by Wendy James
Authorities were against that view … It was a fact that that there had been cases recently in which women had been acquitted when charged with unnatural acts … Drs Bucknill and Tuke, noted European authorities in their book Psychological Medicine declared: ‘Whether as cause or effect the milk is often diminished or suppressed. Among exciting causes are mental shocks of any kind, distress of mind, especially in unmarried women the desire to destroy the infant is excessively common in puerperal insanity.’ Dr Hack Tuke also said that ‘neurotic heredity is a very common cause; worry and anxiety may play some part in the production of puerperal insanity. The maniacal onset generally occurs within the first fourteen days after delivery, but it may occur later and be due to exhaustion.’ The deputation desired to emphasise the point that the girl exhibited all the signs which the doctors said would render her irresponsible for her actions …
The Premier: Have you any evidence to show that she was suffering from puerperal mania at the time?
Mr Champion replied that the proof was that she was under all those conditions that had been referred to and was not in the full possession of her senses. He would like to say, finally, that if the woman were now released it would not be calculated to increase the number of such crimes, whilst four years imprisonment would not tend to improve her. If released she would have suffered sufficiently and would be more likely to become a respectable person in the community.
The Reverend Dr Strong observed that they were not looking for mercy so much as justice, and in saying that he did not mean to cast any reflection upon those who had to deal with the case … He was asked by the meeting to lay before the premier certain resolutions, and one of these was that the sentence of this woman should be further mitigated … The second resolution dealt with the matter of responsibility and liability on the part of others. It was considered that in these cases the father should be made liable, and should not be able, as was so often the case now, to slink away to Western Australia or South Africa before the event. They were commissioned by the public meeting they represented to ask that the government would carefully consider whether it could not imitate the example of other colonies and secure the chief wrong-doer, making him liable, so that all the onus and responsibility should not rest upon the weaker one.
Miss Goldstein referred to the actions of the woman at the time of her crime. It appeared that she undressed the child, and afterwards carried its clothes away on her arm, and it was not until she reached Flinders Street, and noticed them on her arm that she realised what she had done and was horrified at the idea. The disordered state of her mind was further shewn by her being unable to concoct one story and stick to it. She told several and that made the case against her seem blacker. It was evident that the jury tried to find a loophole by which to acquit her, but could not. It could not be said that if the girl were now released a bad precedent would be established. Several cases of free pardon having been granted in similar cases in this colony were on record …
This movement for the release of MH was not dictated by sentiment but by a firm conviction that she was convicted on false and unscientific evidence …
Miss Goldstein said she had had a good deal of experience with such women as Margaret Heffernan, and that experience shewed her that they were all rather weak-minded. She had had several interviews with this woman and she really believed that the woman was not responsible for her act and that she should not be where she was.
The premier, Mr Maclean, said that he need hardly say it was a most painful thing for one in his position not to be able to see his way to comply with a request which he knew was dictated by the very best of motives. They would all recognise, however, that there must be something more than a mere suspicion that a girl was in a certain condition of mind before he would feel justified in taking the grave responsibility upon himself of complying with the request now made on him. The girl received a fair trial, and was sentenced to the extreme penalty of the law. Every member of his Ministry realised the grave responsibility resting upon him in connection with the case, and it was carefully considered before the executive met. He was not in a position, of course, to tell them what transpired at the cabinet meeting, but he could assure them that the government acted with every desire to act as leniently towards this unfortunate girl as possible consistent with justice being done. Not only did they reduce the death sentence but cut down the term of inprisonment to an unusually short one, making it four years, which if the girl behaved herself well, meant only about three years. As to her condition of mind at the time of her crime, there was nothing whatever to show she was suffering from puerperal mania. Of course people said that if she was not suffering from mania or something of the sort she would not have committed the crime at all, but we all know that people driven to despair have committed the crime of self-murder. No one doubted that the woman was the victim of injustice and had every reason to despair and so was probably in that condition of mind that she felt driven to murder the child, but there was nothing to show that she was suffering from puerperal mania … He believed she was in such a state that if she knew the death penalty was attached to her act, she did not care; she probably very little cared whether she lived or died, but he would not say she was suffering from the particular mania that had been spoken of. If proof of it could be produced no one would be more happy than he to release the woman from her present unfortunate position … He could not hold out any hope of her release, at any rate, at this stage. At present, however, there was not sufficient proof to justify him in interfering in the course of justice …
14 April
Only James and Harriet at lunch today. Vida lunching, as is her Saturday custom, with her own family. In the afternoon a visit from a childhood friend of James’s – a Mr Phillip Anderson, his father an admiral in the Royal Navy and Phillip himself, though only young, already a captain. He was passing through, has been at sea for twelve months, and his wife and three children are awaiting him in Point Lonsdale, which is further south. A pleasant, reserved man – clearly eager to see his family …
Harriet surprised me later when she told me that Mr Anderson once had hopes of marrying Vida – he must be the man Vida told me of. Phillip was the only man, said H., who has ever been held high in her affections. ‘He is a good man, but the two were not well-suited, and to suit is of the utmost importance in marriage, as I well know,’ she said, sighing.
