Prisons & Prisoners: Some Personal Experiences

by Lady Constance Lytton

On March 2, as a result of my pleading to be dismissed from the hospital, I was put to sleep in a separate cell along the passage of our ward. This cell had a floor of unpolished wooden boards, contained a fixed iron bedstead, movable washing stand furnished with tin utensils, a wooden chair, a square plank fixed to the wall near the door as a table, and a corner shelf under the window to hold Bible, prayer and hymn book, prayer card, list of rules, salt cellar, toilet paper, slate and slate pencil. A small basket to contain my clothes was kept under the bed. A bell near the door communicated with the outer passage. The cell was lit by a thickly barred window of small panes of glass, having in the centre a box-like apparatus, with a lid, opened by a rope pulley to let in the air without enabling one to see out, as in church windows. There was a grating ventilator below the window. In the wall of the cell giving on to the passage was a glazed aperture, through which the cell was lighted at night from a gas-jet, as in the “reception” cell. Besides the heavily metalled door, these hospital cells had iron gates, so that the door could be left open when patients had to be watched. At eight o’clock the night wardress went her rounds, lifting the spy hole and shouting through the door “All right?” to which the prisoners have to answer “Yes.” If they are asleep, the question is repeated until they wake and answer it. The gas was then lowered to a light by which it would have been difficult to read, but not extinguished. It was explained to me afterwards, when I pleaded for darkness, that I was an “observation” case on account of my “serious heart disease.” The luxury of privacy after five nights and days of unrelieved publicity seemed very great, and as soon as this last “inspection” was over my imagination conjured up into my presence every friend I have ever had, including my dog who died twenty years ago. I held intercourse with them, “dreamed true,” and had a happy time. I then rolled round and gave myself up to perfect sleep.

After, as it seemed, a very short night, I woke with a start and a feeling of great horror. I supposed I had had a bad dream, but quickly realised that the nightmare was on the waking side of my existence. I sat up in bed. There was a sound of footsteps which I could not at first locate or interpret. They came nearer, clear foot-falls and a shuffling sound in between, as if some of the feet were reluctant and were being dragged along. Then a voice in great distress, half shriek, half groan, that came in broken snatches. The sounds came rapidly nearer and grew more definite. The massive walls of the building seemed to become thin and the doors flimsy with the penetrating noise. I expected that any moment these night-wanderers might enter my cell, I supposed it was a case of delirium tremens or madness. The footsteps stopped. A violent scuffle was apparently taking place. Then followed a jangle of keys, the banging of a gate, more turning of keys, and I realised that a frenzied woman had been shut into the cell below mine. She immediately seized hold of the gate and shook it so that it rattled on its hinges, suggesting almost more than human strength. The wolf-like barking sounds of her voice turned into a human yell as she screamed out, “Nurse! Nurse! Let me out.” It seemed a most reasonable remark. The words broke the spell of horror and woke instead my intensest sympathy. She was expressing the one desire that is constantly uppermost in prisoners’ minds, the walls echoed it as a thought most familiar to them. The gate shivered unceasingly under her onslaught as she hurled herself against it, and her words came at intervals, “Nurse! Nurse! Open the gate.” The sounds suggested in turn madness, fury, despair. I strained to interpret and understand, but there was no clue. I yearned to console her. Presently footsteps came outside my door, a rattling of keys and locks, my door was burst open and a wardress I had not seen before put her head in, saying, “I thought you might be startled.” Her face was inflexible and revealed nothing. I threw out questions, “Was it a maternity case?” “Was she ill?” “Why was she so wild?” but the door was slammed to without any answer being given. However, even this attention was a relief and unfroze my blood a little. I wondered if the other prisoners, if the poor distracted woman herself in the cell below, had been offered as much consolation.

