But what of the husbands who are possessed of drunken wives? Alas! there is no relief for them; the law moves not its finger to help them. Though their goods and clothes are pawned, though their children be neglected, and though their homes be turned into veritable hells, the law gives them no hope, the State no redress. Again and again strong, honest, industrious men come into our courts seeking the magistrate’s help and counsel, telling the same old tale, exposing the same old sorrow, and the magistrate has no help to give, no counsel to impart. Letter after letter I receive, some badly written, many badly spelt, but letters which for absolute pathos could not be surpassed. Plead with these women, and it is like preaching a sermon to an east wind. Reason with them, and they will make worse appear the better reason, for they lie with impunity, and one and all declare they are the aggrieved and their husbands are the guilty parties. Stupendous are their lies, and yet I feel certain that many believe what they assert.
I have taken much knowledge of these women, and have come to the opinion that drunkenness is often but a symptom of some deeper cause. At one time I had persuaded some half-dozen of such to agree to separate from their husbands, who every week sent to me the sum agreed on for their maintenance. I used to call on these women, give them their week’s money, find them a little work, and do them any kindness I possibly could. I am not likely to repeat that experiment, for I confess myself beaten; they were too much for me, and so far as I know I was powerless to influence them for good. I never could find out whether their peculiar mental condition was due to drink, or their drinking was due to their mental condition, and either way I was helpless. But I have met with some magnificent devotion on the part of husbands, and a love passing even the love of women. I will give but one instance of this, and although it had a sad ending, yet it illustrates my statement.
‘A Scene in a Police Court—A Painful Case.’
These words headed a paragraph of police news in the daily papers one morning in June. But the few commonplace words that told the story gave no idea of the intense suffering. Four weeks before an old sorrowful-faced man had tremblingly stood in the dock charged with a violent assault upon his wife. Four times he had been assisted back to the cells. Four times in the cupboard of the prison van had he been conveyed to the house of detention, for his wife lay hovering between life and death in the infirmary. ‘Erysipelas had set in,’ said the doctor. On the fifth occasion she was just well enough to come, and was carried into court, her head bandaged all over, one arm in a sling, and her face all covered with cuts and bruises. A chair was placed for her before the magistrate, and she was called on for evidence. ‘I don’t know much about it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him punished; he has been a good husband to me; I suppose he did it; if he did, it was my fault, for I was drunk at the time.’
Not another word could be got from her. The landlady was called, and said: ‘These people have lived with me for a long time. A better man never lived; a worse woman could not be found. She has sold or pawned all his goods time after time. She has been in prison again and again. Many a time the prisoner has spent the night looking for his wife, and once brought her home dead drunk on a wheelbarrow; he had found her in a dustbin. On the present occasion she had only been a week out of prison, where she had been for two months. During that time the prisoner, who is a basket-maker, had got a new home together, had made it very nice, and went to meet her at the prison. When she got home, and saw how nice it was, she promised never to drink again; but during the week she pawned many of the things, and when the prisoner came home on Saturday she was lying drunk in her rooms. He had a walking-stick in his hand, and as he passed my door I said, “Your wife has been at it again.” Presently I heard screams and cries of “Murder!” The prisoner came down and said, “Good-bye; you will never see me again.” Thinking he was going to commit suicide, I followed him, and told a policeman, who took him into custody. When we got back to the room, we found the woman lying in a pool of blood on the floor, and the stick lying beside her.’
On being asked for his defence, every eye in the court was turned on the old man. ‘I can only plead great provocation, and call witnesses as to my character,’ he said, in quavering tones. ‘Thirty-five years we have been man and wife; twenty-five years she has been an inveterate drunkard, yet, as God is my Judge, I have never struck her before. She has ruined my home many times; she has been in prison a score of times. I had to send my two boys away from home to be away from her influence. I used to go round to where they lived and mend their clothes myself after I had done work. My friends wanted me to leave her, my sons wanted me to go and live with them; but I always said, “She is your mother, and she will alter yet.” When I came home on that Saturday and saw my home again broken up, and her lying drunk on the bed, with the pawn-tickets round her, I was mad. If ever a man was mad, I was mad. All the wrongs I had suffered for twenty-five years came before me, and I was mad. I struck her I don’t know how many times with that stick. That is all I can say, sir, and that is the truth, God help us!’
His employer then came forward, stating that he had known the prisoner from boyhood. They were apprenticed together, and for several years he had employed him. The prisoner’s devoted love for the wretched woman was the marvel of all who knew him. He had personally and frequently pleaded of him to give her up and go to live with his sons, who were anxious to find a home for him; but he had always refused. Two sons came forward and told the story of their father’s devotion and their mother’s shame, and begged piteously that their father might not be punished. They would be bail for him; they would take him home with them; they would look after him.
There was a breathless silence in court while waiting for the magistrate’s decision, and down the cheeks of many present tears were stealing; even the court officials, case-hardened as they must become, looked very moist about the eyes. The magistrate said: ‘Prisoner, this is a terrible assault. It is only by God’s mercy that you are not standing there charged with murder. You ought to have left this wretched woman long ago. I can’t give you less than six months’ imprisonment.’
A scene followed that I shall not easily forget. An involuntary groan passed through the court. The two sons rushed forward in front of the magistrate, saying: ‘Oh, for God’s sake don’t say that! don’t say that! He’ll never come out alive! He’ll never come out alive!’ The old man was taken to his cell, the sons went outside, and I went to try to comfort them—a vain task, for they were wringing their hands, and the cry like a sorrowful refrain came from them: ‘He’ll never come out alive! He’ll never come out alive!’
And the old woman went to the workhouse, the sons to their home, and the old man to his prison. There was no light at eventide for them, no glow after the sunset for the old couple, for in six months’ time a white-haired old man, bent and broken, was met at the prison gates by his two sons, who took him home with them. Every month an old woman from the workhouse was locked up for drunkenness, charged in the same dock where the sorrowful-faced old man had stood, and received her usual short term of imprisonment. And the old man reaped not the fruit of his long years of patient endurance, beautiful faith and marvellous devotion, for death soon came to him, and no wife was present to close his eyes. And when she shortly afterwards died in the workhouse there were no sons present to bid her a long farewell.