CHAPTER I Stone Walls do not a Prison Make
Paul's trial, which took place some weeks later at the Old Bailey, was a bitter disappointment to the public, the news editors, and the jury and counsel concerned. The arrest at the Ritz, the announcement at St Margaret's that the wedding was postponed, Margot's flight to Corfu, the refusal of bail, the meals sent in to Paul on covered dishes from Boulestin's, had been 'front‑page stories' every day. After all this, Paul's conviction and sentence were a lame conclusion. At first he pleaded guilty on all charges, despite the entreaties of his counsel, but eventually he was galvanized into some show of defence by the warning of the presiding judge that the law allowed punishment with the cat‑o'‑nine tails for offences of this sort. Even these things were very flat. Potts as chief witness for the prosecution was unshakeable and was later warmly commended by the court; no evidence, except of previous good conduct, was offered by the defence; Margot Beste‑Chetwynde's name was not mentioned, though the judge in passing sentence remarked that 'no one could be ignorant of the callous insolence with which, on the very eve of arrest for this most infamous of crimes, the accused had been preparing to join his name with one honoured in his country's history, and to drag down to his own pitiable depths of depravity a lady of beauty, rank, and stainless reputation. The just censure of society, remarked the judge, 'is accorded to those so inconstant and intemperate that they must take their pleasures in the unholy market of humanity that still sullies the fame of our civilization; but for the traders themselves, these human vampires who prey upon the degradation of their species, socicty has reserved the right of ruthless suppression. So Paul was sent off to prison, and the papers headed the column they reserve for home events of minor importance with 'Prison for Ex‑Society Bridegroom. Judge on Human Vampires', and there, as far as the public were concerned, the matter ended.
Before this happened, however, a conversation took place which deserves the attention of all interested in the confused series of events of which Paul had become a part. One day, while he was waiting for trial, he was visited in his cell by Peter Beste‑Chetwynde.
'Hullo! he said.
'Hullo, Paul! said Peter. 'Mamma asked me to come in to see you. She wants to know if you are getting the food all right she's ordered for you. I hope you like it, because I chose most of it myself. I thought you wouldn't want anything very heavy.
'It's splendid, said Paul. 'How's Margot?
'Well, that's rather what I've come to tell you, PauL Margot's gone away.
'Where to?
'She's gone off alone to Corfu. I made her, though she wanted to stay and see your trial. You can imagine what a time we've had with reporters and people. You don't think it awful of her, do you? And listen, there's something else. Can that policeman hear? It's this. You remember that awful old man Maltravers. Well, you've probably seen, he's Home Secretary now. He's been round to see Mamma in the most impossible Oppenheim kind of way, and said that if she'd marry him he could get you out. Of course, he's obviously been reading books. But Mamma thinks it's probably true, and she wants to know how you feel about it. She rather feels the whole thing's rather her fault, really, and, short of going to prison herself, she'll do anything to help. You can't imagine Mamma in prison, can you? Well, would you rather get out now and her marry Maltravers? or wait until you do get out and marry her yourself? She was rather definite about it.
Paul thought of Professor Silenus's 'In ten years she will be worn out, but he said:
'I'd rather she waited if you think she possibly can.
'I thought you'd say that, Paul. I'm so glad. Mamma said: "I won't say I don't know how I shall ever be able to make up to him for all this, because I think he knows I can." Those were her words. I don't suppose you will get more than a year or so, will you?
'Good Lord, I hope not, said Paul.
His sentence of seven years' penal servitude was rather a blow. 'In ten years she will be worn out, he thought as he drove in the prison van to Blackstone Gaol.
* * *
On his first day there Paul met quite a number of people, some of whom he knew already. The first person was a warder with a low brow and distinctly menacing manner. He wrote Paul's name in the 'Body Receipt Book' with some difficulty and then conducted him to a cell. He had evidently been reading the papers.
'Rather different from the Ritz Hotel, eh? he said. 'We don't like your kind 'ere, see? And we knows 'ow to treat 'em. You won't find nothing like the Ritz 'ere, you dirty White Slaver.
But there he was wrong, because the next person Paul met was Philbrick. His prison clothes were ill‑fitting, and his chin was unshaven, but he still wore an indefinable air of the grand manner.
'Thought I'd be seeing you soon, he said. 'They've put me on to reception bath cleaner, me being an old hand. I've been saving the best suit I could find for you. Not a louse on it, hardly. He threw a little pile of clothes, stamped with the broad arrow, on to the bench.