I asked her why they were so particularly ill-suited.
‘Oh, he is a nice enough young man, full of address and charm, and intelligent and well-read, but he is not serious. Not at all.’
Then whence came the attraction?, I asked, intrigued.
‘I forget that you have not known Vi so long. In her younger days she was as gay and glib as any young girl. Nobody was more keen on parties and excursions, she was truly a social butterfly, and such a lovely thing. She could have had any man and she was made several offers, indeed I believe even my own poor James may have proposed, but Phillip was the only one she took seriously. From the outset it didn’t seem a sensible match: Isabella didn’t approve and Vida herself had reservations. But love is so often like that – so completely unreasonable. The heart can be positively treasonous. They were engaged – virtually a secret engagement – for almost a year before Vida decided that it just couldn’t work, that the differences between them were too considerable. He had no sympathy for any of the causes that had become so dear to Vi’s heart: he is quite opposed to the vote and abhors the idea of women working. But whatever his limitations, he truly loved her – he was quite broken-hearted, poor fellow. Threw himself into his work – we did not see him for several years. But, as you see, he is well over it now. Settled and happy and quite the family man! And Vida – well, it’s plain that she’s never regretted her decision for a moment, that she’s never looked back!’
I wonder if that’s true? Are any of us really capable of facing the future so exclusively and without any regrets? Or is the past always there, howeve
r we try to resist, beckoning us to look back, even if to look behind us is sometimes to risk petrification …
Maggie
Infirmary, Pentridge Prison
February, 1900
I am taken straight from the court to the Pentridge Infirmary. I come to consciousness briefly in the prison transport, where I lie flat on my back, alone in the pitchy black. My hands and feet are tied down. I call out, but there is no answer. I drift in and out of sleep, in and out of nightmares. I dream that I am standing before a judge, that I stand stock-still, unable to move or speak, and watch him lower the black cap, pronounce the sentence. But in the dream the judge is not like any judge I could ever imagine. For the cap sits atop familiar dark curls, and the face beneath is grinning cheekily, and the voice that speaks is as merry and light-hearted as I remember Jack’s to be. And when the judge of my dream laughs that the prisoner is to be hanged by the neck until dead, I know for certain that he is joking, that it is all a silly lark. For surely I am dead already.
I can remember nothing of the trial. I read later in newspaper articles that Ma and Dad were present, that Mr Ralph gave evidence, and Sister Farrington and Dr Hawkins from the hospital, and Maud and Agnes from Mrs Cameron’s were called as witnesses, but I can recall none of this. When I read that ‘the woman was carried out of the court in a swooning condition’, it is an effort to keep it clear in my head that it is me they are writing about, and not somebody else. Some other Margaret Heffernan.
I am sentenced to death on 20 January and it is not until 12 February that this sentence is commuted. They keep me all this time in the prison infirmary. I am told the sentence will never be carried out: the governor herself, the nurses, the warders, the other prisoners in the infirmary are all quite sure of this. Miss Goldstein and her friend Miss Hamilton visit – they too are confident that the sentence will never be carried out. They bring me newspaper columns that say as much; tell me there are petitions, letters to the premier, the Solicitor-General, there is no possibility that I will be hanged. ‘You should make the most of your stay here,’ says one cheery nurse, patting the plump mattress. ‘Only the patients and lifers get feather mattresses, even the specials only get a straw mat to sleep on. You’ll never sleep better.’
But I do not sleep well. Every night, just as I drift off, a voice hisses in my ear that I should get what I deserve, that it is justice to hang me, not to let me live. And if I sleep it is only to dream of a baby crying, crying, crying, and there is no way to silence it but to wake.
In that first month it is death I wish for.
Death, not life.
Miss Goldstein asks me why I did not write to let someone know of my trouble.
‘Well, I did write to Ma,’ I tell her, but—’
She interrupts. ‘I believe, yes, I’m certain someone mentioned that your local post office, the Dederang office, burnt down on the 13th or 14th of the month. No doubt your letter was lost then—’
She pauses, and continues: ‘They didn’t receive it, did they?’
‘No, they never did.’ I am able to answer quite honestly, though I suppose I should add that I still have the letter in my box, that it was never sent.
‘You poor creature,’ Miss G. says to me and then to Miss Hamilton, smiling: ‘Her case just gets worse and worse, or I suppose I should say better and better.’
Really, this particular lie was not mine, but theirs.
They let Mrs Ralph visit while I am in the hospital, which is, the matron tells me, against the rules. There are usually no visits for the first three months, and then by rights it should be close family members only, but because I am under sentence of death and my parents have made no inquiries, they are willing to make allowances. The governor herself has agreed to it.
