• CHAPTER XXV

ESCAPADES — HUNGER STRIKES — SMUGGLED IN AN ACTRESS’S HAMPER — I VISIT THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY

Gradually all the conspirators who had been tried with me were released. We compared notes; described our matrons, our doctors, our special wardresses, but I kept to myself the story of the taxi breakdown. I thought it wiser. A few days elapsed and the one subject of talk was, “Shall we be re-arrested under ‘The Cat and Mouse Act’?”

Rachel Barrett and I put it to the test. We went for a taxi ride. Nothing happened. The second time I ventured out I was arrested and taken back to prison, but this time to Holloway. Whether the authorities had an idea that we should object to being separated and thus sent us to different prisons the first time I do not know. The minds of Cabinet Ministers when harassed do curious things.

When I arrived at Holloway I felt quite at home, though I did wish the kind Maidstone doctor were there also. I adopted the hunger-strike and was again released in three days.

Before leaving I had the licence read to me, telling me to report myself at the prison in a week. Was it any wonder that the Governor smiled or that I laughed?

I took the licence. I folded it carefully. I had an idea. I waited a few more days. I escaped from “Mouse Castle” in the dead of night and I appeared at the weekly London Pavilion Meeting. After my speech I pulled out my prison licence and put it up for auction. Being the first “Mouse” who had received a licence from the Cat, it brought down the house. I banged down the hammer at the first bidding for £5, which was a proof that I was no business woman! On leaving the Pavilion I was rearrested.

News travels quickly, for the news of my selling my prison licence had reached Holloway before me. The Governor met me. He had to laugh, though he did not wish to do so. “Look here, Miss Kenney, if this goes on and you turn auctioneer I shall expect a commission!” And off he went, obviously amused at what I had done.

The Press were very indignant at my action.

I again adopted the hunger-strike and was out in four days. The licence gave me seven days to recuperate in before reporting.

Things were becoming serious. Mr. Asquith had made a statement somewhere that I had to be prevented from speaking. The house in Campden Hill Square, “Mouse Castle,” was surrounded with detectives. I got away within five minutes of entering it this time. But before the meeting, ten days later, I had to decide how I could get there and evade detectives. I decided to dress as an old lady. Two friends of the Union invited me to lunch and afterwards they dressed me up.

When lunch was over I was taken upstairs. There on the bed lay my new disguise. I was to be dressed up as an old lady, with a rustling silk skirt, a silk blouse, elastic-sided boots, a cape, an old-fashioned bonnet, and a grey wig. I was to be very old. To complete my outfit I had to wear glasses and carry an ebony stick.

When I had completed my disguise, I looked at myself in the glass. I was no longer Annie Kenney — I was Annie Kenney’s grandmother!

Something, however, had still to be done to fill my face out a little. Two plums were found and I put one in each cheek. It was perfect, but not a word could I utter.

An ancient cab came to take “the old lady” to the meeting. Two friends accompanied me. My instructions from the member in charge of the meeting were to go in at the front entrance just like an ordinary member of the audience.

When we arrived at the front entrance I saw in a fiash “my own special detective.” His eyes were piercing each individual. I couldn’t speak — the plums were going to be my downfall. In a second they were out.

“For God’s sake drive on; don’t you see Detective Renshaw? Get to the stage entrance as quickly as possible,” I exclaimed breathlessly.

Instructions were given to the driver. After we had gone a short distance we told him to take us to the stage entrance. When we arrived there were other detectives, but none who knew me like Detective Renshaw, so I felt safer. I hobbled out and limped to the stage door.

Once safely inside, I flew like the wind. The old lady was suddenly turned into a brisk flapper. In two seconds I was in the dressing-room. I took off my disguise as it might be useful again if too many people did not see it. The meeting started. It was known that I was to attempt to run the blockade, and the one thing discussed among the audience was — should I get in or shouldn’t I? The air was electric.

Every one had taken their seats on the platform, when in I strolled, waving my licences — or tickets of leave. The enthusiasm was unbounded. After the chairman’s remarks I was called upon to speak. I auctioned my licence when the meeting was over.

I was again re-arrested and spent a few more days in prison. I had the same licence read out to me, only they gave me eight days to recuperate in instead of seven, why, only the authorities could say. I again escaped from “Mouse Castle.” My one thought was of what disguise I could choose to ensure my getting into the meeting and making my defiant speech.

We all had special messengers and a small bodyguard; my messengers, who were not known to the police, taking messages backwards and forwards between Miss Roe and myself. We had also a “Mouse Secretary,” so I sent her with a letter. My instructions were to procure two actresses’ hampers, one for myself and one as a blind. I also wanted her to procure a house not too far from the Pavilion, where I could spend a short time before the meeting. Headquarters at once replied that they could get what I wanted.

