by Wendy James
Vida worked hard to enlist Mrs Henderson’s support, arguing that Maggie should not have been sentenced at all and that the girl could be an example in a positive way – that if she were to be released it would be a victory for women everywhere, a recognition that such acts were not simply ‘bad’ or ‘evil’, but a reasonable response to an unreasonable situation. She pointed out that the medical evidence given at the trial regarding Maggie’s mental state was in dispute and that the Solicitor-General has been asked to review the case, so an acquittal is not out of the question.
Vida convincing, as always, but Mrs Henderson remarkably resistant: said while she thought that the overturning of the death sentence was only fair and just, she did not see how the girl could be released as there was no doubt that she had committed the act. Felt that it would be difficult indeed to convince those in authority that it would be justice to free her, and that she was not sure there was much sense in making an example of such a girl, or in giving her expectations that had no real hope of being met. Best to let Maggie get used to her new surroundings and get her health back and her time done, she said, and then get her out into the world again with the whole thing forgotten and a new life, a fresh start.
Poor girl. She has been kept in the infirmary here, which is as clean and bright and comfortable as it was in the Melbourne Gaol, but this visit she was up and about, cleaning or dusting. Seemed harsh to have her at work, but perhaps too much time to reflect would only make things worse. And I suppose there is some sense in getting convalescing prisoners familiar with what will be their daily round soon enough. I was certainly lulled into a false sense of ease by the relatively comfortable surroundings, had almost forgotten the gravity of the girl’s situation, so was quite shocked when I came face to face with her. Pale, gaunt, obviously unwell, eyes full of an anguish terrible to see and impossible to describe.
Once she realised her error – that she was not free to go – she managed to behave as if she was pleased, smiled prettily and said she was grateful for our assistance, but there was a mechanical quality to her conversation, and she seemed so lost. I felt rather horrified and somehow complicit as a bearer of tidings that must have induced relief and shock simultaneously. She says and does all the right things, is as agreeable and grateful as could be wished, but I cannot help feeling that somehow it is she judging us. And finding us wanting.
I mentioned my feelings to Vida on the journey home, but she laughed and said I was oversensitive, that Maggie is a very simple girl, that some sullenness from this class is only to be expected, and that I should try not to construe anything deeper from her response; that I should not get caught up wondering about what she might be feeling – no good will come from such imaginings and I will only make myself melancholy for no purpose. The poor girl was off her head and killed her babe and she is no doubt suffering terribly, but she might be any girl, there is nothing particular to this story or this girl that hasn’t occurred a thousand times, or that couldn’t happen to any number of girls of that type. That I might think her heartless but there’s no point in going any further than that – we have a job to do and that is to get the unfortunate creature out of prison & to work to ensure that such tragedies cease to be the lot of woman.
I don’t think her heartless – her work is evidence against this charge – but must confess I do wonder at her lack of imagination. For a country that revels in its classlessness this seems to me a type of the worst kind of snobbery: to see people as types and to disregard the great mystery of ‘self’ that surrounds us all, poor Maggie no less than anyone. Perhaps that is how Vida sees us all – as types. I suppose I am pigeonholed in her head as the ‘tragic old maid’, with her uses, but sadly lacking any interior life. Oh dear.
Maybe she is right and I am such a type – no doubt I am regarded as that by most of my antipodean acquaintances. What makes me so different from poor Enid Gregory, for instance, and am I not guilty of the very same indifference towards her? To me, her life & her current circumstances, while undoubtedly sad, are in some ways simply the result of a combination of certain actions and a particular temperament. Yet to Enid herself they are, of course, a tragedy on a grand scale. Who knows what loves lost, what potential for greatness or generosity lies beneath her pitiable and bitter façade? What mysteries?
1 April
Mr Stratford to luncheon today. At Vida’s invitation, but it seems she had forgotten, or had made other arrangements, or perhaps, as James rather unkindly suggested, it was her idea of an April Fool’s joke.
Mr Stratford’s disappointment at Vida’s absence palpable – he is to leave for Brisbane on Wednesday. He and James at loggerheads again over question of trades unions. Mr Stratford says they are the working man’s only protection; James argues that to encourage the masses to combine is to invite danger, that the lower classes should depend on those enlightened and socially responsible members of the classes above them to protect the interests of the weak and vulnerable, as they always have done. Edward vehemently opposed to this: in too many instances the exploitation of the working man can be laid at the doors of those very enlightened souls that James champions: what of the mines and mills, the use of child labour, the overwork of factory girls, the ill-treatment of domestic staff? These are the kindnesses that those of us who are educated and who occupy positions of power see fit to impose on the poor. ‘That is in England,’ came James’s irritable reply. ‘Australia is a working man’s paradise – haven’t you heard? Here the worker is more inclined to take advantage of his employer than the other way round.’
A tense meal. Harriet intervened at regular intervals to steer the conversation into calmer waters, but these proved impossible to discover, so both men sat sulking for the rest of the meal while H. and I valiantly chewed on such controversial morsels as the weather and the rising cost of coal.
