NEWCASTLE PRISON: MY SECOND IMPRISONMENT
The next morning, Monday, October 11, we got up early, with a sense
of excitement that we were to be “tried.” We were allowed to wash in
a basin arrangement all together. The water was cold, but clean and
fresh. The roll towel was horrible, I have never seen anything so
dirty--blood had freely been wiped upon it. Nothing could surpass the
kindness and civility of the wardresses. One, who thought only of the
hunger-strike, cried as we left. We were then led off to the cells
upstairs, which were rather cleaner and much lighter. A man came to
mend something outside my window; it was open and I could see out by
two or three square inches. He looked in at me with great curiosity,
but without ill-will. I had the policeman’s pencil still, and wrote
on a paper to hand up to him that he should not be afraid of the
Suffragettes, but help them to get the vote. I was still thinking about
it when the police began to rattle the keys, so I refrained, although
it was some time before they came to fetch me.
They led us forth to the other side of the building where the court
was. We waited in a passage underneath it, and were led up in turns to
the prisoner’s box. The others, who had done nothing but break glass,
were sentenced to the 3rd Division and hard labour for fourteen days,
and some a month, without any option. Mrs. Brailsford and I were both
given the alternative of being bound in money sureties for a year.
In reality, this offered us no alternative, but in the estimation of
the magistrate, I, who had done deliberately most harm, was given the
option of going free, while the others, who were many of them younger
than I was, first offenders and all had done much less damage than I
had, were prisoners beyond their recall.
When it was my turn, I was prepared for the three charges I had seen
on the paper the day before. First came the charge of assault on Sir
Walter Runciman. I said that I did not know it was Sir Walter Runciman
in the car, and that I threw the stone low down, so that it should not
hit the chauffeur or anyone. They did not take up this charge. Then
came the charge of damage, at which I was well pleased. But the man
facing the magistrate, the clerk, who conducts most of the affairs in
several courts I have been into, would not let this charge come on.
He said that I had evidently not intended the damage to the car, and
that part of the case was dismissed. I tried to tell him that I had no
concern for the motor-car, and, though I didn’t know how a stone so
small could have done so much harm, I was not in the least concerned
over the £4 worth of damage, but he would not let me speak and passed
on to the third charge, “disorderly behaviour in a public place.” I put
in, with a loud voice, “My disorderly behaviour of throwing a stone
with violence in a public place was deliberate and intentional.” After
this, they could not but go on with it, since the whole court had heard
what I had said. They apparently treated me as a lunatic, and began to
ask if it was through not knowing what I was doing that I had thrown a
stone? “If I had not known what I was about to do, I should not have
held a stone in my hand,” I answered.
I had made up my mind, at one time of the trial, that I would deny the
tales that had circulated about the Suffragettes and Mr. Lloyd George’s
children. It had been said that we tried to kidnap them, that we had
wished for their illness, and all kinds of invented evil. Who are the
Suffragettes that they should make war on children? If the child of Mr.
Lloyd George were ill or in any way suffering, we were sorry, we were
sympathetic, as with every other child, and we were sad for him as the
loving father of that child. I tried to speak, when I first was called
on, and repeatedly afterwards, but I was always stopped and could
get no innings. Finally, the magistrates convicted me of “disorderly
behaviour with intent to disturb the peace,” and bound me over,
myself in the sum of £50 and two sureties of £25 each, to be enforced
for twelve months; in default, one month’s imprisonment in the 2nd
Division. I, of course, had no option of finding sureties for twelve
months, and was sentenced to the month’s imprisonment. My companion,
Miss Davison, was dismissed, as she had literally done nothing.
Mrs. Brailsford, who had struck at the barricade with an axe, was also
given the option of being bound over, which she, of course, refused,
with the alternative of a month’s imprisonment in the 2nd Division. She
had not, as I had, committed any offence before. She was a splendid
woman who had gone out to help with the Macedonian relief fund in
1903. She had fed the hungry and nursed the sick and wounded until she
contracted typhus fever. The whole “trial” was unworthy of the name--it
was a device whereby Mrs. Brailsford and I should be separated from the
others and treated with more respect, I having been the only one to do
a glaring act and an, apparently, harmful or greatly risky one. The
others, without exception, were treated to the 3rd Division.
We were put again into a van, but had only a short way to drive.