Monday morning arrived, the day of the Pavilion, meeting. I was smuggled into a taxi, and driven to the house which had been hired, went up some stairs and was ushered into a back room. There were two good-sized hampers. One was labelled “Marie Lloyd, Pavilion. Luggage in advance,” and the other was addressed to a solicitor in the city. The hamper that I was to occupy was labelled “Marie Lloyd,” the other one, a fake, was to be dropped into an underground office somewhere. My one fear was that a mistake might be made, and the Marie Lloyd hamper left in the cellar!

Anyhow, I took the risk. I got in, and the hamper was packed with as much paper as it would hold — once I was inside that was not much.

A little later two workmen, who were not in the plot, arrived with their lorry. They were accompanied by a man supporter disguised also as a workman. They were asked to drop the Pavilion hamper first, and then to take the other hamper to the city. I still wondered if I should arrive in the cellar.

The weight of the Pavilion hamper made the driver swear — it nearly downed him, which of course would have done for me from two points of view. The distance to the Pavilion was not far, but it seemed hours before we got there. I think the men must have called for a drink — if they did it showed great wisdom on the part of the male supporter.

At last we stopped. Then the growls began again about the weight, about actresses having no consideration for the poor men who had to carry their baggage, and so on. I was turned, toppled, banged, dropped, before one of them got me (in my hamper, of course) on to his back.

I arrived safely on the platform and made my speech. No one in the audience had any idea of how I had got there, but the same fate as before awaited me on leaving the Pavilion. I was re-arrested, marched off to Holloway, and did a four days’ hunger-strike; then the same old licence was read out quite solemnly, and I was free once more for another eight days.

This was on August 1st, 1913. I spoke at two meetings at the Kingsway Hall. There were no attempts at arrest.

I decided to go abroad. The Government had found themselves beaten for the time being, so I left on the 19th for Deauville, where Christabel was staying as the guest of Mrs. O. H. P. Belmont. I stayed at this fashionable French watering-place for a week, but I was not happy. I had no desire to dress up every day and carry a sunshade and wear white gloves. I wanted freedom, so I left and went to a spot far dearer to my gipsy heart, a little place on the coast of Brittany, and stayed at the tiniest wayside inn with the sweetest and best of people, who loved us like children. My own party consisted of my sister Jessie, my old friend Mrs. Hatfield, a new friend. Miss I. A. R. Wylie, the novelist, and Miss Mary Richardson. We did just as we wished. No sunshade, no gloves, no fashionable clothes were needed, the essential things being a sun-bonnet and a bathing costume. We laughed all day and all night. The people at the hotel called me “the laughing one.” They little realized that I was a gaol-bird, a ticket-of-leave person, and that on my return I should be captured and put into a big London prison.

There is nothing like hard conscientious work to make one enjoy a real holiday — I mean a holiday where you can run wild, not a parade holiday. A parade holiday exhausts me in a week.

I was having a glorious time, but poor Grace Roe was in the thick of it and only I realized what being in the thick of it meant for the one so placed. But, alas! by the second week in September I had a message to be ready to depart from France and to prepare for a strenuous fight.

So I left beautiful quiet La Guimorais, with its kindly people and banks of wild thyme, its rocky coast, golden beach, and rough seas. How I wanted to stay, but the call came. So I departed, I admit with a heavy heart. Miss Wylie, ever a good friend to me, accompanied me. We went to Paris, where I was to get my instructions, and then it was decided that we would return, I disguised, via some port that would not be watched too closely. I arrived safely and repeated the actresses’ baggage episode.

This time greater dangers awaited me. I had no sooner left my hamper than steps were heard. I rushed behind a door and wedged myself tightly there, when I heard a voice say, “Any Suffragette here?” and some one answer, “No, sir.” The door was pushed a little but I stretched myself a little more, so the door gave quite naturally and the police officer withdrew. It was only at these times that I felt my death might be recognized in the Press as Heart Failure,” not because I was afraid of the police or prison, but because I was afraid lest I should be captured and spoil the meeting. I appeared on the platform. The only way I could do this was by crouching down in the middle of the bodyguard, and walking as though I were preparing to amuse the audience as Little Tich.

I had not spoken a dozen words when the platform was swarming with detectives. I was nearly killed in the fray, my supporters pulling me one way, the detectives another. I was captured at last and a taxi was ready to take me back once more to Holloway Prison.

I at once adopted the thirst-strike as well as the hunger-strike. A hunger-strike is bad, but it is child’s play compared to a hunger-and-thirst strike, and both are as nothing to being forcibly fed. For the first twenty-four hours when I was on hunger-strike I felt a little hungry; the second day I felt a little worse; the third day I felt a little better; the fourth day I wanted to cry; the fifth day I felt dazed; the sixth day I wanted to cry, sometimes out of sheer boredom, at other times out of rebellion, and at others out of weakness, and if I was there longer than six days I felt sleepy, a little feverish, and very tired.

