by Wendy James
Perhaps James is right when he says that the women’s vote will produce no great transformation, that it will only exacerbate the class differences. That such women will vote as their husbands and fathers vote – they will not have the education or understanding to do otherwise. James fears mob rule, thinks it will lead to a class war. Mr Stratford naturally disagrees, and I think I incline to his view: he says that with some education the ‘mob’ may have more to contribute than we have dreamed, that there are greater possibilities in this untapped store of intelligence than we can imagine – and fresh and new, without the cynicism and moral exhaustion that one encounters so often now from those whom we trust to lead.
29 January
Visited Melbourne Gaol today to meet with Maggie Heffernan. We walked through those gates and immediately a miasma of dread – unreasoning, unwarranted – descended. We were not presented with anything the least bit confronting or frightening – but a heaviness, a sadness, an unshakeable feeling of foreboding pervaded the atmosphere. All that human misery concentrated and confined. Even Vida was rather subdued.
Met with the matron of the prison infirmary initially. She seems a compassionate and intelligent woman and not at all what I expected – she trained at Mrs Nightingale’s school in London. Vida explained the purpose of our visit and had obtained permission in advance, so we were taken more or less immediately to the infirmary. Again, not what I had anticipated. The ward was spotlessly clean, cheerful, and sunny – flowers arranged at each bedside. The barred windows were the only indication that the infirmary was part of a prison. The nursing staff were as neat and efficient as at any of the best public hospitals. Only six patients in all, though room for a dozen – I imagine the beds are in greater demand over winter. Our patient was immediately recognisable – the only young woman in the ward. She did not turn to watch our approach, though she was obviously conscious, however we were subject to quite blatant scrutiny by the other women, and some not quite stifled comments.
We were taken to the poor girl’s bedside. She must be a rather pretty girl in ordinary circumstances: she’s very dark and slight, and though she was polite enough, initially she seemed somewhat bewildered by our presence. Had thought we were from a church group (it seems she has already had several such visitors) and had come to offer up prayers and consolations.
I was unable to think of what to say to her, but Vida did her best to put the girl at her ease. And for some little time she did seem possessed of a remarkable composure – one could almost have imagined that we were visiting any young girl convalescing in hospital. But as we sipped our tea and when she thought herself unobserved, a terrible haunted look stole over her face. And I suppose it is in that look that the truth lies. She is so young and vulnerable – too young to be in such a terrible predicament. She spoke little (and ate nothing, though the matron very kindly supplied us with tea and a rather good Dundee cake) as Vida tried to reassure her, explaining that even if the worst were to happen and she were to be convicted of murder and sentenced to death, such a sentence was bound to be commuted. She emphasised that no woman had been hanged in Victoria for such an act in years, and that Maggie should not on any account dwell on the possibility of such an outcome, which could only hinder her recovery, but that she should take comfort from the fact that Vida, and many other men and women felt she had been treated abominably. Also that she was deserving of the very best representation in court, and that Maggie was not, on any account, to agree to the court-appointed counsel, but was to wait until Vida could arrange alternative representation.
Vida then plied her with questions about her treatment (was she fed enough? Was she warm enough at night, treated kindly, allowed mail, supplied with reading matter, etc.?) and when satisfied with the answers we left, promising to return soon and to arrange for a counsel to visit her in the next day or so. There is a need for expedition regarding this as the case is scheduled for the 20th of February – so they will have less than a month to prepare it. The poor girl was outwardly agreeable, but seemed dazed, as if she was taking very little in. And so, so weary. I’m sure she was glad to see the back of us, just as I was glad when the great gate clanged behind us and we emerged into the world of traffic and bustle.
Vida extremely satisfied. Wondered whether the girl might not be rather simple, which, though unfortunate, would certainly make her defence a little easier. I suggested that it was impossible to tell – the poor child was so clearly in a state of shock – but V. merely smiled and said that she supposed it would be a matter for her counsel to investigate. She is confident that with expert representation Maggie will be acquitted. I am not so confident, but who can resist such certainty as Vida possesses? She sweeps all resistance before her.
2 February
A miserable day – we had planned a walk in the gardens but rain did not let up. As dreary as a wet day at home – the rain here is just as incessant, but heavier. Seems hardly the same place … Such extremes – where has all that blue sky gone?
In the end rather a do-nothing day. Vida and Harriet asked to look through my albums, being curious to see my family, my home environs, etc. Most impressed with us all: ‘Robert’s so handsome and tall … And little Margaret, such a dear little thing, so sad.’ H. professed to be able to see resemblances to her family in most of us – made me laugh when she pointed out a resemblance between Jeannie and her own mother, with their long noses, she said, and that remarkably heavy brow. She didn’t know whether to smile or blush when I explained that Jeannie was our long-suffering housekeeper and not a maiden aunt, as she had supposed. ‘Though you never know what your grandfather might have got up to,’ she insisted. ‘From the stories I’ve heard he was something of a rogue.’
