Out of the Silence

by Wendy James

  Remember I am thinking of you always,

  Your devoted ‘brother’,

  Harry J. Harrison

  Miss Goldstein herself comes to visit me with ‘good news’. The governor is with her, and Miss Hamilton. I have been given light duties and am up out of bed dusting the infirmary’s iron bedsteads. Miss Goldstein takes my hands, smiling: ‘Well, my dear, we have done it. The sentence has been commuted.’

  My legs feel suddenly weak.

  ‘It’s wonderful news, isn’t it? Such a victory.’

  ‘Oh yes. Thank you. It’s wonderful, Miss Goldstein. I cannot tell you how grateful—’

  ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘Please, don’t thank me, it is only what’s right.’

  ‘Is it—? Am I—? Does that mean I can go?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Miss Goldstein frowns. ‘Oh dear, Maggie. No. If it was in my power you would be able to leave right now, but it’s not and I’m afraid they’ve decided you’ve still a prison term to serve. It’s what – two years, Elizabeth?’

  ‘It’s four years, Maggie.’ Miss Hamilton looks at me unhappily.

  ‘With good behaviour, four years can generally be reduced to three.’ This from Mrs Henderson, the governor, her voice grave.

  ‘Yes – four years, three years. It is still dreadful, don’t think I don’t know it. And you can be sure we’ll be mounting a campaign immediately to have the sentence reduced. But my dear, dear Maggie, to have brought it thus far – what a relief. What a victory for justice!’

  I force a smile. ‘Four years,’ I manage. ‘I suppose that’s not so bad.’

  ‘We’ve brought cakes, haven’t we Elizabeth? Cream buns, to celebrate. Perhaps we could have tea, Mrs Henderson?’

  The cream buns look better than any cream bun I could have imagined. They are the sort of cake I dreamt about when I was a child. But here, now, for all I care, it could be dust that I am eating.

  Miss G. shakes my hand when she leaves. ‘Well, Maggie, I must say it has been a pleasure to know you, and such a pleasure to be able to remedy something of your situation. Now, I know this is a dreadful place and that you shouldn’t be here at all, but try to be brave, my dear, we won’t forget you. We have petitions being prepared as we speak, don’t we Eliza? And I’m certain we’ll have you out of here in no time. We have some work to do, but at least you can sleep a little more peacefully now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, I have a busy time ahead of me, so I probably won’t be able to visit, but Maggie, you have my address and I want you to promise that if you need anything – anything – you will write and ask.’

  ‘The inmates are only allowed to send one letter every three months, Miss Goldstein, and we do prefer that they keep in contact with their families.’ Mrs Henderson’s tone is firm.

  ‘Well, I’m sure Mrs Henderson will contact me for you … Anyway, I can write and let you know how things are progressing.’

  ‘Only one letter per month can be received, Miss Goldstein, and I’m sorry, but I cannot be seen to be favouring any particular inmate.’ Mrs Henderson’s manner has suddenly become stiff and formal, and I can see that Miss Goldstein is quite put out.

  ‘Well, perhaps I could keep in contact via your family …?’

  Her friend interrupts. ‘If you’d like, I can keep visiting for a time at least, perhaps in some official capacity …’ She looks at Miss Goldstein, who nods, and at Mrs Henderson who purses her lips and shakes her head.

  ‘But you have no official position, do you Miss Hamilton? So you’d have to come as a regular visitor. And I’m afraid visitors are only allowed every three months, and again, we like to encourage immediate family. You are, of course, very welcome to make inquiries directly of me if you have any particular concerns as to Miss Heffernan’s wellbeing.’

  Mrs Henderson comes back to the ward that evening after supper. ‘Matron tells me that you are much improved, Maggie,’ she says. ‘We’ll move you into a cell in the morning.’ I can only nod, my throat is tight and I am afraid that if I speak I will break down into crying. ‘It’s not so bad, my dear.’ Mrs Henderson’s voice is gentle, her face concerned. ‘You’re to be placed in the reformatory. None of the women there are at all frightening, they’re all first offenders like you, or come from reasonably respectable backgrounds. You’ll find the work is not so hard. And there are prayer groups, and classes some nights. If you set your mind to it, resign yourself, the time will go much faster.’