I was usually let out on the third or fourth day, but this time I found that they had no intention of releasing me. Late that day the prison doctor came and announced that two special doctors had been sent to see me. I guessed that they had come from the Home Office. They tried to look at my tongue; they tried to feel my pulse, and they made an attempt to feel whether my throat was swollen. When they went to one side of the bed I got all the bedclothes round me and turned over on the other side. Not a word would I say. At last the three doctors had to give it up. They departed looking very angry, firm, and stern. As soon as the door was closed I said to myself : “ You’ve done for yourself. You won’t get out of this place for days ! ” And I did not.

I burst into floods of tears. I cried bitterly for over an hour, yet I could not have done a better thing. The crying seemed to clear my brain, and the sobbing in a weird way, when it was over, made me feel not quite so empty. When I was released on that occasion I had to be carried out.

I was very ill. Dr. Mansell Moullin, Dr. Hugh Fenton, and Dr. Flora Murray had a consultation. The strange thing was I could not speak, and felt as if I was floating on air. I have marvellous recuperative powers, however, and being strong-willed I determined that I would defy Mr. Asquith and appear at the next meeting, even if I had to be carried in. I did attend the Knightsbridge meeting, but I had to be taken in an ambulance and carried on a stretcher. I tried to speak, but found it impossible. I also attended the big Earl’s Court meeting at the Skating Rink, but was obviously too ill to be re-arrested.

This was on December 7th, 1913. After the meeting it was decided that I needed rest and quiet, so a good friend made it possible for me to go to the land of mountains — Switzerland. I had three months’ real rest, after which I felt better. I stayed in Paris for a short time and helped Christabel.

Once a Militant, always a Militant until the Vote was won. I knew that I was needed at home, so I returned quite secretly to “Mouse Castle.” I still had the best part of three years’ sentence hanging over me.

On April 15th there was a Teachers’ Conference at Lowestoft. Mrs. Pankhurst had been asked to speak, but she was too ill, so I volunteered. I shall never forget my flight from “Mouse Castle.”

At the bottom of Campden Hill the detectives were in full force night and day. And at the top were men we looked upon with suspicion. What was I to do? How could I escape? We found that we had members in a house whose side-garden wall was the back-garden wall of “Mouse Castle.” That was the way of exit: no other way was possible. The people were approached and they consented for rope ladders to be used, and all other necessaries to help me to get away.

My “get-up ” was amusing: a black bathing-costume, black stockings on the arms as well as legs, a black veil with holes for me to see where I was going. I just looked like the Black Cat of the pantomime.

About ten o’clock news came — Only two ‘tecs’ but a high moon.” I was just ready to go when another message arrived — “Tecs just arrived in full force,” so I had to wait all dressed up until the signal came about midnight, “All well.”

I went out at the back door. All doors had been oiled, greased, sandpapered, and strips of carpet had been laid across the back garden. There was a chair and a rope ladder attached in some mysterious way. I climbed the ladder and found myself sitting alone on the top of the wall. Then I heard a whisper, “It’s all right,” and there was a ladder being hauled up for me held by two men. How I got down I could never say, but I arrived safely on the ground and I was guided indoors. I went to bed and felt thankful that the first stage had been so successful. The following day I was up early. I was told that the best plan was for me to go with the family in a taxi-cab to church, so I dressed in dark clothes and carried a Bible. I jumped into the taxi and off we drove. We saw the Scotland Yard men looking at “Mouse Castle ” and no doubt wondering what would be our next move. I changed the taxi at Oxford Circus, drove about a bit and changed again, and went to Hyde Park; changed and hired a passing taxi which took me and my friend to the place where we had to stay until it was time to start for the meeting at Lowestoft. I, and the Suilragette who accompanied me, had a private car lent to us, and at midnight we started our journey. We arrived at the Vicarage — where we were being sheltered a few miles from Lowestoft — about lunch-time. We stayed with the kind Vicar and his wife until the day of the meeting. Then we started off once again.

Rooms had been booked by unknown Militants in the teaching profession at Lowestoft, and there my disguise was awaiting me. My disguise this time was very plain, a large fur being the main thing, and no heels to my shoes, so that I looked small. I wore glasses. But the best disguise was the Suffragette with me, slight in build, who was dressed up in a sailor suit, white socks, and carried a school-bag full of books. She was a born actress. We were warned that it would need the greatest care, as the whole place outside was lit up with great arc-lamps and a flashlight. It was Mrs. Pankhurst they expected and they were determined to capture her. We walked to the hall in the midst of teachers and the general public — detectives everywhere, all well known. Each face seemed to be peered into, but my little sailor-clad “niece” did well. She giggled and talked and laughed at the fun she would have when she saw Mrs. Pankhurst caught. She chatted and explained loudly what all the school-girls thought of Suffragettes. My heart beat rather quickly, but in we marched arm-in-arm, niece and aunt, past the regiment of detectives, and I found myself in a few moments inside the dressing-room, changed and ready to speak. The meeting went wild with enthusiasm. Before it was over I changed my dress, and I marched out as a girl with my hair hanging loosely down, a picture-hat on my head, a scarf round my neck and my eyebrows blackened, and my lips and cheeks a little rouged. I got safely away and safely back in London, for which I felt happy. I was once again in the thick of the fight.

