Prisons & Prisoners: Some Personal Experiences

by Lady Constance Lytton

When we arrived at the prison we formed up along a passage in the order of our arrest. We were taken in charge by two or three wardresses who, without a word or sign of greeting, went through the routine of taking our names, ages, sentences, etc. Then we were removed into waiting cells, three or four of us to each one. I found myself, to my joy, in a cell with our leader, Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, Miss Leslie Lawless and Mrs. Fahey, daughter of the great sculptor Gilbert. Strength came back into my bones with delight at being with Mrs. Lawrence. She having been in the prison before gave us various directions and advice. The cell was small and old, the walls and ceiling were dirty, the window of grained glass looked extremely dingy; but Mrs. Lawrence said that in all probability we should eventually be put into new and very clean cells. There was only one stool. Mrs. Lawrence had to sacrifice herself and sit on it, as we none of us would do so in her presence. We ranged ourselves at her feet on the floor, some of us leaning back against the wall. I was very happy to meet Mrs. Fahey, her father and mine had known one another; everything about her had the indication that she was a good woman and probably would become a great one.

I remember vaguely that conversation turned on to personal yarns as to how we had severally fared during the Deputation, what had first brought us into the movement, the experiences of ex-prisoners. We were to try and claim associated labour and the right to speak to each other at that time. All other rules so far as we could grasp them were to be rigidly observed. If anything in the prison routine seemed to us unjust we were to petition the Home Secretary about it, or ask for an interview with the Governor. If we were ill or felt that any part of the prison life was being seriously injurious to our health, we were to ask to see the doctor. But my recollection of the two or three hours spent in this cell are vague and shadowy. I was at the end of my tether, and the craving to be alone overtopped everything else. Soon after we were inside a light was lit from without, and I noticed for the first time a curious aperture in the thick wall to the left of the door. A piece of grained glass near to the passage side of this hole, shielded the light which was lit from outside. The cell was thus lit up with rays as from a bull’s eye lantern. These details interested me very much. I was fascinated in a grim sort of way by the “eye” in the door of which I had heard so much. An oval wedge-shaped indentation in the thick nail-studded door, at about the height of one’s head, was finished off in the centre by a small circular bit of glass about the size of a large eye-glass. On the passage side of the door this was overlaid with a bit of wood which could be turned aside like the flap over a key-hole, for the warders and others to take a look at the prisoner, unobserved, whenever they chose.

Presently there was a rattling of keys, the lock turned with what seemed a thundering sound and the door burst open. I thought it must be some remarkable and unexpected event that had caused so much hurry and noise, a fire perhaps had broken out, but this was my first introduction to the prison door drill; the thunder and rattle and haste I was soon to learn were the invariable accompaniments of being visited for no matter what cause. The door was opened only a very little way. No face was to be seen, but a hand thrust in four tins of food and loaves of bread on to a little shelf in the corner of the cell nearest to the door. This was our supper—the last meal before the night. The little brown loaves looked appetising, and we were hungry. The kind of breakfast one eats before one’s first “trial” is nothing sumptuous, and the sandwiches brought in by our friends made an excellent but not too substantial lunch. The slice of cold pressed meat lying at the bottom of a dirty-looking tin was not attractive, and the cocoa in a can of the same metal was positively repellent. We most of us ate some bread, one was bold enough to try the cocoa, no one sampled the meat. I thought I would keep my loaf as a sleeping draught for whenever bedtime came to this seemingly endless day.

