When back in my cell, the Governor presently visited me. I said I had understood I was to have an opportunity of seeing the Magistrates again to lodge my further complaint against the manner of feeding. The Governor said, “You will not see the Magistrates again; but now is your time, I have come on purpose to hear your complaints.” I had the impression, probably not uncommon to all prisoners, that the higher the authority the less likelihood would there be of an appeal to them taking effect. Certainly there had been nothing in the manner and remarks of the Visiting Magistrates to alter this impression. I was therefore well pleased to make my complaint to the Governor alone. It is no part of the prison protest to plead for merciful or even rational treatment, and though I had deliberately decided upon a different course, I was haunted by the fear of breaking our policy and proving disloyal to my comrades then in prison. The Matron was present, as always when the Governor visits prisoners in their cells, and he allowed me to remain on my bed. For the first time he listened to all I had to say without attempting to interrupt me, or to curtail or change the drift of my remarks. I reported to him having been forcibly fed without my heart having been tested or the doctor even feeling my pulse. I said I mentioned this in no spirit of personal complaint, for, though suffering from slight chronic heart disease, my heart happened to have great resisting and recuperative power; but I didn’t suppose it was possible to diagnose this fact merely from looking at me, and that on general medical grounds, as a matter of principle, I thought the heart ought most carefully to be tested before any prisoner who had been on hunger-strike was forcibly fed, since both these processes were theoretically believed to tax the heart.
I said, “There is another thing which I think I had better mention. After the first time of feeding me, the doctor seemed very irritated and, before leaving, he slapped me on the cheek; he did not hurt me, but seemed to wish to show his contempt; about this, too, I do not wish to complain as of an insult to me personally. He no doubt was irritated by his repulsive job, but this is hardly the right mood for an official, and what he could do to one woman he might possibly do to another. I think such things should not be done. I asked him the next morning, unless he thought it part of his duty, not to do such a thing again, and he never has.” I made further complaints about too much food at a time being poured in through the tube, and about the one occasion when the tube was left in for some considerable time and the feeding repeated again and again, in spite of my continuous vomiting. I did not, however, complain of these things in any detail to the Governor, since they seemed to be matters chiefly suitable for the medical officer. I think I added, as I certainly did on one occasion to the doctor himself, what a mercy it was that at least the doctor was skilled in adjusting the tube into the throat. The Governor made no reply but listened to all I said.
It was on the afternoon of this day, Friday, that the door of my cell was suddenly thrown open, and the man who stood outside was announced to me as the Government inspector. I asked, had he come from London? “Yes.” He inquired in a hurried way, as if he had a train to catch, had I any complaint? “Yes,” I replied, “first of all about being fed by force.” He said, in a hurried and insolent manner, all in one breath, so that it was scarcely intelligible, “Are you refusing to take your food—If so, the remedy is in your hands, you have no reason to complain—Any further complaints?” I hesitated for a moment, then, as it seemed to me my complaints against the doctor would certainly in this man’s estimation come under the head of grievances easily remediable by the surrender of the hunger-strike, I answered, “No, I suppose not,” upon which he abruptly left me.
On this day, Friday, the Governor before he left me had suggested that under certain conditions he would allow me to write a letter. “For instance,” he said, “if you had a mother you were anxious about, perhaps I could give you leave to write to her.” I had so arranged matters before being arrested that I knew my people, if they had traced me, would conclude that by this time my hunger-strike had been superseded by forcible feeding; that those most dear to me had implicit faith in the reasonableness of all officials, that if at any moment they chose to take advantages of the privileges available to them, they could hear all about me; and, finally, that if they were anxious to the point of disregard for those of my principles which they did not share, they could pay my fine; but hastily on these reflections there followed the panic fear that it was my mother who was ill, and the Governor was breaking the news to me. He, however, reassured me on this point and he left me. The permission reeled in my brain. My mother would by this time certainly suspect something. If I could write to her and yet not let her know where I was! The prison paper would alone make this impossible. I thought about it all night. The next day, Saturday, January 22, I determined to eat my breakfast so that I might be in a fit state to write, otherwise my hands trembled and I could not steady my mind to a letter. I told the wardress very early that morning that I would eat my breakfast, and that I should like someone to witness it. The little woman, whom the doctor had told me was a nurse, brought me in a cup of milk and a piece of white bread and butter. It was the most delicious food I have ever tasted; the “nurse” was very kind to me and stayed till I had finished. Then I wrote