Practically all the plans for escape were thought out by the women themselves. One of the younger members was exceedingly clever in thinking out successful escapes. She was known as “The Elusive Pimpernel.”

She was a tiny china-like figure, but wiry — and it must be admitted, wily.

Pimpernel was arrested in connection with the Kew Pavilion fire in London. She was kept in prison on remand, went on hunger-strike, and in three days had worked her way out of prison. She was taken to a house, round which detectives promptly posted themselves to watch for any attempt at escape.

The elusive one had her “get-away ” all planned before she left prison. Within a few days a laundry van called, and the week’s laundry was taken away.

The bundle was heavy, but as it was a friend who carried it there were no complaints; the bundle was dropped inside and the van drove off. With the van went the Suffragette — Cleaving a squad of lynx-eyed “tecs” industriously watching an empty nest.

She stayed in a secluded spot until ready for further work. Unfortunately for her, she was caught accidentally, and once more remanded in custody, which, of course, meant Holloway.

She went on hunger-strike again, and this time was forcibly fed. The authorities, however, could only keep her eight days. She was again released and taken to a house where she once more eluded the detectives. This time she changed clothes with a member about her own build. While the “cat” was sauntering down, the elusive “mouse” strolled up the street, and disappeared.

This time she went into the heart of the country for a rest. She was next heard of in Doncaster. A woman had been arrested in connection with a burning, but it was the Elusive Pimpernel who had done the damage, so to save the other person who had been accused of it, she gave herself up to the police.

Before her case had been tried she went, as usual, on hunger-strike, and also as usual was released — on this occasion in seven days. She was taken to a friend’s residence. The same day a van called with bread. Beside the van-driver there was a van-boy, who walked in with the bread. Out came the van-boy again, mounted the seat beside the driver, and drove away. The Elusive Pimpernel was the van-boy. She had once more outwitted Scotland Yard.

Unfortunately for me some of our very able women had been looking up Church History, and had discovered that in the early days of the Established Church, any outlaw or criminal, whether his offence was political or otherwise, could fly to the Head of the Church and appeal for sanctuary. This idea appealed to Christabel. Who, of course, should she choose but myself? The news came. Would I go with my luggage in hand to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Palace and ask for sanctuary until the Vote was won? Christabel knew that this would not be granted. Of course, if it was part of the policy, I would go, so I went, accompanied by another member. We had not announced by letter that they were to expect such fiery guests. I was admitted. The other lady withdrew.

After a short time I was shown into the Archbishop’s study. I had never in all my life seen an Archbishop, and here was I in the study of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Head of the Church. I wondered if he knew my old vicar, Mr. Grundy, the “Old Man of the Church,” as he was called. I told the Archbishop about him and how I had been confirmed. I did not tell him about my passion for Voltaire, which immediately followed. I asked him if he would provide sanctuary for me, as, like the people of olden days, I was an outlaw. I remembered all the things told to me by the members who had discovered that important fact.

When I told the Archbishop that I had come to stay and that I had brought my luggage, he became hot and irritated. We had a heated argument and did not agree about ancient Church History. He said we were living in modem times, which of course was true. I asked him to use his influence and demand that the Government should give way on this question. We both got hot, and the Archbishop looked disturbed and troubled. Before long his quiet chaplain came and said he wished to speak to me. I was taken into another room, where gentle persuasion was used, but I had come to stay. After a short time a lady appeared. She was an anti-suffragist. This cheered things up a little. It is difficult to argue with those in favour of a cause, easy with those against. We made good friends and I think she was honestly puzzled at my action. Afterwards Mrs. Randall Davidson, the wife of the Archbishop, came in. I felt really sorry for her and I did wish a telephone call would come to say Votes had been granted, then I could have left. I liked her, she appealed to me as being a really good woman who had known silent suffering and deep sorrows. I know nothing of her life, I only say she gave me that impression.

When they all left me I could think. My first thought was how unethereal an Archbishop was, and what a good thing it was for the Church that such dignitaries as he were wrapped either in mystery or in gorgeous robes. I also wondered what place they would occupy in the orthodox heaven.

In the midst of my soliloquy lunch was brought in. I was hungry, so I did justice to the hospitality of my host. In the early afternoon my “anti” friend returned and warned me that Scotland Yard was in full force outside and had threatened to come in and arrest me. Would I not be wise and go out at a side door?“ No, I came in at the front door, and I must go out at the front.” Before long, while we were at tea, the quiet chaplain and my “anti” friend, who I felt was a born Militant though she did not know it, and myself, the door opened and there were my old friends of Scotland Yard. The end of the day saw me back in Holloway. Before leaving the Palace I announced to the chaplain that I should return when I was released.