I was kept in bed that morning until after the rounds of inspection. The Governor was very civil. He urged me to give the required assurance and bind myself over “to be of good behaviour,” that I might leave the prison. He asked if I had “considered” my mother. I have no doubt he thought it his duty to talk in this way, and probably he was trying to be kind as well. At the time, however, his insinuation seemed more like a blow in the face. The words rushed to my lips: “If you knew my Mother, if you had seen her only once, you would know that it was impossible to risk causing her anxiety without immensely considering it,” but I restrained myself and merely said: “I am not the only woman here who has a mother.” I remembered that when Mrs. Pankhurst had been imprisoned she had been punished for exchanging a few words with her daughter. The Governor then brought out a stethoscope to examine my heart. This was surprising, as I had not realised that he was a doctor. He urged tonics, but did not insist. Eventually I consented to take maltine and a banana after the mid-day meal, as they were distressed that I was so thin.

The shrieks and cries from the cell below had grown less towards morning, but they were renewed at intervals throughout the day. When I went into the general ward the horror of the night was still hanging over my companions. A wardress told one of us that the woman had killed her child and been put into the condemned cell after being sentenced to be hanged. After my release it was officially stated that the woman who had been sentenced to death for baby-murder had been perfectly quiet and that the “condemned cell” was in a part of the prison far removed from the remand hospital. The shrieks we had heard were those of a mad woman, under remand for larceny, who had since been removed to a workhouse infirmary. The distressful cries went on intermittently for several days, after which they lapsed into groans like those of the dying. My longing to communicate with her became at moments almost unendurable. I hoped she would die; she seemed too far gone in distress for any other remedy. One morning before it was light I thought I heard the throaty sound of the death rattle from her cell. After that she was removed, whether dead or alive I could never find out until after my release.

I went into the general ward for the greater part of the day. I made my bed and dusted my cell, but was not allowed to wash the floor or clean the tin utensils because of my “heart disease.” The quieter nights enabled me to eat more food, and I think I gained in weight and became generally restored to quite normal health. It was obvious that no ordinary prisoner nor Suffragette prisoner would, in my state of health, have been put in hospital, and that I was being kept there either to give me a soft time or for some other impenetrable reason. I told the Senior Medical Officer that unless I were allowed to the “other side” I should feel obliged to protest by means which he would probably regret when it was too late. He looked very much alarmed, but my threat produced no practical result. I then asked leave to petition the Home Secretary, a right allowed to all prisoners. Blue official paper, ink and a pen were brought to my cell, only one sheet of paper being allowed, but it was a large one. I forget the wording of my letter. I stated that I had been rather severely knocked about by the police while on a peaceable Deputation to the House of Commons to petition that, when the accepted conditions for which voting rights are granted have been fulfilled the vote should follow, in the case of women as of men, a claim which he, the Home Secretary himself, and a majority of the Cabinet and House of Commons had recognised as just. That I therefore was grateful for the privilege of being placed in hospital during the first few days, where the careful and kindly treatment of the officials and excellent food had quickly restored me to my normal health. I told how I had asked permission to join my companions in the cells, but hitherto had asked in vain. I explained that the cell routine of floor scrubbing, tin polishing, etc., would be no exceptional exertion in my case, since I was an amateur scrubber, having patronised that craft in much the same spirit in which other unemployed women took up water-colour drawing or hand-embroidery. I found that my fellow prisoners were kept in the cells when much more seriously ill than I was, and I was driven reluctantly to the conclusion that the preferential treatment meted out to me was for no better reason than that I had influential friends whose criticism, if my health should suffer in prison, was feared by the authorities. I resented such favouritism on the part of officials, both as a Liberal in politics, as a believer in the teachings of Christ, and as a woman, and if the special treatment of my case continued I should feel bound on my release to make it known from every platform of our campaign throughout the country. I found there was a tradition amongst prisoners that petitions to the Home Secretary were always in vain. As I put forward a moderate and reasonable request, consistent with the prison regulations, I hoped it would serve as an instance for proving this tradition to be false. This letter, perhaps, gave a slightly coloured version of the hospital régime, but I knew that, in spite of their aims to the contrary, officials are human, and that if I could express some sort of praise that was fairly justified, my letter would be more likely to reach the higher dignitaries and be attended to by them. Perhaps, I thought, the combination of a very reasonable request with an allowance of judicious flattery might even result in the request being granted.

