by Marion Meade
She proceeded to decorate her new home in the grandest manner. She bought leaded crystal chandeliers, gothic clocks, carved mahogany tables, gilt chairs, and enormous mirrors which stretched from floor to ceiling. To keep her palace spotless, she hired a battalion of servants. The extravagance worried her, but now she had a home fit for a queen. It might seem a contradiction that Vicky, dedicated to a socialist system that advocated sharing of wealth, would wish to live like a queen. Perhaps this was partly due to the extreme poverty of her early life. Once she was able to afford luxuries, she did not pass them up.
One day, soon after the move to Murray Hill, the maid announced a visitor. "He won't give his name, ma'am," she reported. "He says he's an old friend of the family's."
From the look of distaste on the maid's face, Vicky knew she was not impressed with the mysterious caller. In fact, she'd left him waiting outside on the doorstep.
Opening the door, Vicky stared in disbelief. There in the chilly February twilight, shivering in a thin suit, stood Canning. She promptly pulled him inside and called a maid to prepare a room. Her former husband looked terribly ill. His face was deathly pale. She discovered that Canning had another problem in addition to alcohol. He had become addicted to a drug, to morphine.
Now forty-six, Canning looked a good twenty years older than his age. After years of abuse, his body had almost burned itself out. Most of the time he played with Byron or wandered around the house in a daze. But he was harmless and bothered nobody. Vicky let him stay.
The return of Canning sparked a fresh wave of gossip. Now people had something far more juicy to whisper about. Mrs. Woodhull, they gasped, was living with both of her husbands!
Vicky may have heard the gossip. Or she may not have. Either way, something far more important was occupying her thoughts. Her "brain trust" had convinced her that the time had come to run for President of the United States.
5
A Different Kind of Woman
On the morning of April 2, 1870, New Yorkers opened the pages of the Herald over their breakfast porridge. If they got as far as the editorial page, they spotted a letter to the editor that caused them to shake their heads in astonishment.
Under the headline First Pronunciamento was a historic bombshell signed by Victoria C. Woodhull. It began, a bit immodestly, by informing readers that she, Vicky, was "the most prominent representative of the only unrepresented class in the Republic."
True, she was one of the most famous women in the land. But her statement would do little to endear her to Susan B. Anthony and others who had been fighting for women's rights when Vicky was reading fortunes in the Middle West. Vicky didn't mean to insult the feminist leaders. She simply felt their route to equality was not very effective. Action, not talk, was her solution.
She went on to say, "While others argued the equality of women with men, I proved it by successfully engaging in business." Here again was her contention that women have the same rights as men; they just don't use them.
Then she got to the point: "I now announce myself candidate for the Presidency."
Aware of the stir her letter would create, she hastened to assure the public that she was not a crackpot.
"I anticipate criticism," she wrote, "but however unfavorable the comment this letter may evoke, I trust that my sincerity will not be called into question.
"I have deliberately and of my own accord placed myself before the people as a candidate for the Presidency of the United States, and having the means, courage, energy and strength necessary for the race, intend to contest it to the close."
Money, courage, strength—these she possessed. But there was one essential for election that she did not mention because she did not have it—manhood.
The next national election would not be held until 1872. Nevertheless, James and Stephen advised that she would need two years to establish herself in the minds of the voters. One of the chief subjects discussed by her "brain trust" did not concern politics at all. It had to do with reeducating the men of this country, the ones who cast the ballots. Very, very few men approved of women in public life. They believed women belonged in the home, preferably in the kitchen. Most women agreed.
The great political parties did not take women seriously. After all, a woman couldn't even vote. A woman on the ticket would be more than a liability. It would be a joke.
In 1870 Ulysses S. Grant, a Republican and a Civil War hero, occupied the White House. Nobody doubted that the popular general would run for a second term in the 1872 election. The Democrats had no idea whom they would nominate, but it certainly wouldn't be a female. There were other, smaller parties, too. But they weren't crazy about women candidates either.
The only way a woman could hope to compete was to nominate herself. With luck, she might marshal enough public support to get her name on the ballot.
Did Victoria Woodhull really believe that she had a chance to win? The answer is yes.
One reason she felt her cause far from hopeless was the prophecy. Hadn't Demosthenes insisted that she would lead her people? This powerful belief in her destiny gave her faith and a sense of self-confidence which proved contagious. James and Stephen believed in her because she believed so strongly in herself. In those days, some unlikely people had managed to become President. Where had Abraham Lincoln been before his nomination? Practicing law in an obscure Illinois town. Certainly the notion of a woman President sounded strange. But no woman had ever tried before. Just possibly she might succeed.
Looking back, Vicky's campaign must be rated as one of the most carefully thought-out in American political history. She did everything right, up to a point that is. Announcing her candidacy was only the first step. She had no intention of stopping there. People already knew that she was a wealthy, self-made woman; now she had to make the entire country aware of the socialistic principles for which she stood.
She began to write a series of essays about politics and government which later would be published as a book, The Principles of Government. The essays, appearing first in the New York Herald, were much too scholarly for the average reader. But they succeeded in giving Vicky a new image. People couldn't help but conclude that Mrs. Woodhull was a learned woman, a person who had the intelligence and qualifications to be President. In that way, the essays served a useful purpose.