I was kept there six days, and again I did a thirst- as well as a hunger-strike. So on the 28th of May, 1914, 1 was again released. I went to “Mouse Castle,” ordered an ambulance van and drove to Lambeth Palace. I lay outside the barred gates for a time, secretly wondering what would happen. I had not to wait very long. Scotland Yard appeared, and trundled me off on a police stretcher to the police-court. I would give no address, so was sent to the Workhouse Infirmary. I had not been there long when I heard that my faithful friend Dr. Ede had come to take me back to “Mouse Castle.” How glad I was to leave the Workhouse and once again see the warm fire of the “Castle,” where all the “mice ” were safe from the Government “cat.”

This was my last arrest. The following day I went to Fulham Palace to see the Bishop of London, but as the kindly Bishop reminded my friend and me that he was a bachelor, we decided to leave him in the peace which falls to the lot of the bachelor world. Between that date, the 28th of May, and July 16th, 1914, I visited different parts of the country, raising money for the next big rally.

On July 16th I was announced to speak at the Holland Park Skating Rink. The disguise I decided on was rather unique. I decided to be a fair-haired, gay, flashy East End coster type. At the time I was in hiding in a furnished flat in Maida Vale. My wig was hired. It was a rich gold, with curls over the eyes and ears. I had beads, rings, ear-rings, a feather in my hat, a silk dress, a fancy coat, a feather boa, and two inches added to a pair of patent-leather shoes.

It always took two or three taxi-cabs to take us to a meeting when in disguise, so that no taxi-cab driver could be traced. News came just before we started for the hall. All the detectives excepting one were at the main entrance. When I arrived with my escort, a lady friend, we went to the side door. The escort always had to start a voluminous conversation just as I was getting out of the taxi. We got safely inside the hall. We were shown into seats right at the front. In a few minutes some one came and said I had got the wrong seat. A group of Suffragettes, stage managed, were there, tickets in hand, waiting for their seats, and while every one was supposedly being placed I was gradually pushed towards the stage entrance. Once there we were safe. A quick change took place in the dressing-room. A Suffragette, my height, changed into my Cockney clothes, and with profuse apologies was taken back to the seat I had been missed from. This was done so that if any spies were about it would be the one in disguise that would be scented and followed.

In a few minutes I was in platform dress. Once the meeting started I marched boldly on to the platform. Storms of cheering took place, and enthusiasm was at fever height. Scotland Yard outwitted once more did much to help towards the success of any meeting. We raised about £16,000 in about half an hour.

Just before the last speaker had finished her speech I left the stage and another disguise awaited me. It was very, very ordinary, the chief features being furs and eye-glasses, and I left with the audience, surrounded with a bodyguard. I left by the front entrance and I walked under the noses of the detectives, the fair-haired damsel not far behind me being scrutinized and watched by those who were waiting to seize me and take me back to Holloway Prison. I arrived home quite safely and we laughed heartily about the scenes and began planning my next move.

During this time my sister Jessie, Grace Roe, Mrs. Dacre Fox, and the staff under them, were working night and day. The older Militants would not have recognized the office or the work. Life was one mad rush. Grace had also been arrested, so had Mrs. Dacre Fox. Grace Roe had gone through the horrors of Forcible Feeding. Her tenacity, her courage, and her loyalty to her leader, will ever remain one of the biggest things of the Movement. She was one of those whose life meant action, and to whom action meant life.

• CHAPTER XXVI

THE OUTBREAK OF WAR

We had not long to wait before a great storm burst which shook the world. Miss Mary Batten-Poole, a charming and devoted member, had accompanied me to Scotland. We stayed at a small village, and on buying a newspaper read the fatal letter to Serbia. Mary was more versed in wars than I was, and had a clear knowledge of the Balkan Question. “This means war!” she said.

War seemed a very far-away thing to me, whose whole idea at that moment centred on our own little war. Few people in the country, indeed, quite grasped the gravity of the situation. Mrs. Pankhurst and Christabel were among those who did.

Orders came from Paris. “The Militants, when their prisoners are released, will fight for their country as they have fought for the Vote.”

The prisoners, who were being literally tortured at this time, were released; the staff was reduced, only a few workers being kept on. Mrs. Pankhurst, who was in Paris with Christabel, returned and started a recruiting campaign among the men of the country.

This autocratic move was not understood or appreciated by many of our members. They were quite prepared to receive instructions about the Vote, but they were not going to be told what they were to do in a world war. They were right — it was for them to choose whether they would be pacifists or not. The letter sent out to them stated that each must be free to act in whatever capacity she felt best fitted for. At the same time a war policy had been decided upon by Christabel.

Christabel was in Paris. She saw the danger of that city being overrun by the German Army. She knew that we in England were unready, and in her swift way she decided that one of the Heads of our Movement must be out of harm’s way in case of invasion.

So it was decided that I should go to America and that temporarily I should address Suffragettes there and help them in their activities.

All liners were filled, but we had friends every-where, so one of the finest, bravest, and most loyal of members, Miss Janie Allan, was called upon to secure two berths, one for me and one for Miss Batten-Poole, who had decided to come with me.

I had very little money once my fare was paid. It had always been my weakness not to know whether I had enough to get through with or not. We left Glasgow in a good Scottish vessel, and arrived at Boston in about seven days. I was held up there for hours. I had been in prison. I faced the Emigration Board of three, and won my case by a majority of one.