Mr Stratford left as soon after the meal as was polite. Pressed into my hand an envelope to be handed on to Vida at the earliest convenience. I feel for the poor fellow. She thinks kindly of him, I’m sure, but there are probably a dozen men about whom she thinks equally kindly!
Extract of letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert
3 April
… Since Maggie Heffernan’s sentence was commuted, Vida has been working hard to keep her case in the public eye. She is hoping to have Maggie’s sentence lessened or completely repealed, but unfortunately, as is often the way, now that the girl’s immediate situation has been somewhat alleviated and she is no longer under threat of death, public interest in her case is not so intense and attention has been diverted elsewhere. None of the newspapers have been interested in carrying the tale any further, there have been no more editorials on the matter, and though V. has sent several letters to the editor regarding the matter, none have been published. The Age newspaper, however, has agreed to freely advertise notice of a public meeting to discuss Maggie’s case, and a deputation that is to include several prominent pro-suffrage politicians is to meet with the premier to present him with the resolutions. Vida, her brother-in-law, Mr Champion, who is evidently a very good speaker, as well as Dr Strong and two parliamentarians – Mr MacKenzie & Dr Maloney – are to put her case forward. I offered to take notes and type up the proceedings & resolutions and then to accompany the deputation itself, in order to record the ensuing deliberations and conclusions. I get to use my talents for a social purpose, at last! Aunt L. would be overjoyed.
Despite the general lack of interest, Vida has received a deluge of correspondence from Maggie’s family, friends and acquaintances, who have all been busily penning letters in her defence. Most are such sad, moving missives, Rob. Vida is confident that her mother’s contention that Maggie is weak-minded due to a fall as an infant, and that she has suffered from debilitating ‘headaches’ as a result, may further the poor girl’s case. There have been several letters making this point but, even so, I think it highly unlikely, & that it is perhaps merely a well co-ordinated, well-intentioned fi
b. Having met Maggie, I am not at all sure that she suffers from any weakness of mind. Indeed, I would have thought the opposite. Some of the other letters are strangely malicious: one respondent claims that M. was always a flirt. What good do they think such information will do? Why would anyone want to dwell on the petty differences of the past when a life is at stake? Human nature is such a mystery …
You say your Jenny has made an attempt to reconcile – that she finds she cannot do without you & that the unhappiness she has had you endure is all on account of some ‘silly misunderstanding’. She may say she is now very sorry for that, but when you ask what I would advise, you must know that I wish very much that you would aim to do without her, however severely that may pain you right at this moment. I do have some reservations about her, Rob. How can I not when she asks such a lot, and seems to appreciate so little of who & what you are? But I know that in matters of love a sister’s opinion (however valued) counts for very little, and nor should it. In matters of love the heart does not really care what the head knows.
Elizabeth Hamilton’s diary
9 April
As arranged, met with Mr Tucker and the three girls. We embarked on what was bound to be a rather dutiful tramp through the National Museum, but soon the three girls mutinied. Could we not visit a fair or park, they begged. Surely there were far more exciting places to visit in the city, they were on holidays, after all. So the afternoon was spent at the circus. First we visited the menagerie, which even I thought rather remarkable – the monkeys entertaining, their mischief so human-like, and the Royal Bengal tigers, though miserably caged, still most impressively regal. The three girls got very ‘high’ – the monkey’s mischief somewhat infectious – and were full of chatter and nonsense. Mr Tucker was rather pleased by his usually overly subdued girls’ merriment, too pleased to protest, and indeed I found myself joining in the fun with a lightness of spirit that I have not felt for some time.
We visited all manner of tents and entertainments, and then procured lunch – an odd but tasty assortment bought from some none-too-wholesome-looking vendors. Then came the matinee of the circus proper. It was quite as thrilling as promised, indeed the beautiful Sisters Lalla – the wire artistes – were perhaps a little too thrilling – poor Pandora was almost hysterical with fear when their performance reached its climax, and her father was compelled to remove her from the tent! Not so the other two, who found it perfectly entrancing and were quite contemptuous of their sister’s ‘weakness’.
A phrenologist and mesmerist had set up shop outside the circus grounds and the two elder girls decided this was an exciting Melbourne experience that should not be passed up. They were so delighted with his reports that I was persuaded to offer myself up for a reading. What a curious encounter. The phrenologist, a Herr Kocher, was a peculiar walrus-moustached fellow, who muttered brusquely to me in German and was mortified when I answered him in kind. He then proceeded to feel my head all over, which was strangely pleasant, humming and muttering all the while: ‘Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Aaaah. Zis lobe here is very well developed, but as for this! Oh dear, oh dear – the organ is scarcely evident, it has atrophied completely, I’m afraid. Tch tch. Hmmmm.’ When he had painstakingly examined every lump and bump my poor skull possesses, he sat down and quite bluntly informed me that I had a terribly jealous nature, was overdeveloped in the imaginative and creative faculties, and very overdeveloped emotionally, but that I required work on my practical and intellectual side – as evidenced by my almost non-existent something-or-other organ. He said there were exercises I could do to develop these if I wished to make further visits at the cost of two shillings, but I declined and he sighed and said that in my present state I would not be a terribly useful employee, he could not pretend otherwise, that an artistic career was my only option, but as that was certainly not suitable for a lady, he could offer no suggestions, only that I probably would not be a good wife or mother and should not, until I had worked on my shortcomings, take that road either, as it would be a very grave mistake. I thanked him warmly and crossed his palm with silver.