  ‘But Miss Goldstein said there are to be more petitions … She’s sure I’ll be released.’

  Mrs Henderson’s lips tighten, though her voice is still quite gentle. ‘It would be best, Maggie, if you put any thoughts of release out of your mind. It wouldn’t be wise to set too much store by such promises. They are good people, no doubt, people like Miss Goldstein, and you have a great deal to thank her for, but she is a busy woman, my dear, with many important matters to attend to. And I know from years of experience that the wheels of the law are very slow to turn.’

  ‘You would do best to resign yourself to your time here. To put all your energies into work and prayer. To hold out false hope is only to punish yourself unnecessarily. You have a sentence to serve, Maggie, and you had best serve it.’

  I manage to work it out in my head, though I was never one for arithmetic at school: four years hard labour is 48 months; is 208 weeks; is 1456 days. I do not attempt to add up the hours. They are beyond my mathematical ability, beyond thinking about. And they will add up themselves without any help from me.

  Elizabeth

  Elizabeth Hamilton’s diary

  17 April, 1900

  Visit to prison this afternoon. Vida had obtained permission to meet with Maggie (she went straight to the prison committee, above the governor, who no doubt would not have agreed to the visit) to apprise her of the recent deputation, but she was suddenly unable to go and asked me to go in her stead, which I was pleased enough to do.

  Maggie has been moved from the infirmary to the Coburg Reformatory. This is not a part of the main women’s prison, but quite a separate section for women who, like Maggie, are designated ‘specials’: those women whose crimes are of a minor nature, or whose character and behaviour – and chances for reformation – are good.

  The prison quarters were not what I expected. Oh, there was the clanging of gates and doors behind one; the blank, grim-faced warders. All these trivial horrors were in evidence, but the reformatory itself, set to one side of the main prison, is surrounded by a large, well-kept garden, a pleasant enough setting even at this time of the year. Though (and perhaps I fancied it), the colours seemed more subdued than elsewhere in the city – no crimsons or oranges amongst the flowers, only muted pinks and pale yellows, and the foliage was all quite dreary. Inside, while not exactly cheerful, the prison seemed more like a hospital than the dank, dark dungeon of my imaginings. Clean polished floors, whitewashed walls, the prisoners themselves simply but tidily dressed in plain smocks and overalls. Not a ball or chain in sight. Still, I was aware of a slowness, a strange feeling of timelessness – of suspension. The place is empty of all but what’s essential to the basest existence: there are no ornaments, no bright colours, no portraits or landscapes on the walls. The women’s dresses are drab, ill-fitting, unadorned. The quietness too – the rule of silence is followed, so there is no chatter to be heard, only a gentle murmur of what must be illicit whispered conversations. And perhaps, too, this murmur has something to do with the women’s footwear – a kind of soft slipper that produces an ambling, shuffling gait, though why would they hurry? I’m sure such a life involves eking out jobs – making them last, rather than rushing them through, for there is no leisure, no home to return to.

  I was led to what the young wardress – a cheery lass with a thick Irish brogue – explained was not the usual receiving room, but a special drawing room reserved for such meetings. This was indeed a comfortable room. I was served afternoon tea while waiting for Maggie. I’d typed up the notes
from the premier’s deputation, so was able to present her with a copy. I explained that our best hope was in proving Dr Stawell’s definition of puerperal mania incorrect, that other medical expertise maintained that loss of memory isn’t necessarily a symptom. Maggie singularly unimpressed by this fact, indeed the substance of the deputation seemed only to vex her. Annoyed in particular by Vida’s reference to her lack of intelligence. I explained that this was not meant personally, but was suggested in order that her case seem more hopeless: if she were to be seen as less able, intellectually, then she would not be seen as wholly culpable for her crime in terms of the law. Still, she was rather agitated. She’s right, of course. How would I like to be spoken of in such terms? As if I were some sort of an idiot? Humiliating. Also gave her the letters sent earlier by family members and friends to read. These provided some colour and animation and numerous indignant retorts. Occasionally the girl I imagine to be the ‘real’ Maggie – lively, bright, mischievous – cannot help but make an appearance. What a contrast she is to the burdened, sorrowful woman she has become.