I then put my foot on American soil for the first time. We went to an hotel that we had been told was good and, to me still more important, reasonable. We booked our rooms, went down to dinner, and afterwards strolled round certain parts of Boston, and then retired for the night. I wishing I was back at home. The following day I rang up Mrs. H. P. Belmont at her home at Newport. She asked me to go and see her. Mary and I were relieved when we left the hotel. To me, with my empty purse, the prices seemed very high. We went to Newport, crossed over by ferry to Jamestown and booked a room in the attic of the hotel. The intense heat nearly baked us, but economy at that time was the rule of the day.

The following day we crossed over to Newport. I put on my best clothes. We went to Mrs. Belmont’s and found ourselves in the thick of a Suffragette Conference, the leaders being two young women we had trained in the arts of Militancy in our own Movement — Miss Alice Paul and Miss Lucy Bums. Alice Paul had studied the American Constitution and was a little imitative of Christabel in her tactics.

I was invited to go to Colorado and work there, but I felt that Alice Paul and I would not work in harmony. After a week’s rest I decided to move on to New York, and then determine what line of action to take. I discovered that there were six State elections where a referendum was being taken on Woman Suffrage. I looked down the list and said to Mary: “I will go to these three States, why I don’t know, but I like the names.” The States chosen at random were North Dakota, Montana and Nevada. A friend of the Pankhursts and an ardent American Suffragette wrote to the Secretary of North Dakota and gave me a letter of introduction to her. So Mary and I packed our luggage and started off to North Dakota. I wanted to see the much talked of city, Chicago. I had also a keen desire to visit the Niagara Falls. We visited Chicago first, the Niagara Falls afterwards.

There were four things that I wanted to see before returning to England: the Rockies, Niagara Falls, wild buffalo, and the Red Indians. When I chose the State of Montana I did not realize that three of my ambitions would be fulfilled. Mr. Lawrence had once told me that his advice to any person visiting Niagara was not to stop at the Falls unless they could spend two days there. He said that one had to watch them for hours before seeing their overpowering grandeur. I remembered this, so we decided to spend two nights at Niagara. We put up at a cheap hotel, and the following day I spent hours watching the great Falls. One has to see them in the sunlight to get them in their full beauty. Each hour they seemed to grow in power. The colours were clearer than any I had ever seen before.

We left the following day, and on we sped to North Dakota, the land of Hiawatha. We booked a room at one of the hotels, the name I forget, and Mary took our letter of introduction to the Secretary of the Suffrage Society. The reply came, would we go and have tea. They were a charming family and far and away the most enthusiastic Suffragists that I met during my short stay, except Miss Janette Rankin, who later became a member of the Senate. We had a long talk and I felt very shy about my position financially. I did not wish them to think that I had visited America to make money, because that was not true. I had not been in America a week before I made a discovery. Do not admit your poverty if you want to be a success. If you are poor, that is proof positive to Americans that there is something wrong somewhere, and that you have failed in some way. Prosperity is their watchword. “Do not feel poor or you are poor” is an unwritten saying.

So I guarded my financial position, and we arranged that I would give my services without a fee, they covering my travelling expenses from place to place and paying my hotel bills. Within a few days a theatre was booked and I found myself addressing my first American audience. Before the meeting commenced I had a long conversation with the Secretary, who asked me to refrain from talking Militancy.

I kept my promise. I made a speech on the principles of Women’s Suffrage. When I sat down the speech received splendid applause. At the end of the meeting a man asked if I would speak again and tell them all about Militancy. This I did, and the second speech proved a greater attraction than the first. Never again was I asked to refrain from discussing Militancy. During the two weeks I spent with them I addressed Drawing-Room Meetings, Theatre Meetings, Women’s Meetings, and scores of Trade Union Meetings. Having been a member of a Trade Union I received a good welcome wherever I went. We had a fine campaign. The North Dakota Suffragettes said that our fight at home had inspired them to action, and that I seemed like a furnace perpetually burning with enthusiasm and zeal.

Before leaving, a letter had come from Miss Janette Rankin, the Secretary of the Montana organization, inviting me to go and speak for them. Again all expenses for travelling and hotel would be found. I arrived, and found waiting at the station a Miss Neal. I liked her at once. We put up at a small hotel in Bute, where we had to prepare our own breakfast. The following day we met, and I put my services at their disposal.