The dream in sight at last, Vicky felt a sense of jubilation. Still, she knew that hardly anybody cheered the announcement of her candidacy. Oh, her friends had hurried over to the brokerage office to offer congratulations. And a few newspapers took her seriously. One editorial remarked that her candidacy was notable for its novelty and courage. "Now for Victory for Victoria in 1872!" it said.
Another paper pointed out that she was a smart and handsome woman. Therefore, "she is the proper person to stand forth against the field as the woman's rights candidate for the White House."
But other papers sneered. The "weaker sex," they said, already have plenty of privileges. Women should be happy with what they have. The obvious was mentioned—that men would never accept a woman President.
Finally, the press got around to saying what really bothered them. The men who wrote newspaper editorials were pretty much like most people in the country, and most people believed it was unnatural for a woman to govern.
As news of Vicky's candidacy traveled across the country, people began to talk about her. Over steins of ale in the taverns, men asked what the world was coming to. Some felt sure that she must be a homely, man-eating spinster with a cat. Only that type of woman would make a public spectacle of herself. Other men said she must be a beautiful courtesan. Only that type of woman would call attention to herself.
Over their teacups, the women also gossiped about her. Vicky intrigued them. They wanted to know all about her, but what they learned made them uneasy. She might be rich and beautiful, but she also sounded unfeminine. No true woman would demean herself by running for political office. This woman, so different from themselves, troubled
them.
Those who had the most trouble with Vicky's new prominence were the Claflins. Tennie, as usual, thought anything her sister did must be wonderful. She was busy clipping newspapers. But the rest of the family scoffed and sulked. The one who felt most put out was Roxanna.
"Where do you get these fancy ideas?" she would screech at Vicky. She placed the blame on her son-in-law.
"It's that hellhound Blood who put you up to it," Roxanna squawked. "Blood and Andrews and that passel of free lovers hangin' around here. I reckon they bewitched you!"
At first, Roxanna had liked money and new clothes. But after a while she began to loathe living in New York. She felt lost. Nor did she like Vicky's friends. Her ambition for her daughters was for them to catch rich husbands and drive around in their own carriages. She ignored the fact that Vicky could afford her own carriage.
Vicky no longer listened to her mother's advice. Neither did Tennie, who now went along with everything Vicky did. Roxanna thought longingly of the wagon trips zigzagging through the Midwest, telling fortunes and selling "Miss Tennessee's Magnetic Elixir." To her mind, those were the happy days.
When Vicky asked Polly and her family to leave so that Stephen Pearl Andrews could move in, there were more scenes. Roxanna stormed and carried on. Finally, with much bitterness, Polly departed.
The feminists should have been happy about Vicky's announcement. But they ignored her. She was not one of them. All they knew about her was what they read in the papers, and, frankly, they were not impressed. In truth, they felt resentful. A woman running for President? None of them had dared to dream on so grand a scale. Their most radical demand was the right to vote. The feminists had never actually thought about women running for political office.
As Vicky went to work altering the thinking of America, her biggest obstacle turned out to be another woman named Victoria. At that time, Queen Victoria was the most powerful monarch on earth. Her reign, which lasted sixty-four years from 1837 to 1901, was called the Victorian Age. People who lived then, both in England and in America, were called Victorians. That period of history is known for being stuffy, dull, and narrow-minded.
In a way, Queen Victoria regarded herself as a freak of nature. Although she did a man's job, she had a good excuse —she had inherited the throne. In all other cases, she did not approve of women working outside the home. In her daily life, she carried out the duties of queen as well as those of wife and mother.
Not surprisingly, she hated the whole idea of women's rights. The notion of women doctors especially shocked her. "The idea of allowing young girls and young men to enter the dissecting room together," she wrote to her prime minister, "is awful." She underlined "awful."
But the queen didn't dislike women. In one area she sympathized greatly with her own sex. When she thought of "us poor women" being exploited by sex-mad husbands, she simply fumed. Sex was a part of life the queen gladly would have done without.
People in those days had a special way of looking at women. The Victorian woman was not supposed to be a mere human being. She was better—she was an angel. Even women thought so.
A popular novel, written by a woman, had this to say: "God, the Maker, tenderly anchored womanhood in the peaceful, blessed haven of home; and if man is ever insane enough to mar the divine economy, by setting women afloat on the turbulent, roaring sea of politics, they will speedily become pitiable wrecks." Flowery, but that's how women saw themselves. They expected men to treat them reverently.
Since women were supposed to be delicate creatures, they often had fainting spells, sick headaches, and a host of nervous disorders. Blushing was fashionable. Sex was never discussed, and if a woman enjoyed it, she didn't say so. Modesty became a cult. When women went to doctors, they often were too shy to say what part of their bodies hurt. For the sake of fashion, they wore corsets so tightly laced they could barely breathe and layers of skirts and petticoats weighing up to twelve pounds.