When H. went off to organise luncheon, Vida – she in an uncharacteristically pensive mood – was thoughtfully considering Davey’s photograph. ‘A strong face, an intelligent face,’ she said. Then said she had once loved someone, too, from whom she was forever separated and so though she could never really know the force of my tragedy, I should not think that she had no inkling of how I might feel. When I asked her to go on, she replied that it was nothing really – not at all like my own situation, but that there was a man once, a man she was fond of …
‘What happened, why can’t you be together?’ I asked, trying not to appear too curious, though of course I was bursting to know everything. It is hard to imagine her afflicted in such a way.
She: We were too different. We didn’t agree about anything.
I: Davey and I argued fiercely about many things, but that didn’t change our regard for one another – it strengthened it, if anything.
She: Oh, but for me it does matter! It would be impossible: what I believe in means everything. His opinions were almost as bad as James’s. I couldn’t exist in a marriage of such different minds – we should have to live such separate lives. It’s not what I believe love to be – not the ideal. And the work I have to do is more important than a compromise marriage could ever be. I really am not willing to sacrifice everything I believe in for some illusory and short-lived passion. It is a mistake so many women have made – and so many have lived to regret.
I: Well, perhaps it wasn’t … Perhaps if you can be so reasonable, so … rational, it wasn’t really—
She: Not really love? Yes I have thought that, but sometimes now I wonder whether … Whether if I had allowed it, perhaps it would have become … developed into the real thing.
I: And does he feel the same?
She: Oh, there were no tragic broken hearts. He’s a happily married man now with three delightful children and a lovely, good, contented wife. He has the life he wanted. Now, tell me, this tall handsome boy in the front row, captaining the cricket team, surely this is not your brother Robert again? Is there anything at which he does not excel?
I didn’t say it, but couldn’t help think that Vida has not really felt the sting and ache that accompanies true affection, else how could she be so reserved, s
o parsimonious with her affections?
In the evening we entertained ourselves with music. I played some German lieder. James insisted on me playing every song from Schubert’s Winterreise – he sang enthusiastically, but was dreadfully tuneless. Vida was unfamiliar with the work, but her voice, though soft and low, was plaintive and very sweet, & somehow the cycle seemed even sadder with the addition of a female voice. I had to brush tears away during ‘Irrlicht’:
Durch des Bergstrom’s trockne Rinnen
Wind’ ich ruhig mich hinab;
Jeder Strom wird’s Meer gewinnen,
Jedes Leiden auch sein Grab
Through the mountain stream’s dry bed I walk,
Turning every winding bend;
Every stream must reach the ocean,
Every sorrow has its end.
8 February
Am to take temporary teaching position at Merton Hall, a small ladies’ college here in South Yarra, teaching English and French. Another family affair – the Miss Morris’s teach and their mother, Clara, is housekeeper and matron. I’m to replace the younger Miss Morris, Edith, while she recovers from scarlet fever. The doctor has recommended she takes complete bedrest until April, so the situation should be available until May. But anything’s possible in that time, I suppose.
10 February
Elsie and Hyde called after lunch. Poor man, his stroke has debilitated him severely — he is paralysed all down one side. Still, even paralysis does not stop the endless flow of ideas. I had not realised how great an influence he has had & continues to have on Vida. His knowledge is immense & on every subject imaginable, particularly when it comes to questions of women. He has convinced her today that, much as Miss Locke has suggested, she needs to forge a closer relationship with the ladies and gentlemen of the trades unions, that having the support of powerful men like Dr Maloney was all very well, but these men were not ‘of the people’ and that, ultimately, it was the people that she needed to convince.
Vida argued that she had already done some work to this effect, having only last year requested that men from the Trades Hall Council help organise a suffrage conference. ‘That’s all very well,’ says Hyde, ‘but your organisation has a reputation for being exclusively the domain of the privileged, and this is a reputation you can ill afford.’ Still, for all he talks such sense, Mr Champion’s manner is odd and offputting. It is hard to shake off the impression that he is terribly satisfied with himself – despite being confined to a wheelchair and at the not-altogether-merciful mercy of his wife.
Elsie, too, was in an excited state. They had just returned from visiting some sort of faith-healer in the hope that Hyde’s condition can be miraculously alleviated. Elsie said the healer was a follower of some American church — Christian Science I think she called it — that is the first church to be headed by a woman. Their tenet appears to be a belief in the immaterial nature of everything, including ill-health and incapacitation. It seems a nonsensical theory to me, as it must to Hyde himself, who subjected his wife to a very quizzical look when he thought he was unobserved. James had already excused himself, otherwise his opinion would have been wonderful to hear. Vida, though, seemed rather intrigued and offered to accompany them on their next visit.
12 February
Some bad news today: Miss Heffernan has agreed to take on the state-appointed counsel as her representative. This due to some bureaucratic muddle as far as anyone can make out. Vida is absolutely furious. Had arranged – and with considerable effort – for a more sympathetic, competent counsel to represent the girl – these others, according to Vida, will not make her case effectively or sympathetically, but will be indifferent as to her fate. The girl could be sentenced to hang.