Meetings! I felt as though I were back in Bristol. I could not have missed having my ambition satisfied had I tried. I seemed to speak in every conceivable place, however small. I saw the Rockies, I saw the wild buffalo, and visited the hut of the leading princess of the Red Indians, who did the washing for the small hotel. The place was so tiny that the Town Hall could be moved on wheels, and placed wherever the Council wished. In this far-away little place I found women who had heard Mrs. Pankhurst speak and had followed our fight. I met the leader of the Red Indians, who was half Scotch. His father, having left Scotland when America was in the making, and the roving life of the Indians appealing to him, married the daughter of the Chief. I saw this man, the son of the Scotchman and the Indian princess, for ten minutes, and the expression of his eyes, the curl of his lip, summed up the whole problem of mixed races for me. What a world of unexpressed tragedy, of unutterable moods, the intelligent half-caste has to face. That one man standing outside the lonely little wooden station in the heart of the Rockies, sneering at the world’s tragedy, was symbolic of the great problem that lies before the half-caste! If we, whose blood for generations past has come from the same source, feel at times within us two distinct personalities, what must be the moods of those who have the blood of two distinct races flowing through their veins, especially if the blood of one race belongs to a hardy, practical people, while that of the other is that of the impetuous child of Nature, run wild in his freedom, unrestrained in his actions? … To see this intelligent, artistic half-caste running his long Indian fingers through his black hair, was to feel as though the whole wild Rockies were repeating the refrain, “The moods have passed their fingers through my hair.”

We held a meeting in the little wheel-about Town Hall, and it was a great success. It seemed strange to me to be discussing prisons, prison-dress, police, Scotland Yard, with those delightful people. All through the meeting I saw two black piercing eyes, two hands clasped under a chin, and a face that will haunt me always: the face of my Scottish Red Indian, who in a short period of ten minutes had told me the whole tragedy of the embodied souls which make up the unsolved problem of the half-castes of the world. I saw the wild buffalo the following day, and I visited once again the Indian princess.

• CHAPTER XXVII
  AMERICA

America! America! How truly wonderful is the land of the Pilgrim Fathers.

I had a happy time in Montana. Miss Janette Rankin and I became real friends, and Miss Neal constantly told me that I “tickled her to death.” Our evenings were enjoyable. When the meetings were over we assembled at a pretty cafe in Bute, which was famous for its hot chocolate and club sandwiches. A club sandwich is bread cut thick with ham and tongue between — not just a vision of ham or tongue like our station sandwiches, but a genuine slice between the two thick slices of bread, with bits of gherkin added as an appetizer. When you have finished eating it you feel as though you have had a six-course dinner. That is the real secret of a club sandwich, it makes you think you have had something you have not.

We discussed each country’s ideal. I said our ideal was Freedom, which to them seemed a strange thing for a Suffragette to say. But I proved to them by the most illogical reasoning that the Suffragette fight was a proof of the desire of all Britishers to be free. Miss Rankin said that at the present time the American ideal was the dollar. She explained very carefully why Americans had had to make their ideal the dollar, and the arguments were very sound and well reasoned. She said, however, that the day had come when the ideal was changing. They had the dollar, and every one knew its value, so now they could begin teaching the new generation that the dollar would only be of real use so long as they realized the highest purpose to which it could be placed. Miss Rankin and Miss Neal discussed quite seriously coming to London and studying our Movement, if they did not get the Vote very soon.

I spoke at every Trade-Union meeting. The Trade Unionists of America are a very polite and well-bred people. I always felt they were gentlemen. They had their “Strike, ever Strike” section, but I enjoyed being with them, and my correspondence classes for Trade Unionists proved of real help. So nothing is ever lost in life provided we store it up for another day.

I had to move on. A letter had come from the Secretary of the Nevada group, giving me a welcome. The Secretary, Miss Ann Martin, had not only been in London to study our policy, she had been in prison. Miss Martin and I were like old friends. We had a fine campaign in Nevada, and it was more like a holiday than it had been in other places. Meetings were organized in the open air; Chinese lanterns were lit, and we had a real Suffragette gathering. I was taken to see the natural springs and the baths. They looked more like a little wash-house, and as far as I could see, you stood on a hot floor and let the natural steam, which rises from the earth, envelop you — a, Turkish bath, minus the bath. I was not happy at the solitary inn; the man who kept it was one whom “the spirits move” and had always vowed he would murder the first English Suffragette who crossed his threshold. Why they took me in I could not make out.

When lunch was over, my friend, who was no tactician, left me alone to discuss the Vote with my high-spirited host. I, being older at the political game, saw it would be wiser to discuss the marvels of nature. Then, in a stage whisper, he said: “I like you; I hate that woman, she only comes to pry, but I’ve warned her that there will be trouble if she ever lets one of those cursed Suffragettes enter my door!” pointing to the particular door at which an hour ago I had entered. He looked at me. “I hate the lot of them, don’t you?”

As he was a little drowsy I again talked of the marvels of nature, inwardly praying that the bad tactician would return before my host questioned me again as to my hatred of Suffragettes. She did return, and in a stage whisper said: “Has he promised to vote for us ? ”The staggering mental blindness of some people is overpowering! We returned home, I thankful that we had escaped a brawl. I advised Miss Ann Martin to be careful whom she chose to represent her at the Natural Springs.