  She asked if there was any firm news to pass on. Miss Goldstein is doing her best was all I could tell her. Letters, meetings, resolutions, etc. Such crumbs, but she did not seem particularly disappointed, as though it was no more than she’d expected. She looks sturdier than on previous visits, but still passive, withdrawn and, apart from the little outbursts when she read the letters, quite listless.

  She seems resigned to her life in prison. ‘It’s not so bad,’ she said. ‘At least here we are more or less left to ourselves, are not preached at and prayed over, apart from the prison visitors, who are the worst.’ She clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Though I don’t mean you, miss. But you’re not really like the rest of ’em are you?’

  I asked her if there was anything she’d like – books, perhaps, or magazines. But she says no, all reading material must be approved by Mrs Henderson and the committee, which means that only works of a religious nature are permitted. She said that she had been an avid reader of the serialised romances of The Australasian and did I subscribe? Disappointed that I had no knowledge – she has been wondering what became of such and such a character. I suppose such pleasures become even more desirable, being prohibited. So unfair – to not be permitted even imaginary excursions into a world less cheerless than your own …

  As I was leaving she asked – suddenly quite eager — when I would be able to visit her again. I explained that as this visit had only been approved by the committee for a specific purpose, and without the governor’s permission, it was unlikely that I would be able to return. She was quite cast down and though I promised her that Miss Goldstein would be making frequent inquiries as to her wellbeing, and that she was not to think she had been forgotten, I’m afraid my assurances were cold comfort.

  4 May

  Went into the city after school and bought a length of grey crepe for skirt, and a new cambric blouse, ready-made – white with slightest blue tint, and plain cuffs and collar, 1/6. Some beautiful bright satin ribbon caught my eye, so I bought various lengths to send to the Tucker girls: the scarlet for Thisbe, a peacock for Isolde and rainbow for Pandora. Bought extra of the peacock and thought I might send it to Maggie. Perhaps inappropriate, but will lend some colour to her prison grey. Though I doubt that such fripperies are allowed.

  11 May

  Last day at Merton Hall. Miss Morris said she was sorry she could not retain my services longer, she had hoped to extend my original terms, but happily her sister is well enough to resume teaching. She will keep me in mind if another position comes up.

  I should have sought another position before this, but was confident that this work would continue. Will have to draw down more of my principal.

  June 5th, 1900

  A letter from Robbie. Enthusiastic and full of ideas as always. Can see him so clearly as I read. His life seems to be going in a direction he approves: his novel is almost finished and he has already sold serial rights to a new monthly magazine for what seems to me to be an extraordinary sum of money. He again offered to pay my way – would like me with him, to have family is the only thing missing in his life, he says. I miss him terribly too, but reading between the lines – since my frank advice he has become rather circumspect in what he reveals of this matter – I have no doubt that an engagement will shortly be announced, and regardless of my feelings towards his prospective bride, I certainly don’t want to end my years playing the gooseberry, or the devoted aunt or jealous old-maid sister. I am better here, all things considered. I have come to value my relative ‘independence’, however lonely.

  15 June

  Still no work on the horizon. Perhaps I should consider a domestic position. I’m sure Alice would provide me with a glowing ‘character’, were I to ask, & according to Harriet the ‘going rate’ for a ‘general’ is not so bad – twelve shillings a week for a fourteen-hour day, six-and-a-half days a week.