‘Don’t be silly,’ says Harriet. ‘No woman has been hanged in Victoria for years.’
Says James, ‘And even if she is sentenced to death, Vi, it’ll be commuted. Don’t worry your head about it.’
Vida was not so easily satisfied: ‘Commuted is not acquitted, James. Really it seems awful that she should have to suffer a day’s imprisonment – surely the poor girl has suffered enough?’
Harriet’s response was swift: ‘She has suffered? Vida – have you forgotten that poor little babe?’
Maggie
Infirmary, Melbourne Gaol
January, 1900
I know at once that this visitor is different. The others have all offered comfort ‘through prayer and reflection’ and have sat by my bedside, smoothing my pillows, wiping my brow; have read passages from the Bible, whispering their assurances that ‘all will be well, justice and mercy will prevail, your immortal soul is not in jeopardy thanks be to Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen, who died so that our sins – your sins – would be washed away.’ (I wonder at the words they use – washed away – how can they?) Or, when they can bring themselves to speak of it (their eyes welling with tears), that ‘your dear little innocent babe is there in heaven now: he is there with our Lord, he has been spared this vale of tears.’ This is something I should find reassuring, but do not. Instead, I wish – when I am capable of wishing anything – that my little baby, my Jacky, were with me now, and that I was anywhere but here: at home with my parents, at Ralph’s, at Mrs Cameron’s house – anywhere – and that the last few weeks of my life could be erased.
Or, I wish that I too were dead. I don’t really care so much about my immortal soul. What could be worse than the here and now; what sort of hell could be worse than this?
If I could summon up even one particle of the old Maggie, I would ask the matron to keep them out, to keep them away, but I can’t. Instead, I lie quiet and still, my eyes closed, and eventually they leave, with fervent promises that I will be remembered in their prayers, their hearts no doubt suffused with a satisfying pity.
But this visitor is different. Unlike all the other visiting women, who seem to put a great effort into appearing as miserable as possible (their expressions bleak, their hair severe, wearing the dowdiest greys and blacks), she is handsome and stylishly dressed, and without that sad and creeping air that I have come to dread. Another woman – older, plainer – accompanies her.
The matron hurries ahead of the two ladies, smiling and prattling. ‘Here she is!’ she says, resting her big red paw on my shoulder, and giving my shoulder a nasty little squeeze. ‘Maggie, sit up, dear, there’s a good girl. Here’s somebody to visit you, somebody very important. Maggie, this is Miss Vida Goldstein. You have perhaps heard of her? No, well, perhaps not … Anyway, dear, she’s here with her friend, Miss – er – to see how she can aid you, and I’m sure you’re going to be a good girl and help her in any way you can. I’ve been telling Miss Goldstein what a good girl you’ve been, and how many ladies have been so kind as to visit—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Blatch,’ the younger woman interrupts. ‘What we’d appreciate more than anything – and so, I’m sure, would Maggie here,’ this with a sweet smile toward me, ‘is a good strong pot of tea. We’ve come quite a distance. Is there any possibility?’
‘Well, it’s past elevenses, the prisoner’s have all had … But, yes, yes, I’m sure we can manage something.’
Mrs Blatch backs away, her face tight with smiling. ‘I’m certain that something can be arranged, Miss Goldstein.’
‘Goodness me, what a chatterbox,’ the younger woman says when Mrs Blatch is out of hearing. ‘Hardly conducive to a restful convalescence … But it’s lovely and clean here, isn’t it? And the flowers are a nice cheery touch – not as dreary as I’d imagined. Now, you sit there, Eliza, and is there another seat somewhere? No. Well, I’ll just have to sit here on the bed, Maggie – may I call you that? No doubt I’ll be in terrible trouble when Mrs Blatch comes back, but never mind. We’ll get straight to business I think. We need to get a few things organised if we’re to get you out of here – solicitors and barristers and such – and get you out of here we will, won’t we, Eliza? Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced you, have I? This is Elizabeth Hamilton. She’s a c
ousin of sorts, Maggie – my right-hand man. Oh, and indeed, a very great friend. We’re going to be great friends, too, you and I – the three of us! – I’m sure of that.’
She takes my hand, smiles into my eyes. ‘Yes, we’ll be great friends by the time this is all over.’
I know that someone like her and someone like me won’t ever be great friends. But there is something about this woman that gives me confidence, for the first time, that perhaps all is not lost.
I clutch her hand, smile back.
A few days before the trial the matron brings two men to my bedside. These men with their grave faces and waxed moustaches are introduced to me as my counsel and my solicitor, and as very distinguished gentlemen to whom I should be grateful, because, says Matron: ‘They have agreed to defend you for very little.’ When I ask whether they are the gentlemen that Miss Goldstein has recommended, they make no answer. Perhaps they have not heard me. They seem to know what they are about, so I do not enquire again.