Mrs R. is her usual kind self. She tells me that she had brought me flowers and fruit, a bag of sweets, and a copy of the latest Australasian from Harry, but the warders took away her bag at the front gates. There is a bewildered look on her face, she shuffles her feet nervously and pulls down the brim of her hat whenever any of the nurses pass by. Her eyes dart here and there, past me to old Granny Edwards who is sitting up in bed and grinning her toothless smile and laughing her mad whinnying laugh, head nodding like a jack-in-the-box; and then over to Mavis Long, who is lying flat on her back, her eyes wide and never blinking, muttering under her breath over and over, ‘Did I never, did I never, did I never …’
Mrs Ralph tries to make conversation. I can see that it is difficult for her, but there’s nothing I can do to help. ‘Goodness,’ she says, smiling brightly, ‘this is not too bad, deary. I had certainly imagined something worse. Why it’s quite clean. I had been expecting … something else.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘I suppose it’s not too bad.’
‘And are the … are the nurses kind?’
‘They’re kind enough,’ I say.
‘Yes, well, that’s a blessing. Well,’ she says, ‘Ralph sends you his best wishes, and all the girls, and even old Ling, and they all hope you’ll be back on your feet soon.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m feeling that much better. The doctor says I’ll be back to my old self in no time at all.’
‘Good. And I’m sure you will be.’ She pats my hand gently. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be fine, Maggie.’ A nurse passes by and Mrs Ralph jumps up. ‘I suppose I should get going. I just wanted to see that you were all right. It’s Friday and they’ll all be idling if they don’t have me there.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’
‘We’ve still got your box. That Mrs Guest sent it over after you were … Anyway, she sent it over to us. Now, is there anything you’d like out of it? I’d be happy to have it brung over, or I could send it up to your people if you like, or if you want we’ll look after it until …’ she swallows and looks away. ‘Oh Lord, Maggie,’ she says, looking at me straight for the first time. ‘I’m that sorry … You know they’re all saying – the papers and all that – there are petitions and hundreds of people have been signing them. It’s all over the papers. They reckon they won’t … that the sentence’ll never be carried out. That it’s just a …’
She swallows again, takes my hand and squeezes it.
‘I’d best be going, then. I daresay you’ll be needing your rest.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ I say.
She smiles and kisses my cheek, looking relieved.
‘How’s Harry?’ I think to ask. ‘Still full of plans?’
‘Not so many these days. He’s gone a bit quiet on us, has Harry.’
Harry quiet. Something I can’t quite imagine.
‘Oh, I almost forgot—’ she reaches into her coat pocket. ‘There’s a letter here from him. Though I suppose I should have told them before I brung it in. It won’t get you into any trouble will it?’
I’m not so sure, but I tell her no anyway and she hands me a fat envelope.
‘Harry was that upset,’ she says, ‘like us all. He went to the court you know. He was almost beside himself. He’d be here to see you, only they won’t let him in. He brung me over today – he’s waiting outside for me now.’
I cannot think what to say. I say nothing.
She speaks in a rush: ‘Poor Harry, he just doesn’t know why it is you didn’t ask any of us to help, which goes for me, too. You know we would have done anything we could, Ralph and Harry and me, you know we would’ve. Anything we could, if you’d of told us how bad it was in that place.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t all that bad.’ It is out before I consider what I am saying and the look Mrs Ralph gives me is full of wondering, and I know that she is thinking that if it weren’t so bad, why was it I left and then did what I did. And I know she is wondering, too, how it was that I had the nerve to spend that night at Ralph’s, straight after. How it was that I had been able to tell her and Mr Ralph such a terrible lie. ‘My boy died,’ I told them. ‘The doctors can’t say why. My poor little Jack, gone.’ She is remembering, I know, the room they gave me for the
night, the meals, the train fare back to the hospital the next morning. She is wondering and remembering, and her eyes are full of questions that I can never answer.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and when I open them she has gone.
My dear friend Maggie,
I hope you do not mind that I call you that, because, especially now, I would like you to know that I think fondly of you as ever, and only wish there was something real and practical I could be doing to help you at this terrible time. I am, as is my sister and all of us here, getting together signatures for a petition that is to be sent to the premier on yr behalf and we have had practicaly every patron who has heard of yr situation come in especially to sign and to send their sympathy and their best wishes, so you know there are many people out here, Maggie, who are thinking of you and doing whatever they can to help – and all are certain that the sentence will be commuted without much delay.
I only wish Maggie dear, and I am sorry if this pains you to hear, I am only sorry that you did not feel you could trust me in yr hour of need, for you must know that my fondness for you runs deeper than I can express properly, and your troubles have only made those feelings stronger, and you must know that if there is anything, EVER, that I can do for you I will do it – if you will only ask. I realise that you do not think of me in that capacity, but I would be pleased if you would just think of me as another brother. I know that brothers can be a d____d nuisance, and you already have two which you probably think is more than enough, still you will get accustomed to having a third.
I would visit you every day if I could for I miss your happy smile about the place – we all do – and it is a little dull here, the other girls are not at all satisfying to tease. (Though that Lizzie has a ferocious left hook, someone shld have warned me.)
Mr Burnett says he will keep ordering in yr serial and have it sent on if I can so you will be able to keep up with matters that are of interest. I have included a cartoon from this week’s Bulletin that I thought might amuse you.