Some time after supper had been let in upon us, the door was again opened and “Lytton” was summoned to an unknown presence. I was conducted to a room where a lady in a bonnet stood waiting to receive me. She was the Matron. She told me in a civil and considerate manner that she had a letter for me from my mother which she had been allowed to give to me. I wondered if my mother were ill or inordinately distressed at my sentence. I had a great longing to take the letter, but I had prepared myself for special privileges being extended to me and I was determined not to profit by anything of the sort unless I could also secure it for my companions. I asked: “Is it not against prison rules that I should have the letter?” She looked surprised, but promptly answered, “We make the rules as the occasion calls for, and you have been allowed to receive this letter.” “Will the other Suffrage prisoners also be allowed to receive letters?” She hesitated, but eventually said decisively, “No.” “Then I am afraid I can’t have this letter either.” In spite of my effort to conceal it, I think she saw or guessed my great desire to have the letter, for the look in her eyes became very kind and she pleaded with me to take the letter. I shook my head. Then she told me it was within the ordinary rules that she should read the letter to me. I hesitated for a moment; there might be something sacredly private in the letter and it seemed such desecration that strangers should know what my mother felt. Then I glanced at the envelope and realised that it had been officially opened and probably read already. So I agreed. The letter had been written under the agitation of the news about me and was not easily legible in places, so that the matron, although she did her best, could not decipher some passages, and the tension of deferred anxiety as to its contents made my mind and hearing dull from overstrain. As a result, I received the impression that my mother was more angry with me than was actually the case. She did not speak of being ill or broken down herself, and I felt I could bear everything but that; but the imagined degree of her disapproval shadowed the whole of my imprisonment without cause. However, when I was handed the letter on my release and read it for myself, I found in it so much more sympathy than I expected that the rebound of joy made up for everything. My mother had sent it by her maid to London, telling her to deliver it into the hands of the Governor with a covering letter to him asking him kindly to give it to me. She had thought out all this most considerately so that at least I might be reassured about herself, and be spared any unnecessary anxiety. The maid, on arriving at Holloway Prison, had sent my mother’s card up to the Governor as a passport to his presence and asking if she, the maid, might see him. He understood it to mean that mother herself was there, and he came rushing down the stairs in hot haste to greet her! Poor man, how relieved he must have been to find it was only her maid!

After the Matron had finished reading the letter I, for the moment, forgot all wish to restrict my privileges into line with those of other Suffragettes. I asked, “Can I write an answer to this letter?” “No.” “Nor send a message?” The Matron shook her head. On returning to my companions in the waiting cell I told them what had taken place. My mind was filled with thoughts of my mother and I remember no details until the door was again thrown open and a wardress told us to line up in the passage, preparatory to inspection by the medical officer. It was good to see the rest of the Deputation once more. We were told to open our dresses and underclothes at the neck so that our chests might be examined. There was some further waiting, during which time I was able to take note of the wardresses, several of whom were waiting about and superintending us while others came and went. They were fine-looking women, young and vigorous, most of them had good figures and all of them had beautifully-kept hair which gave me a deal of pleasure to look at. They wore uniforms more or less in the style of hospital nurses. Most of them wore dresses of dark blue cloth with nurse-like, small black bonnets and strings. Some had holland dresses with aprons, and black velvet bows on their heads. They held themselves very upright, and their general bearing brought to my mind certain types of the chaperon’s bench at Court balls.

I had made up my mind to ask the doctor for a few medical privileges. I dreaded lest he was coming round to inspect and question us as we stood in the passage, or that we should have to go before some “board” or “committee” of men. To my relief I found that we were being shown into a room singly, and when it came to my turn I found there only one individual, a young man sitting at a table with a big book in front of him. I stood beside him and answered his questions with regard to my age, whether I was married or single, what illnesses I had had, etc. He then tapped my lungs and examined my heart with a stethoscope. An infancy and youth of chronic rheumatism had affected my heart, and the treatment I had received as member of the Deputation had taxed it severely. Moreover, the news of my mother’s distress, the prison sounds of keys and bolts, the look of the cells, and my fears lest the doctor should take alarm at my flimsy physique and order my dismissal from the prison, each added considerably to my agitation of that moment. The doctor’s impassive face and manner changed to one of concerned inquiry after testing my heart. He asked many questions, and seemed with difficulty to believe when I told him that strict vegetarianism had cured my chronic rheumatism and that it was six years since I had anything of an attack. I asked to be allowed flannel underclothing and vegetarian food. It was a new and strange experience to be so closely examined by a doctor and not to learn anything of his verdict. I longed to ask him “What are you going to report about me?” but I knew that I could do nothing if he should answer “Dismiss you,” and I was anxious to end the interview as soon as possible.