The warder returned with another, apparently his superior officer. Together they made a careful inventory of all Paul's possessions.
'Shoes, brown, one pair; socks, fancy, one pair; suspenders, black silk, one pair, read out the warder in a sing‑song voice. 'Never saw a bloke with so much clothes.
There were several checks due to difficulties of spelling, and it was some time before the list was finished.
'Cigarette case, white metal, containing two cigarettes; watch, white metal; tie‑pin, fancy' ‑ it had cost Margot considerably more than the warder earned in a year, had he only known ‑ 'studs, bone, one pair; cufflinks, fancy, one pair. The officers looked doubtfully at Paul's gold cigar piercer, the gift of the best man. 'What's this 'ere?
'It's for cigars, said Paul.
'Not so much lip! said the warder, banging him on the top of his head with the pair of shoes he happened to be holding. 'Put it down as «instrument». That's the lot, he said, 'unless you've got false teeth. You're allowed to keep them, only we must make a note of it.
'No, said Paul.
'Truss or other surgical appliance?
'No, said Paul.
'All right! You can go to the bath.
Paul sat for the regulation ten minutes in the regulation nine inches of warm water ‑ which smelt reassuringly of disinfectant ‑ and then put on his prison dothes. The loss of his personal possessions gave him a curiously agreeable sense of irresponsibility.
'You look a treat, said Philbrick.
Next he saw the Medical Officer, who sat at a table covered with official forms.
'Name? said the Doctor.
'Pennyfeather.
'Have you at any time been detained in a mental home or similar institution? If so, give particulars.
'I was at Scone College, Oxford, for two years, said Paul.
The Doctor looked up for the first time. 'Don't you dare to make jokes here, my man, he said, 'or I'll soon have you in the straitjacket in less than no time.
'Sorry, said Paul.
'Don't speak to the Medical Officer unless to answer a question, said the warder at his elbow.
'Sorry, said Paul, unconsciously, and was banged on the head.
'Suffering from consumption or any contagious disease? asked the M.D.
'Not that I know of, said Paul.
'That's all, said the Doctor. 'I have certified you as capable of undergoing the usual descriptions of punishment as specified below, to wit, restraint of handcuffs, leg‑chains, cross‑irons, body‑belt, canvas dress, close confinement, No. 1 diet, No. 2 diet, birch‑rod, and cat‑o'-nine‑tails. Any complaint?
'But must I have all these at once? asked Paul, rather dismayed.
'You will if you ask impertinent questions. Look after that man, officer; he's obviously a troublesome character.
'Come 'ere, you, said the warder. They went up a passage and down two flights of iron steps. Long galleries with iron railings stretched out in each direction, giving access to innumerable doors. Wire‑netting was stretched between the landings. 'So don't you try no monkey-tricks. Suicide isn't allowed in this prison. See? said the warder. 'This is your cell. Keep it clean, or you'll know the reason why, and this is your number. He buttoned a yellow badge on to Paul's coat.
'Like a flag‑day, said Paul.
'Shut up, you- , remarked the warder, and locked the door.
'I suppose I shall learn to respect these people in time, thought Paul. 'They all seem so much less awe‑inspiring than anyone I ever met.
His next visit was from the Schoolmaster. The door was unlocked, and a seedy‑looking young man in a tweed suit came into the cell.
'Can you read and write, D.4.12? asked the newcomer.
'Yes, said Paul.
'Public or secondary education?
'Public, said Paul. His school had been rather sensitive on this subject.
'What was your standard when you left school?
'Well, I don't quite know. I don't think we had standards.
The Schoolmaster marked him down as 'Memory defective' on a form and went out. Presently he returned with a book.
'You must do your best with that for the next four weeks, he said. 'I'll try and get you into one of the morning classes. You won't find it difficult, if you can read fairly easily. You see, it begins there, he said helpfillly, showing Paul the first page.
It was an English Grammar published in 1872.
'A syllable is a single sound made by one simple effort of the voice, Paul read.
'Thank you, he said; 'I'm sure I shall find it useful.
'You can change it after four weeks if you can't get on with it, said the Schoolmaster. 'But I should stick to it, if you can.
Again the door was locked.
Next came the Chaplain. 'Here is your Bible and a book of devotion. The Bible stays in the cell always. You can change the book of devotion any week if you wish to. Are you Church of England? Services are voluntary — that is to say, you must either attend all or none. The Chaplain spoke in a nervous and hurried manner. He was new to his job, and he had already visited fifty prisoners that day, one of whom had delayed him for a long time with descriptions of a vision he had seen the night before.
