There is an axiom in prison, “The worse the woman, the better the prisoner.” As one goes about the prison, and observes those women who are permitted little privileged tasks, such as tidying the garden, cleaning the chapel, or any of the light and semi-responsible tasks which convicts like, one will notice the privileged are not, as a rule, the young or respectably brought up, but old, professional criminals. They know the rules of the prison, they spend the greater part of their lives there, and they know exactly how to behave so as to earn the maximum of marks; their object is to get out in the shortest possible time, and to have as light work as possible while they are in. The officers like them because they know their work without having to be taught. “There is no servant like an old thief,” I have heard it said. “They do good work.” This is quite typical of a certain kind of prisoner who is the mainstay of the prisons.
The conviction of young girls to penal servitude is shocking, for it destroys the chief power of prevention that prisons are supposed to possess, and accustoms the young criminal to a reality which has far less terror for her than the idea of it had. Prison life is entirely demoralizing to any girl under twenty years of age, and it is to prevent such demoralizing influence upon young girls that some more humane system of punishment should be enacted.
Self-Discipline
In saying a word on what is, perhaps, best described as “prison self-discipline,” I trust the reader will acquit me of any motive other than a desire that it may result in some sister in misfortune deriving benefit from a similar course. That the state of mind in which one enters upon the life of a convict has some influence on conduct—whether she does so with a consciousness of innocence or otherwise—should, perhaps, go without saying. Nevertheless, innocent or guilty, a proper self-respect can not fail to be helpful, be the circumstances what they may; and from the moment I crossed Woking’s grim threshold until the last day when I passed from the shadow and the gloom of Aylesbury into God’s free sunlight, I adhered strictly to a determination that I would come out of the ordeal—if ever—precisely as I had entered upon it; that no loving eyes of mother or friends should detect in my habits, manners, or modes of thought or expression the slightest deterioration.
Accordingly I set about from the very start to busy myself—and this was no small helpfulness in filling the dreary hours of the seemingly endless days of solitary confinement—keeping my cell in order and ever making the most of such scant material for adornment as the rules permitted. Little enough in this way, it may be imagined, falls to a convict’s lot. Indeed, the sad admission is forced that nearly every semblance of refinement is maintained at one’s peril, for “motives” receive small consideration in the interpretation of prison rules, however portentously they may have loomed in the process that placed an innocent woman under the shadow of the scaffold, and only by grace of a commutation turned her into a “life” convict.
Come what would, I was determined not to lose my hold on the amenities of my former social position, and, though I had only a wooden stool and table, they were always spotless, my floor was ever brightly polished, while my tin pannikins went far to foster the delusion that I was in possession of a service of silver.
Confinement in a cell is naturally productive of slothful habits and indifference to personal appearance. I felt it would be a humiliation to have it assumed that I could or would deteriorate because of my environment. I therefore made it a point never to yield to that feeling of indifference which is the almost universal outcome of prison life. I soon found that this self-imposed regimen acted as a wholesome moral tonic, and so, instead of falling under the naturally baneful influences of my surroundings, I strove, with ever-renewed spiritual strength, to rise above them. At first the difference that marked me from so many of my fellow prisoners aroused in them something like a feeling of resentment; but when they came to know me this soon wore off, and I have reason to believe that my example of unvarying neatness and civility did not fail in influencing others to look a bit more after their personal appearance and to modify their speech. At any rate, it had this effect: Aylesbury Prison is the training-school for female warders for all county prisons. Having served a month’s probation here, they are recommended, if efficient in enforcing the prison “discipline,” for transference to analogous establishments in the counties. It happened not infrequently, therefore, that new-comers were taken to my cell as the model on which all others should be patterned.
I partook of my meals, coarse and unappetizing as the food might be, after the manner I had been wont in the dining-room of my own home; and, though unseen, I never permitted myself to use my fingers (as most prisoners invariably did) where a knife, fork, or spoon would be demanded by good manners. Neither did I permit myself, either at table (though alone) or elsewhere, to fall into slouchy attitudes, even when, because of sickness, it was nearly impossible for me to hold up my head.
I speak of this because of the almost universal tendency among prisoners to mere animality. “What matters it?” is the general retort. Accordingly, the average convict keeps herself no cleaner than the discipline strenuously exacts, while all their attitudes express hopeless indifference, callous carelessness, to a degree that often lowers them to the behavior of the brutes of the field. The repressive system can neither reform nor raise the nature or habits of prisoners.