A refined girl had only one purpose in life—to find a husband. She was educated and trained for the marriage market. Once she had achieved her goal, she spent the rest of her life in the home, raising her children and obeying her husband. The vast majority of marriages were minor disasters, but few women rebelled. In 1867 there were only 9937 divorces in the whole country.
The Victorian woman understood the rules, and she played by them.
Then there was Victoria Woodhull, the "new woman." Her most redeeming feature, in the opinion of her contemporaries, was her beauty. She had a classic aquiline profile on the left side of her face—her right profile was a bit irregular— and a lithe, graceful body. Her hair, once long, was now cropped short like a boy's, a fashion considered daring and extreme.
Unlike most women in the nineteenth century, Vicky was athletic and enjoyed sports. She knew how to ride a horse, row a boat, swim, dance, and play billiards. She could walk all day and never had been known to faint or blush.
The last place Vicky wanted to spend her time was at home. The Victorian world, however, was not geared for dealing with a woman who appeared in public, at least not without a male at her side for protection. One evening shortly before seven p.m., Vicky and Tennie left the brokerage office and decided to eat dinner at a restaurant. They chose Delmonico's, New York's most popular French restaurant. No strangers to the place, they had lavishly entertained customers there on many occasions.
Settling at a table, Vicky ordered their first course. "Tomato soup for two, please," she said.
The waiter coughed nervously but didn't move.
"Why don't you get the soup?" she asked.
Looking uncomfortable, the waiter shuffled his feet. "Beg pardon, madam, but it's after six and there is no gentleman with you."
Tennie was getting hungry and angry. "You go and send Charlie Delmonico to us," she instructed the waiter.
A few moments later, the apologetic owner appeared at their table. Charles Delmonico admired the sisters. He also valued their patronage. But rules were rules. And custom was custom.
"I can't let you eat here without a man," he said lamely.
Vicky surveyed him coolly. "Why not?" She knew perfectly well that women couldn't be served after six without an escort.
"It would start an awful precedent," said Delmonico. "All kinds of women would come in here alone. It would cause all sorts of embarrassment."
"We certainly don't want to embarrass you," said Tennie, barely keeping the sarcasm from her voice.
Giving Vicky a mischievous wink, she rose and marched to the door. Outside she waved to the driver who was waiting for them atop their carriage.
"Get down off your box and come in here," she yelled.
By this time, everyone in the restaurant was standing up, watching.
Tennie paraded the red-faced man down the aisle and pulled out a chair. After he had been seated, Vicky again summoned the waiter.
"Tomato soup for three," she said.
This incident, and others, added to her legend. Tales about her circulated all over the country. No matter how bizarre the stories, people believed them.
Shortly after the opening of her brokerage house, she had asked a newspaper reporter not to flatter her. "I am a businesswoman," she had declared heatedly. "Treat me as fairly as you do men. That is all I ask." She didn't want favors because of her sex.
Now she demanded no special treatment as a candidate. As she knew quite well, every politician was open to criticism, sometimes nasty criticism. She would just have to live with it.
Sometimes Vicky was asked why she wanted to be President. That question utterly mystified Victorians, who believed all women were content at home. They couldn't understand why a woman should want to subject herself to the spittoons and cigar smoke of all-male politics. In this instance, Vicky did not answer with her customary honesty.
"I want to draw the public's attention to women's claims that we are the political equals of men," she usually said. This sounded good, and it even may have been partly
true. She did believe that women should participate in the serious affairs of the nation. But there was another reason that made her run: she wanted to be President.
These days, Vicky was feeling elated. She found herself humming, something she rarely did. Somehow she knew that Demosthenes could not be wrong. One afternoon a reporter from the New York Sun came to interview her at home. Sitting decorously in the drawing room, she answered questions with her usual seriousness. The reporter, however, seemed to be more interested in her wardrobe than in her political views.
Suddenly Vicky jumped up. "Let me show you a dress I intend to wear someday," she said.
Ten minutes later, she reappeared.
The reporter blinked. Vicky was wearing navy knee-length pants, buckled at the knees. Under them she had powder-blue stockings which revealed her shapely legs. On top, she wore a dark-blue blousy tunic which ended above the knees and a white shirt with a tie.
For a moment, there was silence from the embarrassed newspaperman.
"Mrs. Woodhull," he finally blurted out, "if you appear on the street in that dress, the police will arrest you."
Vicky drew herself up angrily. "No, they won't," she declared. "When I'm ready to make my appearance in this dress, no policeman will touch me."
She had chosen it for her inauguration. She knew that the President of the United States is not likely to be arrested.
"It must be a newspaper for intelligent women," Vicky insisted in as firm a voice as she could muster. She and Tennie were seated around a large table in the library with James, Stephen and a newly added adviser, Dr. Joseph Treat. The room reeked of cigar smoke.
"Are you forgetting that women can't vote?” James replied in a teasing tone.
For weeks, the group had been meeting to discuss strategies by which Vicky might promote her campaign. By now it was clear that she was not getting sufficient coverage in the daily newspapers. Her essays on politics and finance had been admirably conceived but, unfortunately, few people read them. Besides they told little about Vicky as a person. What she needed was a forum in which to express her ideas.