'Hullo, Prendy! said Paul.
Mr Prendergast looked at him nervously. 'I didn't recognize you, he said. 'People look so much alike in those clothes. This is most disturbing, Pennyfeather. As soon as I saw you'd been convicted I was afraid they might send you here. Oh dear! oh dear! It makes everything still more difficult!
'What's the matter, Prendy? Doubts again?
'No, no, discipline, my old trouble. I've only been at the job a week. I was very lucky to get it. My bishop said he thought there was more opening for a Modern Churchman in this kind of work than in the parishes. The Governor is very modern too. But criminals are just as bad as boys, I find. They pretend to make confessions and tell me the most dreadful things just to see what I'll say, and in chapel they laugh so much that the warders spend all their time correcting them. It makes the services seem so irreverent. Several of them got put on No. 1 diet this morning for singing the wrong words to one of the hymns, and of course that only makes me more unpopular. Please, Pennyfeather, if you don't mind, you mustn't call me Prendy, and if anyone passes the cell will you stand up when you're talking to me. You're supposed to, you see, and the Chief Warder has said some very severe things to me about maintaining discipline.
At this moment the face of the warder appeared at the peephole in the door.
'I trust you realize the enormity of your offence and the justice of your punishment? said Mr Prendergast in a loud voice. 'Pray for penitence.
A warder came into the cell.
'Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I've got to take this one to see the Governor. There's D.4.18 down the way been asking for you for days. I said I'd tell you, only, if you'll forgive my saying so, I shouldn't be too soft with 'im, sir. We know 'im of old. 'E's a sly old devil, begging your pardon, sir, and 'e's only religious when 'e thinks it'll pay.
'I think that I am the person to decide that, officer, said Mr Prendergast with some dignity. 'You may take D.4.12 to the Governor.
Sir Wilfred Lucas‑Dockery had not been intended by nature or education for the Governor of a prison; his appointment was the idea of a Labour Home Secretary who had been impressed by an appendix on the theory of penology which he had contributed to a report on the treatment of 'Conscientious Objectors'. Up to that time Sir Wilfred had held the Chair of Sociology at a Midland university; only his intimate friends and a few specially favoured pupils knew that behind his mild and professional exterior he concealed an ardent ambition to serve in the public life of his generation. He stood twice for Parliament, but so diffidently that his candidature passed almost unnoticed. Colonel MacAdder, his predecessor in office, a veteran of numberless unrecorded carnpaigns on the Afghan frontier, had said to him on his retirement: 'Good luck, Sir Wilfred! If I may give you a piece of advice, it's this. Don't bother about the lower warders or the prisoners. Give hell to the man immediately below you, and you can rely on him to pass it on with interest. If you make a prison bad enough, people'll take jolly good care to keep out of it. That's been my policy all through, and I'm proud of it' (a policy which soon became quite famous in the society of Cheltenham Spa).
Sir Wilfred, however, had his own ideas. 'You must understand, he said to Paul, 'that it is my aim to establish personal contact with each of the men under my care. I want you to take a pride in your prison and in your work here. So far as possible, I like the prisoners to carry on with their avocations in civilized life. What's this man's profession, officer?
'White Slave traffic, sir.
'Ah yes. Well, I'm afraid you won't have much opportunity for that here. What else have you done?
'I was nearly a clergyman once, said Paul.
'Indeed? Well, I hope in time, if I find enough men with the same intention, to get together a theological class. You've no doubt met the Chaplain, a very broad-minded man. Still for the present we are only at the beginning. The Government regulations are rather uncompromising. For the first four weeks you will have to observe the solitary confinement ordained by law. After that we will find you something more creative. We don't want you to feel that your personality is being stamped out. Have you any experience of art leather work?
'No, sir.
'Well, I might put you into the Arts and Crafts Workshop. I came to the conclusion many years ago that almost all crime is due to the repressed desire for aesthetic expression. At last we have the opportunity for testing it. Are you an extrovert or an introvert?
'I'm afraid I'm not sure, sir.
'So few people are. I'm trying to induce the Home Office to install an official psycho‑analyst. Do you read the New Nation, I wonder? There is rather a flattering article this week about our prison called The Lucas-Dockery Experiments. I like the prisoners to know these things. It gives them corporate pride. I may give you one small example of the work we are doing that affects your own case. Up till now all offences connected with prostitution have been put into the sexual category. Now I hold that an offence of your kind is essentially acquisitive and shall grade it accordingly. It does not, of course, make any difference as far as your conditions of imprisonment are concerned ‑ the routine of penal servitude is prescribed by Standing Orders ‑ but you see what a difference it makes to the annual statistics.