When I told the children his prognosis dear little Pandora looked at me and said gravely, ‘Oh, but Miss Hamilton, he must be a very silly man. I think you would make a lovely mother, and I have so often wished that you could be mine. If you and Miss Hamilton married, Daddy, then Miss Hamilton could be my mummy, couldn’t she?’ The two older girls groaned with embarrassment, and Mr Tucker laughed and ruffled Pandora’s hair, murmuring that she was a funny little pussycat. But my face was aflame, and I was not certain where to look.
We had dinner, the girls weary but satisfied, at the Federal Coffee Palace. It was the most enjoyable meal I have had in some time. Mr Tucker seems transformed: there was no evidence of that raw pain and sorrow that so overpowered him during our first acquaintance. He is still somewhat subdued, but this is only the natural reserve of an obviously thoughtful and intelligent man. Whatever his previous failings, he is certainly a devoted father now. He was, as I had thought, formerly a solicitor with a large Melbourne firm, but said that the country life is suiting him far better, as it turns out. He enjoys the physical work, he says – being out in the open air with less time for brooding, a sentiment I share in theory, I must say.
They are to return home tomorrow and Mr Tucker has invited me to visit. The new homestead will be ready in the next couple of months & the girls are just bursting to show me through ‘all the big new rooms’. In addition, they’re eager to show off the kitchen garden that I planted & they have expanded to the point that they now require very little fresh food delivered. Not only that, but Mavis who, it seems, has remarkably green fingers, has begun work on a proper formal garden on the grounds of the new homestead. Mr Tucker says it encompasses nearly half an acre and is already a wonder to behold! I must confess I am intrigued …
Home in time for supper. Told Vida and James of my visit to the phrenologist, and his deliberations. Load of rubbish, said James, can’t imagine you being so gullible, but Vida surprised us both by admitting that she had visited the same man not so long ago. As she recalled he had declared that several of her ‘bumps’ were quite deformed, that she therefore had too little feeling, a tendency to coldness and too much intellect. He seemed to think she would make an excellent mother, however. She seemed rather unsettled by the charge of coldness – said that she wondered sometimes whether it wasn’t true, that Elsie had accused her of being cold on several occasions, at which James was quick to point out that Elsie’s idea of warmth is singular, and on no account to be emulated.
10 April
Deputation met with premier today regarding Maggie’s continued imprisonment. The case hinges, it seems, on whether Maggie was actually suffering from a mania and therefore whether or not she was responsible for her actions. Is it truly, as Dr Strong says, merely a ‘scientific question’? I doubt that even the poor girl herself, were she asked, could give a satisfactory answer. I cannot help thinking (hoping?) that the workings of the human mind are a far greater mystery than we imagine, and perhaps a mystery that will prove impossible to ‘solve’.
Deputation to the Premier
The Case of Margaret Heffernan
A deputation from a public meeting held in the Temperance Hall, Melbourne, recently, with reference to the case of Margaret Heffernan, convicted of murdering her infant child, waited on the premier today, to present to him the resolutions of the meeting. Mr MacKenzie and Dr Maloney accompanied the deputation, which was briefly introduced by the former gentleman.
Mr H. H. Champion desired to point out that the woman on whose behalf they were present, when on her trial, was defended by the Crown, and as only a small sum of money was allowed for the purpose her case was injured by her not being more fully defended. The deputation desired to submit that the girl was mentally weak. Letters from her parents, residents, and persons in whose employ she had been went to show that … If all the facts of the case had been put before the court they would have shewn ther
e was absolutely no premeditation. After the child was born the girl wrote to her parents to say what had happened and to ask for help but the post office in which the letter lay was burnt down, and so it never reached the parents …
At the time of her crime she may have been suffering from puerperal mania, and on that point alone her defence stood. The judge cross-examined Dr Stawell on the point, and the doctor said that if she was then suffering from puerperal mania she could not have given so clear and consecutive an account of what happened on the day of the drowning. There seemed to have been some mistake about the doctor’s statement. It was not until five days elapsed that she was examined by the gaol doctors, who said she was not then suffering from puerperal mania. Under the strain of her great distress and the stoppage of her milk, in his opinion, she probably was suffering from puerperal mania. As to Dr Stawell’s evidence, Judge Hodges emphasised the point as to whether it would have been possible for the girl to say what had occurred and the doctor said it would not.