We were shown into a passage of the prison where the governor came
and spoke to us. He was very civil, and begged us not to go on the
hunger-strike. Then the Matron came, a charming and very refined woman,
who walked with a stick, being lame. Miss Davison had headed our
little band of twelve; when she was dismissed, Miss Dorothy Pethick,
Mrs. Pethick Lawrence’s youngest sister, was our head and spoke for
us. Her face had all the beauty that freshness, youth and grace could
give it, and with it all for her age--she was twenty-seven--there was
a wonderful strength about it. She spoke civilly to the Governor, but
in a very determined way. He could not do enough for us. “Don’t break
your windows--please don’t break your windows.” “We will not break
them if they can open. You must understand that we have come here, not
to please ourselves; we have pleaded for windows to open in the cells
through two years in vain. Now we break the glass to make more sure. It
is for the poor things who are shut up in these little cells for weeks
and months at a time. Whether they know it or not, their bodies know
it--it is all that is bad for them to sleep and live in a room supposed
to be ventilated, without a window, and to be given a book telling them
elaborately how a window may be kept open in all weathers by placing a
board in front of it on a slant, will not make things any better. And
what is more, if you feed us by force, we shall break every window we
can lay hands on.” “Very well,” said the Governor, “choose your own
cells; come round and see.” Then, with the Governor and Matron, we
went round. Several cells were shown to us. We were left in some that
were small but new--the windows did not open. Finally, Mrs. Brailsford
and I were taken to different cells on the ground floor where we were
separated completely from the others. We were allowed to have our doors
open all the time, and some iron gates only shut us in. Compared with
Holloway, their good manners made a great difference, but the kindness
about the cells was mostly put on; at least, they had not windows
that opened, so they could do little. Mrs. Brailsford and I had cells
next door to each other, we spoke together frequently all day. The
wardresses were dear northern women, affectionate in their ways. The
Matron we found to be even more charming than she looked. She took Mrs.
Brailsford and me for exercise, and we talked to her nearly the whole
time. She was quite a Suffragette and understood our rebellion.
There was no attempt to put us into prison clothes; we had small
packages of things with us. My underclothes were not all that one
could wish after two days and nights in the police-station cells. They
were amongst other things covered with fleas, and I had at my trial,
and on various occasions, become exceedingly hot, which, now that the
hunger-strike had begun, was exchanged for extreme cold. The prospect
of a month in them as they were was extremely undesirable. I wrote to
the Home Secretary, as I was told this was the only means, but I knew
that anything I asked for from him might as well be let alone.
The first day, Tuesday, was fairly fine. At exercise in the morning
we looked around and we noticed some broken glass windows. We shouted
“Votes for Women, Hurrah! Hurrah!” but were not sure of any response.
They had put our companions, of two days before us, into the punishment
cells. We were scarcely back in our cells before there were hasty
footsteps; they slammed our doors shut, we could only dimly hear the
steps as they passed our cells and then above. Soon after we heard
shrieks, always coming from the same direction. It seemed as if the
others were being fed by force. During about half an hour the sounds
were terrible. Then the doctors, two of them, came to us. They had on
white jackets, as if they had just come from an operation, as indeed
they had. I said to them, “You have been feeding our friends by force?”
One of them answered, “Well, yes, we were bound to have a food trial
with one or two of them.” They felt my pulse, first one, then the
other; they felt it over again, then they went out. Mrs. Brailsford and
I discussed the feeding of our friends, which had sounded most awful;
we did not know what to do. We had, of course, not touched any food
since our breakfast in the police-station cells. We ourselves had met
with nothing but kindness.
The knotting in my stomach from lack of food was fairly painful by the
second night. Whenever I fell asleep I woke with my knees curled under
my chin. I had also a great aching in my back, probably through fatigue
and the plank bed in the police-station. The night wardress was very
kind to me. I asked once if she couldn’t come in and rub my back just a
little. “Why, my dear, the gate’s locked and I have nae got the key.”
Mrs. Brailsford said she felt well in every way, save that she could do
nothing but think of the other prisoners who were being fed by force.
When we walked round the exercise yard on Wednesday morning it was
snowing hard. It made me think of Robert Buchanan’s poem, “The Ballade
of Judas Iscariot.”
“’Twas the wedding guests cried out within,
And their eyes were fierce and bright--
‘Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
Away into the night!’
“The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he waved hands still and slow,
And the third time that he waved his hands
The air was thick with snow.
“And of every flake of falling snow
Before it touched the ground,
There came a dove, and a thousand doves
Made sweet doves’ sound.
“’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Floated away full fleet,
And the wings of the dove that bore it off
Were like its winding-sheet.
“’Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door
And beckon’d, smiling sweet;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stole in, and fell at his feet.”
As I looked upon that dreary scene I saw the prison walls, the cell
windows, looking more like tiny shutters, the infinitesimal small
windows of the punishment cells in the ground below where we were. The
Matron stood on a ledge above us. She was considerate and kind in all
her ways. We were either alone and quite unguarded or else she was with
us. One evening, when a wardress was letting me back into my cell, I
heard the most melancholy sound of a woman calling out to herself again
and again, in a tone of uttermost misery. As always, I thought, in a
prison, no one answered her, no one said anything. Presently there came
the Matron’s consoling voice. Very gently I heard it on the floor above
ours, it sounded almost like a mother’s voice: “Oh! there is that poor
woman again. Can’t you some of you go and comfort her?” And some one
did, for all was quiet after that. I watched at my gate all day, and
was pleased to notice that the prisoners who worked outside the cells
moved happily, ran about with a springing step and seemed like ordinary
servants about their work. How different this was from Holloway!