My work was over. What was I to do? I had always had a desire to visit California and see the big trees. I had also heard of an old friend. Dr. Aked, of Liverpool, who used to preach sermons in our favour. He became so popular, that America, ever ready to receive the idol, offered him a good living, which he accepted. I had only a few pounds left. We went to an hotel and booked a room, where again we had to prepare our own breakfast, but it was cheap, at least cheap for America. I then tramped club-land until I found where Dr. Aked lived. Mary and I in the meantime had decided to hold a meeting. We booked a hall, and had leaflets printed and a few posters. Mary gave out the handbills to the public and interviewed the Press. My only worry in life at the time was the uncertainty about the expense of the meeting. I never have more than one worry at a time, but that solitary worry so absorbs me that there is not one little crevice where another can creep in. I hear of people who have dozens all at once. How they find space for them is beyond my limited intelligence.

The night of the meeting arrived and with it about a hundred people, and on the hundred people I had spent my last money. Anyhow, when I began speaking my absorbing worry dissolved. I was swept away with a desire to see all American women enfranchised. I must have made a decent speech, for afterwards the Press came forward and all expressed regret that the hall was not crowded. Would I not have another meeting? They would help me to fill it. I was about to say I could not afford it when I remembered the unwritten motto on the heart of every American — prosperity! So I said my movements were uncertain, which was quite true. One of the editors invited me to spend the week-end with him and his wife, at their home among the hills and orchards. So I promised, not knowing where I should get the fare for my ticket, but on counting our takings we found that I had still about £1 left. So I went and spent a short, happy time with this kindly editor and his artistic wife. Strangely enough, the conversation turned on Russia. Perhaps it was owing to my telling them the never-ending story of “prison life.” He told me something that I have never forgotten. He said that in Russia no beggar is ever turned away, no hand outstretched is ever passed; and I wished that I was in Russia, where poverty was not ashamed, and where prosperity was not the passport.

On my return to the hotel Mary announced that Christabel had arrived in America. Christabel in America! What was wrong at home? I must go to New York to see if I was needed. So I went to an American Suffragette friend who had been sent to organize in California, and she advanced me sufficient money to get me back to New York. We took the southern route for a change.

I had heard a lot about the comforts of American travelling — all true except as regards the sleeping accommodation on the trains. During the day we looked out at the lonely tracts of land, but if I looked too long I felt homesick and longed to see once more the farmsteads of Sussex, the old cottages of the North, the peat fires of the Highlands, and the rosy warm hearth of a well-tidied Lancashire homestead. I wished I was again a child with no experiences behind me and no problems before, roaming the cornfields and tramping the moors of Saddleworth. I wanted my mother. Mary saw that I was moved, and being a sensitive person, she left me alone to pull myself together, to face the present and have courage to live whatever life came to me in the future. I thought of a novel where the man says to himself : “It’s not life that matters, it’s the courage you bring to it.” I have always behaved as a child when I feel lonely or sad and am a long way from all that I cherish.

When night came on and we were shown where we had to sleep, we were both staggered. In a workhouse it is a case of “Men to the right, women to the left,” but here it was not so. We were all mixed up. The thick heavy curtains which hide one must be most unhealthy. We slept little, turned much, and the noises some of the men made reminded me of the sixpenny night shelters of the Salvation Army, where every other person has a cough. I think it must be the chewing-gum that creates such irritation in the throats of some of them. I noticed that the heavier the men were in weight the more noise they made. We did not enjoy it very much. Being short of money, I had to use my old Lockhart eye, which chose the best things at the smallest price.

At last we arrived in New York, I with an addition, a fine healthy germ that had been attracted to my throat in the train. I was laid up with tonsilitis for days. Mary nursed me like a sister. The first thing I said when I saw Christabel was: “Christabel, I feel lonely. I want to go home!” So after a long talk she decided that I could return to England and organize a campaign explaining the Balkan situation to the people. We got our tickets and sailed away on the Lusitania, little realizing that that voyage was practically the last the good ship was to make. For a week I had nothing to do, no duty to perform, so I reflected on my American visit.

I was not long enough in America to arrive at definite conclusions. One should live there, a visit is not sufficient to undertake such a task.

The impressions I received, however, were many. The first was that American women are not as free as British women. The Americans have not the happy, joyous, laughing faces that the people have at home; they all seem to have a hidden worry which makes their faces set and less flexible. Other conclusions were that the police surveillance is far stricter than it is at home; that Americans are snobbish; that you are taken at your face value until the people thoroughly know you; that voluntary work is not fully appreciated; that humility and modesty are qualities that are not understood; that it is an expensive country to live in unless one works there also; that China Town is worse than Canning Town, and Broadway worse than Piccadilly; that the majority of Americans feel rich, where we as a majority feel poor; that in America a sense of prosperity awaits one, whereas at home an “unemployed” procession greets one; that new ideas attract the Americans, where we repulse any new thought; that no country on earth can breed a better, finer man than America, but no country can produce a worse; that America is great and big, and, like all great and big things in life, needs understanding.

I had only been in England a short time when a letter arrived. Out of the six States which had voted by referendum on Woman Suffrage, two alone had won the day — Montana and Nevada!