CHAPTER IV
POLICE COURT TRIAL
In the morning we telephoned to mother, supposing she would have received my letter, telling her of the trial at Bow Street that morning, but begging her not to come up for it unless she specially wished to do so. This telephone message was, unfortunately, the first news that reached her of my arrest, and was a great shock to her. She could not have caught a train that would have brought her in time to Bow Street; my eldest sister, Betty Balfour, and my eldest brother, Vic, went down to her later in the day. I felt happier than I had done for a long time. I knew that the first news would be the worst to her, that had now reached her, all else would seem unimportant in comparison; the most difficult, most dreaded part of my job was over. I felt less ill in health than the day before, only played out. My one anxiety was lest I should break down physically and be dismissed from the prison at once “on medical grounds.” The wish to avoid this contingency was about as stimulating a tonic as could be desired. It had exactly the same happy effect upon me as some people seem to derive from a glass of brandy.
My sister, Betty Balfour, drove with me in a hansom to Bow Street. A considerable crowd was waiting outside the police station; we elbowed our way through them with great difficulty and only by the help of the police, to whom we appealed to ease matters “for one of the accused.” I felt dazed with the press of people. Before long I found myself in a sort of loose-box guard-room, or wide passage, where all my fellow criminals and many of their friends were assembled. Many of my personal friends were there and most heart-gladdeningly kind to me. I had concocted a short speech, explaining the reasons of my action. I was told it was not very likely that the magistrate would allow me to deliver it; my friends kindly helped me to condense it as much as possible. It consisted of about four short paragraphs, sentences bearing on the reasonableness, justice and urgency of our demand. I remember nothing of it but these words: “I have been more proud to stand by my friends in their trouble than I have ever been of anything in my life before.”
Presently there was a roll call and we were all told off to the various policemen who had taken us prisoners. I had been so exhausted at the moment of my capture the night before that I had not realised what sort of a human being underlay the helmet and uniform responsible for my arrest. In the morning I saw that he was a particularly pleasant-spoken and obliging man, who seemed to understand all about it from our point of view. He explained what I had to do. We were first congregated in a sort of waiting-room with a wooden bench round the wall, and then, as our time drew near, we were called out into a narrow passage where the particular policemen who were charging us stood facing us against the opposite wall. It looked as if we were vis à vis partners waiting for a country dance to strike up. We went into the court as our names were called. I was thankful that I knew a little of the hang of the business from having been present at the trial of Mrs. Pankhurst, Christabel Pankhurst and Mrs. Drummond. It is the absolutely unknown element in these kinds of ceremonies that adds considerably to their fearfulness. My name came rather early on the list. I was thankful that at least this time I had not to go into the awe-inspiring witness-box. Sir Albert de Rützen was the magistrate; he seemed old for the work. His manner throughout was querulous rather than dignified. The feeling of publicity and exposure struck me as completely odious; I was extremely nervous and rather dazed. I remember thinking, “If I feel like this, what must it be for the ordinary prisoners, whether guilty or not, who, day after day, file into this court?” I had a vague sense that friends were present amongst the crowd at the back of the court, but the mechanism of the official proceedings and the individuals who worked it seemed all at enmity with us—all, that is, except my partner the policeman. His look, manner and voice were so friendly that the set phrases in which he told of my conduct in Parliament Square and consequent arrest had a strangely incongruous and unreal ring about them. Not that he accused me of anything very terrible. He reported that I had pushed past him exclaiming, “I must see Mr. Asquith, I must get to Mr. Asquith.” I had never said anything of the kind, but no doubt, in the policeman’s estimation, this was a remark in keeping with my actions, and he thought it most probable that I had said words to that effect. I did not comment on the charge. It seemed all to be known and settled beforehand, and the processes which had to be got through seemed more or less farcical and unreal. When allowed to speak, I managed hastily to blurt out some of my speech, but I felt that nobody listened.
The sentence was one month, with the alternative of being bound over to “keep the peace.” I was immensely relieved that there was no fine. At the same time the length of the sentence was a surprise and somewhat of a shock, although I had prepared myself for it. It seemed hardly believable that what I had done was really considered worthy of four weeks in prison. I must, nevertheless, have heard, though the fact did not penetrate into my mind, that Miss Joachim and several others had, less than a year ago, been given three months for this crime of going on a deputation—they, like myself, were first offenders.
On leaving the court we were taken downstairs to the cells. Four or five of us were put together. I was in one with Miss Daisy Solomon, Miss Elsa Gye, my guide and friend of the day before, Miss Dugdale and a sympathetic young girl unknown to me. These cells are narrow compartments, unfurnished, except for a wide wooden bench running the entire length of one wall and terminating in a lavatory seat. This was unconcealed and without any means of drawing water from within the cell. It was periodically flushed with water by a pulley communicating with all the cells from outside. The door had a small grating of iron bars, through which one could look and speak to people outside. Many of our friends came by in the passage and spoke to us through this grille. They also brought us some sandwiches and fruit—very acceptable. This was the worst moment for the friends, and several mothers who came to say goodbye to their daughters must have left feeling very miserable. I felt thankful that my mother was not there. For me, it seemed the best moment for many a long day. My part was over, so far as initiative and activities were concerned, the rest required only enduring, always a much easier job to my lazy temperament. My sisters and youngest brother came to bid me goodbye. Some other friends came and said “Well done,” or words of that kind. Christabel Pankhurst came. She said “Thank you,” and seemed grateful for my share in the day’s work. This was a most unlooked-for honour and joy, from that moment I felt a very privileged and happy person. The sound of her voice and the look in her eyes remained stamped upon my mind, and played the part of a sort of talisman of consolation whenever the trials of my imprisonment weighed upon my spirits.
As for the physical hardships of prison, these had been the first items to be measured and prepared for when deciding to go on the Deputation; of all the anticipatory difficulties they had been the least, and it was a comfort to think that now, before long, one would know the worst in this respect. I felt considerably exhausted still from the battering about the day before, and I had a craving to be alone. Unlimited hours of “solitary confinement” were the most desirable paradise I could vision to myself.
It was a time of longer waiting than I had ever thought a single day could contain. Already one began to taste that peculiar feature, most markedly characteristic of the whole of prison life, that of being in ignorance of what is going on outside your cell, of why you are being kept there, and of what will happen to you when the keys jangle, bolts rattle, the door is thrown open and you are ordered out. We passed the time recommending to each other various dodges of how to keep in touch while in prison. Knocks on the cell walls with a brush or boot, and at the hour when the wardresses went to meals it was said to be possible to communicate by speaking on the hot water pipe, which runs through all the cells, at the point where it touches the wall. We were to maintain the right to talk to each other at associated labour. Mrs. Pankhurst had obtained the right to speak to her daughter when they were in prison together. Otherwise the silence rule, at all other times we were told, was very rigidly enforced. I showed my companions some leg and arm exercises which I urged them to do, so as to counteract the want of exercise and general stagnation of life which makes so many people ill in prison. We had great fun over this. We were all able to send messages and little scraps of letters to our relations. I was distressed that the stranger girl seemed to have no friends, and no one came to the grille to ask for her. It spoilt the pleasure of our visitors. She seemed of a very retiring and unassertive nature, and I did not like to make inquiries as to how we could help her communicate with her friends for fear that she had none. Happily, just before the passage was cleared of all visitors, three kind-looking women came to the window and she sprang up. They were her friends.
The courtesy of the police continued, and Christabel Pankhurst and a few others were allowed to remain talking to us for some time after the general public had been sent out of the passage communicating with the cells.