my letter; it was only on the slate, of course; I must ask the Governor’s leave before I was allowed writing-paper. I asked to see the Governor, by letter written on another slate. I said that, if it were the same to him, might I go to his room to see him, as there I could stand near the hot pipes, which was a great luxury. He came to my cell, and I told him I would gladly avail myself of the privilege to write to my mother, provided he would grant the same privilege to my fellow Suffrage prisoners. I assumed, too, that he had done the same in the case of Elsie Howey as in mine, omitted to punish her for glass-breaking—I believed, from the sound, that someone besides myself had broken glass—and I reminded him of a remark he had made as to the law being no respecter of persons. By this time I had an almost certain conviction that he knew who I was. But he would not give me any assurance as to like favours being granted to other prisoners, so I refused to avail myself of the letter-writing privilege. In the afternoon, however, I had decided that I could convey news to my mother without revealing my identity to the officials, supposing that they were not yet fully aware of the truth, and that I had better use every available privilege offered, since I was in the dark as to the grounds on which it was made. I determined to write to the nurse of my sister’s children, who lived in Bloomsbury Square, telling her to forward my letter at once to my mother. I asked to see the Governor again, but he had left. I was taken before the Matron, who told me the privilege would anyhow be conditional, dependent upon to whom my letter was addressed and the urgency of the motive for writing it. I said there was no extreme urgency; she answered I must await the Governor’s return on Monday morning.
I wrote in my letter on the slate that the forcible feeding was “only pain,” and that my mother would think that good for me. I made no other complaint, but said the short sentence would soon let me be with her. My only object was to conceal all that I endured. In the evening I was again fed by force.
On Sunday morning, January 23, the cold was intense. I asked for some hearthstone to polish my tins—they had taken everything of the kind away and the tins were dull and spotted. I hoped to keep some sense of life in my hands and arms by trying to scrub with them. But it did not come. Presently the door opened and the Governor appeared; I could not think why he came so early. Then I saw the doctor behind him, and the thought of the forcible feeding blocked my mind. I supposed the Governor had come to see it. He was nervous about startling me, I suppose, for he told me the great news twice before I understood. He told me of my release and that my youngest sister, Emily Lutyens, had come to fetch me away. I felt stunned with the quite unexpected shock of joy, it was too good to be true. After ascertaining that my fine had not been paid, but that I had been released on medical grounds, and that it had nothing to do with my mother’s health, the chief aim for which I tried to pull myself together was to obtain what news I could of my fellow-prisoners. The Governor and doctor, however, left me without giving me any information. Again I was brought white bread and butter and milk for my breakfast, and the “nurse” stayed with me while I ate it. They brought me my clothes, but the more I realised the news the slower my movements became; all strength seemed to have ebbed from my body. The wardresses knew nothing of the other Suffragette prisoners, whether they were released or not. When dressed I was taken out far away to what was called “the Governor’s room,” but it was not the same one that I had seen before. The doctor came and talked to me, then after a little while my sister came. We greeted each other, of course, by a tremendously warm embrace. The doctor looked away like a witness in a melodrama. I sat there as in a dream talking to him and to the Governor, who presently came in. The doctor said, “I have been kind to you?” “Latterly you were,” I answered, “if you had not fed me. At first you were angry and not kind.” I told the Governor that the one thing I wanted to know about was the other Suffragette prisoners, were they fed—were they released? He answered that they were not released, that one of them was in hospital, that they were all quite well. I said that was a curious answer; if they were all quite well, why was one in hospital? He said that he could tell me nothing more. The doctor said they were none of them as bad as I was over the feeding. That was all that I could get from them about the other prisoners. I did not go over again with them the points about which I had protested, while still a prisoner, as to my own treatment. The Governor and doctor were courteous to me after my release and to my sister, and the Governor’s wife had been very kind to her on her arrival in the early morning.
Why we waited I do not know, but in about half an hour we drove away in a four-wheeler. The Chaplain was just coming in to the prison as we drove out through the gates; he bowed to me. I went to the station first and got my trunk, or rather my sister got it for me, then we went to the hotel. We telephoned to Dr. Kerr that I was released and going with my sister to London. She sent her young daughter and man-servant to see us at the hotel, and we left word with them for Miss Flatman, who was not on the telephone and whose Sunday address we did not know.
I had a long bath, which was a tremendous luxury, although my legs were so thin I could not sit down without pain. My dear sister stayed with me the whole time; my voice shook and I could not speak properly. We had a meal before we left.