowed to move. At last the big
doors were unbolted, we were half pushed from where we stood, we were
out in the open--we were free. My sister and her eldest girl and boy
had somehow gained permission to come within the outer gates. I saw
them and forgot all else. There was no release-breakfast feast; we were
told that we were to meet that evening at the Inns of Court Hotel and
make our speeches there.
FOOTNOTE: [8] I heard afterwards that the married daughter of the
lady she was last with had taken her gladly and at once.
Some days had passed when I went back to the prison. I thought I should
be glad to get within reach of the ordinary prisoner, I in no way
dreaded it. I had more to find out about X., the 3rd Division prisoner
of the hospital. But, strangely enough, when I saw the big tower of
Holloway, that looked quite different from anything else, and which
brought back the inevitable picture of the women that go in, are kept
in durance, and let out again to a life more horribly unnatural, I felt
my legs begin to shake, and by the time I was shown in to the Governor,
who kindly saw me, it was all I could do to walk upstairs. I could not
see X.; they said that someone else had been to visit her that month. I
got in touch with her case through the Prisoners’ Aid Society but they
said that she was being “attended to” by another lady.
I went again to Holloway the morning that X. was to be released. Her
freedom was due at 8 a.m. Two women and her little boy were waiting for
her, they had kept the boy from all harm during the long months of her
imprisonment. They didn’t know where she was going to live, or what
she would do, they had heard nothing from her. Soon after eight the
great doors swung open, and the prisoners for that morning were let
out, but there was no X., among them. I inquired at the door, but they
would give no information there. After waiting another three-quarters
of an hour I put in an appeal to see the Governor. The little boy of
four years old had waited more than an hour outside, I had petitioned
for him and one of the women to wait inside, but in vain. I was shown
up to the Governor, who kindly saw me and made inquiries for me about
X.’s case. She was booked to go out that morning, but was waiting for
her uncle, a well-to-do man, to take her away. I said her little boy
was there, might he not spend the time with her, as she would be taking
him away. The answer was “No.” The Governor said it was a case in which
the Chaplain and a lady visitor had taken a special interest, that he
knew very little about it. He asked me very kindly to wait in his room,
but as he had nothing more to tell me I went back to the women outside.
They told me more fully about X. She seems to have been in every way a
good and hard-working woman. She had killed her child, knowing that it
would be impossible to keep it alive. The man, the father, lived in the
same street, but now he had gone, they did not know where. They hoped
that she would come back and live where she had been before, but they
feared the rich uncle, a publican. X. had been to live with him and her
aunt when quite a young girl, but they had insisted that she must tout
the men for them, and engage in illegal intercourse as an attraction.
She had run away, and would not live with them. At her trial the uncle
had been called in, and he, being a Citizen of London, had kindly
managed that she should be tried only for concealment of birth. He had
done well for her at the trial, but now they feared he would get hold
of her again. My feelings were indeed torn when I had to tell them the
Governor’s news. They had kept the child without help from anybody,
sometimes it was a very hard thing, but they had always kept it in
good health. Presently a tall man came by and went into the prison.
About a quarter of an hour after he came out. X. was with him. She
walked head down, her face in tears. Scarcely knowing what she did, she
advanced towards her little boy, stretched out both arms and gave him
a passionate embrace. He had rushed towards her calling out “Mother!”
Then, sobbing as if her heart would break, she followed the man to the
public-house opposite. The two women made as if they would follow her,
and I slipped into her hand a letter I had written in case I did not
see her. The man then rounded on the women, and driving them away with
his hand, said: “Keep away, we don’t want you--your money shall be paid
you all right,” and he fled along the pavement, taking X. by the arm.
We went and had some belated breakfast at a shop. I took the address of
the women and the little boy, but I unfortunately lost it when I was
abroad. I had given them mine, but I have never heard of them from that
day.
I went abroad with my mother, and in the meanwhile things happened
apace in England. The deputations, in ever-increasing numbers,
succeeded one another with imprisonments of two or three months. The
officials treated all the deputations with the utmost indifference.
Miss Wallace Dunlop wrote up on the walls of the House of Commons:
“Women’s Deputation, June 29. Bill of Rights. It is the right of all
subjects to petition the King. All commitments and prosecutions for
such petitioning are illegal.” This is one of the most fundamental laws
of Great Britain, but the vote has rendered it unnecessary for men. For
this she was given one month’s imprisonment, and she it was who began
the hunger strike, and was let free after four days. For several months
succeeding prisoners followed Miss Dunlop’s fine example, and the Home
Secretary, Mr. Herbert Gladstone, let them out after four or five
days, some of them were kept five or six days. When they were let out
they were released unconditionally. Towards the middle of September,
Mr. Gladstone thought that he would make another move and, instead of
releasing them, he had them fed by force in the prisons. The horror
this created was at first small, for there were but few people who
realised what it meant. I shall never forget the impression that it
made on me.