The following day I noticed a peculiar and welcome expression on the faces of various officials as of a smile hidden behind the mask, plainly indicating that my letter had been read in Holloway, however much the valentine might be destined for waste-paper basket furniture at the Home Office. I piled on my good behaviour and ate as much food as I could, to conciliate the prison authorities. On the third day following I received a written answer, a formal statement that my petition had been received, but that the Home Secretary did not see his way to granting it. This led to further altercations with the Governor and doctor. They insisted that the cell regime would be too severe for me. I replied that unless they allowed me to experience it for myself I should probably carry away an exaggerated version of the hardships imposed on my companions. They pleaded that my exceptional physique and heart disease required “rest.” I answered that prison was not a “rest cure” and that in the case of my fellow prisoners, more especially of Miss Lawless and Mrs. Meredith Macdonald, no such reverend attention had been paid to their physical needs. Every day I put forward the request and argued the point, always in vain. I felt that the time had come to carry out my threat. My mind brooded on what form it should take, but for various reasons it had to be deferred. I had contracted the cold which was rampant in the ward. The prisoner’s handkerchief, a duster hanging from the waist of the skirt which did service for a week, was an inevitable conveyer of infection. This forbidding form of handkerchief became doubly a trial with a cold in the head. I used when at exercise to hold it out as I walked, in the style of a bull-fighting matador, in order to dry it and shake it out, and I used toilet paper in its stead whenever opportunity offered, but no efforts could counteract the disgusting overuse and exposure of the duster. I determined not to press my request to go to the cells while there was any rational excuse for keeping me in hospital. When my cold was wearing off I had the misfortune to meet with an accident and cut myself with some broken crockery. This necessitated bandaging, and again I put off my threat. The days went by with unvarying monotony. Although I had known for several weeks of my decision to go on the Deputation and had full time to prepare for a likely imprisonment, I was continually remembering some concern of my home life, the wheels of which would be getting clogged in my absence. At first these thoughts were very worrying and kept my mind continually on the fret at my inability to communicate with the outside world, but the realisation of one’s helplessness gradually subdued these desires. One day, however, I heard from a more experienced “gaol-bird” that permission to write a letter was sometimes granted if “on business.” I promptly determined to try for this privilege, since it had been granted to other Suffragists. I chose a matter connected with the village in which I lived, so that the fact of my being “all right,” as the cell inspectors put it, might be conveyed to my mother. I asked leave to write to the Rector’s wife about a flower show committee of which I was secretary. Leave was granted. I was asked to confine myself exclusively to the “business” for which permission had been given; the luxury of writing it was nevertheless very great. Later on I was allowed to write a second letter to a friend on the Stock Exchange who manages my money affairs. I wanted some money for a prisoner friend who was to be released before me. Cheque books were, of course, not available in prison, and although a letter to my banker would probably have been sufficient, I thought a personal friend would be more likely to let the news of my continued “all right”-ness filter through to my mother, although I was not allowed to send a definite message. There seemed, too, something attractive in addressing a letter direct from Holloway to the Stock Exchange, as I did not know my friend’s private address. This letter, of course, required an answer which I was allowed to receive and keep. The rule for prisoners is that letters addressed to them by a spontaneous correspondence from outside are forbidden, but if permission is granted to a prisoner to write a letter which requires an answer, that answer can be received and kept. This answer was about the money I had asked for, duly enclosed, and contained also a casual reference to a remote relative. “I suppose you have heard that X. has been down with influenza.” Evidently the writer assumed that I had been carrying on my correspondence as usual. I ungratefully wished that if I was to be allowed news of the outside world it might have been an item connected with my more immediate belongings. But the letter gave me a pleasure difficult to describe, bringing, as it did, a ventilating whiff of ordinary human, free existence into prison life. I clung to every particle of it, envelope and all, and generally carried it about in my clothes for fear it should be destroyed while I was out of my cell; no love-letter was ever more watchfully guarded by a girl of sixteen. It, of course, had been opened and read before it was delivered to me.