'The human touch, said Sir Wilfred after Paul had been led from the room. 'I'm sure it makes all the difference. You could see with that unfortunate man just now what a difference it made to him to think that, far from being a mere nameless slave, he has now become part of a great revolution in statistics.
'Yes, sir, said the Chief Warder, 'and, by the way, there are two more attempted suicides being brought up to‑morrow. You must really be more strict with them, sir. Those sharp tools you've issued to the Arts and Crafts School is just putting temptation in the men's way.
* * *
Paul was once more locked in, and for the first time had the opportunity of examining his cell. There was little to interest him. Besides his Bible, his book of devotion ‑ Prayers on Various Occasions of Illness, Uncertainty, and Loss, by the Rev. Septimus Bead, M.A., Edinburgh, 1863 ‑ and his English Grammar, there was a little glazed pint pot, a knife and spoon, a slate and slate-pencil, a salt-jar, a metal water‑can, two earthenware vessels, some cleaning materials, a plank bed upright against the wall, a roll of bedding, a stool, and a table. A printed notice informed him that he was not to look out of the window. Three printed cards on the wall contained a list of other punishable offences, which seemed to include every human activity, some Church of England prayers, and an explanation of the 'system of progressive stages'. There was also a typewritten 'Thought for the Day', one of Sir Wilfred Lucas‑Dockery's little innovations. The message for the first day of Paul's imprisonment was: 'SENSE OF SIN IS SENSE OF WASTE, the Editor of the "Sunday Express". Paul studied the system of progressive stages with interest. After four weeks, he read, he would be allowed to join in associated labour, to take half an hour's exercise on Sundays, to wear a stripe on his arm, if illiterate to have school instruction, to take one work of fiction from the library weekly, and, if special application were made to the Governor, to exhibit four photographs of his relatives or of approved friends; after eight weeks, provided that his conduct was perfectly satisfactory, he rnight receive a visit of twenty minutes' duration and write and receive a letter. Six weeks later he might receive another visit and another letter and another library book weekly.
Would Davy Lennox's picture of the back of Margot's head be accepted as the photograph of an approved friend, he wondered?
After a time his door was unlocked again and opened a few inches. A hand thrust in a tin, and a voice said, 'Pint pot quick! Paul's mug was filled with cocoa, and the door was again locked. The tin contained bread, bacon, and beans. That was the last interruption for fourteen hours. Paul fell into a reverie. It was the first time he had been really alone for months. How very refreshing it was, he reflected.
* * *
The next four weeks of solitary confinement were among the happiest of Paul's life. The physical comforts were certainly meagre, but at the Ritz Paul had learned to appreciate the inadequacy of purely physical comfort. It was so exhilarating, he found, never to have to make any decision on any subject, to be wholly relieved from the srnallest consideration of time, meals, or clothes, to have no anxiety ever about what kind of impression he was making; in fact, to be free. At some rather chilly time in the early morning a bell would ring, and the warder would say, 'Slops outside! ; he would rise, roll up his bedding, and dress; there was no need to shave, no hesitation about what tie he should wear, none of the fidgeting with studs and collars and links that so distracts the waking moments of civilized man. He felt like the happy people in the advertisements for shaving soap who seem to have achieved very simply that peace of mind so distant and so desirable in the early morning. For about an hour he stitched away at a mail‑bag, until his door was again unlocked to admit a hand with a lump of bread and a large ladle of porridge. After breakfast he gave a cursory polish to the furniture and crockery of his cell and did some more sewing until the bell rang for chapel. For a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes he heard Mr Prendergast blaspheming against the beauties of sixteenth-century diction. This was certainly a bore, and so was the next hour during which he had to march round the prison square, where between concentric paths of worn asphalt a few melancholy cabbages showed their heads. Some of the men during this period used to fall out under the pretence of tying a shoe‑lace and take furtive bites at the leaves of the vegetables. If observed they were severely punished. Paul never felt any temptation to do this. After that the day was unbroken save for luncheon, supper, and the Governor's inspection. The heap of sacking which every day he was to turn into mail‑bags wa‑s supposed by law to keep him busy for nine hours. The prisoners in the cells on either side of him, who were not quite in their right minds, the warder told Paul, found some difficulty in finishing their task before lights out. Paul found that with the least exertion he had finished long before supper, and spent the evenings in meditation and in writing up on his slate the thoughts which had occurred to him during the day.