After the medical examination we were soon taken off, separately, to the changing room. Here my trinkets, money, watch, the combs in my hair, and everything in my pocket were taken from me and a list made, which I had to sign. I had a great longing to keep my handkerchiefs. A wardress sitting at a desk with a large book on it asked a further string of questions as to age, name, address, place of birth, previous convictions. As I gave “Vienna, Austria,” for the place of my birth, my father having been in the diplomatic service, I thought how impossible it would have seemed had some seer foretold, at the time of my birth in an official residence, that I was destined to be imprisoned in Holloway as a common criminal. A description of the prisoner’s personal appearance was also entered in the book. It was a comic moment when the wardress looked up with her head on one side, as any portrait painter might do, to investigate the colour of one’s hair and eyes. During all these processes I had a first opportunity of noticing the manner of the wardresses which so many Suffragette friends had described to me, but which had conveyed no clear impression to my mind. I noticed that there was no inflection in the voice when speaking to prisoners, nor did the wardresses look at them when addressing them. As a prisoner, it was almost impossible to look in the eyes of my keepers, they seemed to fear that direct means of communication; it was as if the wardresses wore a mask, and withdrew as much as possible all expression of their own personality or recognition of it in the prisoner. At first, the impression received was as of something farcical. I remember that it amused me immensely and absorbed my attention with a sort of fascinated curiosity. But this soon went off, and made way for a chilling, deadening impression. When later on I saw it applied to the ordinary prisoner, to my companions, to our leader, Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, it aroused in me a feeling of indignation and strong resentment.

One corner of this room was divided off by a curtain. I was told to go behind it and take off my clothes. As I removed them one by one I wondered what would have been my experiences by the time I should see them again. I was handed a cotton chemise, woollen stockings and a petticoat. In this queer get-up I was taken to be weighed and then shown to a bath. The bath compartments were close together in a passage, like stalls in a stable, each one only just large enough to contain the bath and a few inches of standing room at one end. The door was of the cowshed order, about three feet deep, space above and below, and without a fastening. As I was ushered into one of these, an ordinary 3rd Division prisoner handed me a bundle of clothes and a pair of laced shoes. She had a charming, sympathetic face, and I never shall forget the look of deep kindness in her eyes and in her voice as she whispered to me, “If the shoes are too small, ask the officer and she’ll let you have a larger pair.” My tired body, my very soul, seemed to bask in comfort at her words. I looked and nodded my thanks to her, afraid to speak, for I had been warned how we might get the prisoners into trouble by breaking the silence rule with them.