  Yet somehow doubt anyone would hire me, despite the chronic shortage of reliable domestics.

  26 June

  The Goldstein’s Bourke Street apartment, Oxford Chambers, is now habitable, and only six months later than they had anticipated. Vida to move in at the end of next month – she will wait until the rest of the family have settled. She must be very pleased to return to the bosom of her family, but our circle will be somewhat diminished. Though perhaps this particular diminution will be a positive thing for James.

  I wonder if Vida is aware of the contrast in our two situations. Her exile has been entirely voluntary, pleasant, positive, and soon it will be over. Would I were as fortunate.

  17 July

  A Woman’s Suffrage Bill has again been passed by the lower house. This time the campaign to have it accepted in the upper house is to be more fiercely fought, says Vida. James says it will not go through – the make-up of the upper house hasn’t changed and most of the gentlemen concerned have made their opposition public. ‘Oh, but we must try, James. Perhaps we will manage to prick their consciences – it is the will of the people after all.’ At which James harrumphs and goes back to his paper. Is it my imagination or has he become less strident in his opposition?

  19 July

  Letter to The Argus today from two young women protesting the Woman’s Suffrage Bill. At breakfast James could not contain his laughter – evidently the two signatories are both daughters of Conservative Legislative Assembly members. ‘Pricking their consciences, indeed,’ he chuckled. ‘Looks like the gauntlet has been thrown down, Vi. This is nothing less than a declaration of war.’

  THE WOMAN’S SUFFRAGE BILL – A WOMAN’S PROTEST

  To the Editor of The Argus

  Sir, Would you kindly give space in your valuable columns to voice a protest against the Woman’s Suffrage Bill. We believe that the movement has not been considered by those whom it most concerns, for two-thirds of Victoria’s female population do not know or care which way it goes. Now, is it fair that a momentous question like this should be settled without hearing the opinions of those who do not wish for it?

  For there are many such, though they have not yet spoken out. In order to give these an opportunity of expressing their opinion we intend sending a letter to the Legislative Council, with signatures attached.

  This is the only way of proving what women do wish for, and if only they would consider how much hangs on this movement I am sure many would be glad to sign their names. Will not our sisters pause and consider that the whole future of our colony depends on the passing of this measure? Where will be the happiness of a home when the wife votes against her husband’s wishes, or a daughter against her father’s wishes?

  And when will be the time for the upbringing and rearing of the children when women are attending election meetings, polling booths, &c? Far be it from us to suppose that women are not competent to vote – we do not think that; but we do think that the pure and holy influence in the home will be lessened by the granting of voting powers to women …


  We would ask you to give the matter your careful consideration and (if possible) your support.

  Yours, &c.,

  Carrie M. Reid

  Freda Derham

  Extract of letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert

  21 July

  Last Sunday we had a lunch to mark Vida’s impending departure. David Syme, the proprietor of The Age, was invited. A coup for Harriet as he is known to be something of a recluse. A radical in his younger days, says James, and with his paper behind him, one who wielded, and still wields, considerable power. Not a man to be trifled with. Even mellowed by age – he’s an elderly man, in his late seventies I would guess – he seems a formidable personage. He was rather taken with Vida, whose presence, I think, provided the lure. His newspaper is a vocal supporter of women’s suffrage and has launched a counterattack against The Argus’s increasingly anti-suffrage stance.

  Salon No. 4

  Mr Syme

  The vote is one thing, and you have my support on that, but as to women entering the male sphere – this I cannot feel entirely comfortable with. Yes, women should be equal, but how is our society to continue if women take up careers in the same manner as men? What woman will choose marriage and motherhood? How do you imagine motherhood will maintain its elevated, sacred status? I must confess I see women – hordes of ’em – sacrificing the flower of their womanhood, as you are doing Miss Goldstein, and I can’t help but wonder how society will survive. Who will undertake the duties we have designated to be a mother’s? And it’s universal – even the savages divide their society thus.