The first morning the Chaplain came to visit me. He was a
pleasant-looking man, with a fine beard. He laughed as he told me he
was the father of fifteen children; he said this as he left. I longed
to tell him I hoped that he had had at least two wives to bring them
into the world!
The second morning, Wednesday, October 13, when the doctors came, I
stood in the corner of my cell with my arms crossed and my fingers
caught in my nostrils and my mouth. It was the best position I knew
of for them not to be able to feed me by nose or mouth without having
first a considerable struggle. They came, and after I saw that they had
no tube I came out from my corner and let them both look at my heart.
They thumped, each of them in turn, and felt my pulse as well. Then
they appeared to be agreed and went out. I said to them, “You seemed
to be puzzled by my heart; I can tell you about it if you like.” But
they had made up their minds about something, and did not want any help
from me. Later in the day they came in again with another man in their
company. I was again in the corner, my hands in my mouth and nose, but
they brought no feeding things. At first I thought the third man was
another prison official; but soon, from the way they talked to him, I
gathered that he was an outside doctor, apparently from London. He was
very civil. He tapped my heart repeatedly and then brought out a tube,
which at first I thought was a feeding tube, but it was only another
way of testing the heart. He was about a quarter of an hour or twenty
minutes over the whole thing, then they went out.
As I had no answer from the Home Office, though I had written on the
Monday of my arrival in the prison, I thought I would begin to wash
some of my things, as the doctors would not come back unless to feed
me, and that would be nearer six o’clock. I washed my brush and a
few other things in the large pail of my cell, then asked if I might
empty it, and as I did this, I held the things some seconds under the
tap. It was only cold water, of course, but I was glad of even that.
I then put them on the chair to dry as best they might, and lay down
on my plank bed, for the pain in my back was terrible, when a wardress
came in and announced that I was released, because of the state of my
heart! Though this was fairly evident from the visit of the outside
doctor, I had not realised it. I gathered my things together and went
out. I called to Mrs. Brailsford; she was released too. We were put
to wait in the Governor’s room; he was not there. We wondered if we
were the only two to be released, and if so, why not the others? How
about the heart of Nurse Pitman, who was close on sixty, or of Miss
Brown, who had only just been released from a recent hunger-strike!
Mrs. Brailsford had seen a doctor before she came on this expedition
to Newcastle, and he had declared her absolutely sound in every way,
so we did not know why she was released, except for the fact that she
was, through her husband, closely connected with Liberal journalism and
herself had the noblest reputation for public service in Macedonia. I
had heart disease, though only slightly; it had been marked in me since
the Deputation on which I had been to the House of Commons, at the
beginning of this year. But I was not in so bad a condition as either
Nurse Pitman or Miss Brown. After a time the news came that we were
the only two released! Poor Mrs. Brailsford was so overcome at this
news that she was unable to drink the glass of hot milk that was given
to us before we were let out. The Governor came back to his room. He
had always told us how keen he was for the vote, and he seemed very
glad for us that we were to be released. The cab was ready and we drove
away, I think at about 3.30 in the afternoon. It seemed appalling to go
and to leave the others in prison, to the hunger-strike and to forcible
feeding.
Nurse Pitman and Miss Brown were released the next day. It was not
possible to understand for what reason they should have been kept
twenty-four hours longer on hunger-strike than Mrs. Brailsford and
myself; the only reason that we could see was that our names were
known, theirs were not!
The only thing which made an impression on me, not told in the above,
was that once the wardress led me out to one of the lavatories. Just in
front of it a woman had been sick, and I was taken away to another. It
showed the great loneliness of prison life. There, in rows thickly set
all around me, were the cells, in each a prisoner. One had been taken
out immediately before I had, but she was put back and all the cells
were locked before I came. The mystery was intense, the silence, the
loneliness as great as they could be.
My sister, Betty Balfour, came from Scotland to see if she could do
anything to help me when she heard that I was in prison. She was
convinced that I should not be forcibly fed because of the state
of my heart, but that I should be let out after a day or two of
hunger-strike. It was delightful to be with her, and the next day we
travelled south together to my home.
In December I went to speak at Glasgow, and Dr. Marion Gilchrist
listened to my heart. This was her verdict: “I have examined Lady
Constance Lytton’s heart and find she has a chronic valvular lesion,
but it is acting well in spite of the fact that she has just undergone
great exertion.” She said it was easily understood why I had been let
out of Newcastle Prison.
[Illustration: Jane Warton]