“So this is the bath of evil fame,” I thought, as I put down the bundle of clothes on the floor and pulled the cowshed door after me. For the most part, whatever bit of prison life I had heard about as specially objectionable seemed to me less bad than I had expected, and being prepared I was forearmed to put up with it without grumbling. But the much-abused, dirty bath which had been so often described by our prisoners, surpassed all expectations. The paint was blistered and broken to a surface of mottled unevenness in a way to gather the scum from the water into a thousand crevices every time the bath was used. Whatever the original colour of the paint might have been, it was now of a dull mud colour, sufficiently dirty-looking to arouse every sort of suspicion, but not dark enough to conceal the marks of the scum most recently added to the crevices. A large but well-worn scrubbing brush was the only washing appliance, whether for the purpose of scrubbing the bath or the bather was not stated, probably it was used indiscriminately for both. I had been given a small towel of oatmeal-coloured coarse linen striped with red, and a piece of soap wrapped up in a rag of white flannelette. The water was clean and delightfully hot. I tried to concentrate my mind on these two great merits and to raise a sense of present luxury by remembering that this was the last bath I should be able to indulge in for a week. The soap had a smell of disinfectant like dog soap, clean and hygienic enough, no doubt, but under the circumstances a disagreeable reminder of its anti-verminous properties. The towel, which at first sight seemed ludicrously small and inadequate for the purpose of drying a body so large as mine, disclosed with use an almost miraculous faculty for not absorbing moisture. It left one to dry by dint of friction; my admiration for this towel grew even greater on closer acquaintance with it. Then came the moment for the clothes. They certainly looked a most repellent heap, and it was some time before I recognised their respective uses, and could decide in what order to put them on. I was pleased to see that the flannel garments promised by the doctor were there. Some of my companions, although they asked for and received permission for the same privilege, did not get any flannel clothes until the second week, and some not through the whole term of their imprisonment. Warmth being my first consideration I started off with a low-necked flannel shirt without sleeves. It was patched in many places, the patches being so coarsely joined that one could easily trace their pattern from sensation while wearing it. The flannel was of numerous shades of yellow and grey, stained in many places, and freely marked with the broad arrow stamped on in black ink. The original cut of the shirt had evidently been nondescript. It was very short, reaching barely below the hips and low at the neck, and the patches set in at random had added variety and counter design in many directions. It looked like the production of a maniac. For propaganda purposes it was an absolutely priceless garment and I determined that, if possible, it should accompany me out of prison, for the enlightenment of those critics who are appalled at the leniency of the prison treatment of Suffragettes. Next I put on a chemise of unbleached, coarse cotton, striped with red, fairly high at the neck, but without sleeves. This however, was long to the knees and from its ample voluminous width was one of the most warmth-producing of the garments. A pair of stays made without bones but exceedingly stiff and straight in shape. They had no fastenings and had to be laced up each time; the lace had no metal tag so that it was a slow process. These stays were so unyielding that I found it impossible to tie my petticoats around the sheer precipice of their make, and the very next day I had the courage to dispense with them. Flannel drawers, short like footballing “shorts,” ditto of unbleached cotton. A very short flannel petticoat. An old-fashioned under-petticoat of coarse, linseed-coloured material, thickly pleated into a cotton band at the waist—it stuck out almost like a crinoline. Then came the dress, skirt of dark green serge, pleated in same way as the petticoat and tied with black tape strings, the shirt of same material fastened by a single button at the neck; this was the only garment with long sleeves. A blue check apron which tied in the shirt and gave a very neat appearance. Finally, a small Dutch cap of starched white calico, tied under the chin with tapes. These caps are full of stains, from hairpin rust, etc., when seen from within, but outwardly they have an extremely clean and attractive appearance, redeeming the degraded look of the dress and decidedly becoming to many of the women. They pleased me immensely from the first and were a constant joy to my eyes in all my imprisonments. Two check dusters were supplied, one as a handkerchief to hang from the apron string, one to be folded diagonally and worn round the neck, under the serge shirt. I always have thought this the most comfortable neck covering imaginable and the short time it takes to put on was a daily renewed pleasure compared to the complicated neck apparatus of more civilised modern garments with their innumerable hooks and eyes, pins, brooches, etc. The drawback to this duster-necktie was that it was identical with the handkerchief-duster, and, as they were changed from week to week, there was no means of knowing whether one’s neckerchief of one week had not been the nose kerchief of another prisoner on previous occasions. As the clothes came from the laundry with many stains, unironed, unmangled, and looking in many respects as if they had not been washed, this detail of the handkerchiefs remained throughout my time in prison one of the most trying of the physical and minor disagreeables. All the clothes were marked with the broad arrow, if light in colour they were marked with black ink or some kind of tar-like sticky substance; if the clothes were dark, as the petticoat and dress, then with whiting. The stockings were of thick, rough wool, most irritating to the skin but warm. I never had a pair that were long enough to cover my knees, and as the drawers stopped short of the knees in the opposite direction I had the chance of sampling the knee part of a Highlander’s dress. I thought it very uncomfortable. Woollen strips were given for garters; I thought these practical and hygienic. Last of all I turned to the shoes. They were immensely heavy and looked large enough for a giant, they were new and exceedingly stiff. After a great struggle I managed to get them on, but they were so uncomfortable that I remembered the advice of the kind woman and took them off again. I supposed that now would be my only chance of asking for another pair, and, although I never have been able to muster much courage in facing rebuffs, I had an impression that I should not grow any bolder as prison life went on. It is comparatively easy to plead or protest on behalf of some general principle, but to do so for personal advantage was a more effortful business, and yet it seemed foolish to go in for needless discomforts when a remedy had been almost officially suggested. I gathered up my soap and towel and put my head over the cowshed door to inquire if I might come out. My eyes fell on a prisoner waiting in the passage. She was of the 2nd Division, for she wore a green dress; those of the 3rd Division wear brown. Her face had a genial expression and broke into a radiant smile as our eyes met. I thought I had never seen a more attractive-looking being. In spite of the subservient humility which the prison uniform conveys, the look of self-mastery and consequent dignity was prominently expressed in every line of her face and of her whole form. I felt drawn to her by a feeling of mixed curiosity and sympathy and determined to communicate with her if possible. It never occurred to me that she was a Suffragette. She was Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, as the smile in her eyes betrayed before many moments had passed. My delight at recognising her was quickly succeeded by an almost irrepressible wave of indignant feeling that she should be subjected to these outward symbols of criminality and shame. However little they were able to degrade her, the authorities had sentenced her to wear them with that intent. The futility and injustice of their action seemed to me at that moment about on a par with each other.