I pleaded that as the cell prisoners were allowed a change of vegetables, cabbage, onions, haricot beans, succeeding each other in turn at the midday meal, the hospital patients might be allowed the same, anyhow the bed patients, to whom the daily cabbage became extremely distasteful through monotony. The medical officer who took the inspection rounds that morning was not favourable to petitions of this kind. He answered gruffly, “If you were given the variety, depend upon it you’d be petitioning before long to be put back on one kind only,” and the daily cabbage continued. But one gets used to snubs in prison and before long I tried again. For three days in succession we had been given salt butter of a rather rancid kind, instead of fresh butter as had been supplied before. I kept a small sample of it in a saucer and showed it to the Senior Medical Officer when he came round. This man, according to my experience, was uniformly obliging, just as if he had been an ordinary man and not a prison official. He did not scoff, but took the saucer in his hands and marched out of the ward with it, saying: “I think I had better see to this myself.” We were not given salt butter again. Emboldened by this success when next he came I put the vegetable question before him. He said nothing, but from that time forward we were given a change every day.

One day there was a stir in the atmosphere owing to an unusual event, the fortnightly visit of the Visiting Magistrates was due. This was an opportunity for prisoners to air their grievances. Experience had taught us that, at any rate as regards Suffragettes, prison officials and Visiting Magistrates were one and the same authority, indeed prison officials, Prison Commissioners, Home Office, police, and police Magistrates, all played to the same tune as conducted by the attitude of the Government, and we knew that there was no tribunal of an independent character to which we could make appeal. Nevertheless, as a matter of principle, we left no stone unturned to get injustice redressed by constitutional means. Among the hospital patients there were several cases of glaring injustice. The false charge before mentioned on which Mrs. Duval (Freedom League) had been arrested and sentenced to six weeks’ imprisonment. Mrs. Pethick Lawrence’s sentence of two months when other second offenders in the same Deputation were given only four weeks and some six, and when Mrs. Despard, also a prominent leader, had been sentenced to only one month (second imprisonment) and released after one week “on medical grounds,” her health at the time being excellent. Finally, the disgraceful medical diagnosis and treatment of Mrs. Macdonald after her accident in the yard. Mrs. Macdonald and Mrs. Duval were unable to leave their beds to appear before the Magistrates. Mrs. Macdonald decided not to appeal on her own behalf. The Magistrates were not medical men and an appeal against the doctor would have been useless and perhaps would have aroused fresh prejudice against her. She was allowed to send a written communication suggesting some excellent reforms on general lines for prison management.

That afternoon, when I was locked into my cell, at an unexpected hour a wardress ushered in a gentleman, apparently an official, whom I had not seen before. I expected him to order my dress to be opened and to begin stethoscoping my heart—that was the usual procedure when a male official appeared. Instead he stood before me and said with some dignity: “I am Sir Alfred Reynolds.” The name conveyed nothing to me, so I did not answer, but merely bowed. He went on to ask if I wanted anything, to say he might be seeing Lord Lytton soon and did I want any message conveyed to him or to my home. The sense of bewilderment which prisoners feel when the unusual happens, breaking into the monotonous routine of their lives without explanation, overcame me. I did not know with what object the stranger put these questions, the wildest interpretations rushed through my mind—that the authorities were seeking some fresh excuse to release me, that my home people had heard some untrue report and were in a panic, that there was some underlying purpose connected with my fellow prisoners, to which I had no clue. My instinct was to be on my guard, and to shield myself against intrusion. I answered coldly that I was “All right, thank you,” and that I had no messages to send. That evening I was told that this gentleman was one of the Visiting Magistrates. After my release I realised that he was a neighbour in our county of Hertfordshire and knew my brother. It was very kind of him to visit me in that considerate way and I much regret that I did not respond to his friendliness at the time.

Mrs. Lawrence put her case, guarded by a wardress, standing before the seated board of Magistrates. They had nothing to say in explanation or defence of her sentence, but offered no redress.