by Marion Meade
The one suggestion everybody liked was to publish a weekly newspaper. But what kind of newspaper? James and Stephen favored a liberal journal that would appeal to any modern-thinking person, regardless of sex. Their basic purpose, after all, was to get male votes. The paper must interest men, and it certainly couldn't afford to offend them. Vicky disagreed.
"Of course the purpose of a newspaper would be to support me for the Presidency," she admitted. "But I've seen the campaign sheets put out by other candidates. They're cheap rags, used the next day for kindling fires."
Rising from her chair, she walked over to the window and stared out at the gas lamps on Thirty-eighth Street. Besides, the usual campaign sheets were dreadfully boring. Who wanted to read page after page of laudatory comments about the candidate? Her paper would be a first-class journal, with lively articles directed toward women.
Turning back to the table, she said decisively, "Reform, radicalism, and feminism. Those are the basic themes."
"What! No revolution?" Tennie said with a short laugh.
Everyone at the table had read the feminist newspaper published by Susan Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. It was called The Revolution. Vicky had run a few ads for the brokerage firm in The Revolution, but she did not intend to use it as her model. In her opinion, the contents appeared far from revolutionary. They were dull and badly written.
"Excuse me, has anyone seen The Woman's Journal?" Dr. Treat asked.
Vicky grimaced. This was another feminist paper published by Lucy Stone and other conservatives in the women's movement. Its contents were so mild and timid that Vicky regarded the paper as ineffectual.
She seated herself at the table again. "If we are to publish a paper," she said with quiet authority, "it must reflect my views and my concerns. I am a woman; most of my concerns involve my own sex. It will be a woman's paper, but if the articles are stimulating and timely, they should appeal to men as well."
So the decision for a woman's paper was made. The discussion moved to what kind of articles they would print. Tennie seemed to have more ideas than anyone.
In fact, she offered to write a series of articles about prostitution. There was a dead silence while the men stared at her. They had not been aware that Tennie wanted to be part of the paper. Nor did they believe that she had any writing ability.
"Since when have you become a writer?" Stephen asked bluntly.
Tennie looked at him sharply. "Since when does a person need a lot of fancy degrees to write a clear English sentence?" she demanded.
Dr. Treat felt there was no reason to antagonize readers with such a sensational topic.
Vicky glanced at him with contempt, declaring that prostitution was a feminist subject and one they should certainly cover. Perhaps it was not a suitable topic for their first issue but, later on, yes.
As the meeting was about to adjourn, James suddenly realized that they had forgotten something important—what to call the journal.
Vicky smiled at her sister. "Since Tennie is going to be at my side once more, I say we should call it Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly."
6
Crusading Publisher
Spring arrived in New York. With it came Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly and a new phase of Vicky's life. She was now a publisher, not the first or only woman to own her own newspaper but certainly one of the few.
On May 14, 1870, Volume One, Number One, appeared on the city's newsstands. Above the masthead was emblazoned the paper's motto, Upward and Onward. The first issue of sixteen pages looked impressive. Printed on the finest-quality paper, it had the look of a classy journal, not a fly-by-night campaign sheet.
Inside could be found a variety of lively articles. There was the first installment of a new novel by the controversial French writer who called herself "George Sand," chatty theater and book reviews, sports scores, a financial column, and a fashion section. An entire page was devoted to poetry. For example:
Are Statesmen vain enough to think
That they would have been free
If woman had not lent her hand
And fought for liberty?
One poem instructed women in the meaning of the latest slang, a subject ordinarily off-limits to "ladies."
Much of the contents was devoted to news about women: a profile of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, fiftieth-birthday greetings to Susan B. Anthony, and several articles about the political rights women did not yet have. The tone of the entire newspaper was strongly pro-woman. Even by today's standards, it would be called a radical feminist paper. One might expect that such a paper would not be warmly greeted in that conservative period. However, response turned out to be favorable, probably because the Weekly was so well written and professionally produced.
Vicky printed 50,000 copies of the first issue and made sure that newspapers throughout the country received complimentary copies. "A handsome and readable paper," commented the New York Standard. "Undoubtedly the ablest journal of its class and can hardly fail of success," said the Philadelphia Day.
From the beginning, Vicky had realized that publishing would be an expensive venture. Printing and distribution costs ran high, and the same was true for the spacious office she had leased at 21 Park Row. But she had her own personal money to spend plus the profits from the brokerage firm which was doing well. Still, she tried to make the Weekly self-supporting. She solicited subscriptions at $3 a year until, eventually, the Weekly had 20,000 subscribers all over the country. The front page carried paid announcements for New York's most reputable bankers and brokers. Advertisements for wine and liquor dealers and billiard parlors were run on the inside pages. Vicky refused to accept advertising from abortionists and brothels.
She had no expense for writers. Many of the articles she wrote herself; but she could also count on James, Stephen, and her intellectual friends, who were eager to contribute.
Some of the finest essays were produced by Tennie, who was turning into an amazingly clear feminist thinker and writer. In one article, for instance, she urged women to gain their sexual freedom by defying oppressive social customs. Attacking the double standard, she wrote, "A free man is a noble being; a free woman is a contemptible being." Not until women are unafraid of being called nasty names by men will there be true liberation, she concluded.
Over the months, the Weekly gradually became more radical. Women could still read about a female contractor in New Hampshire or a postmistress at West Point, but the paper also began to expose insurance frauds and bond swindles. It analyzed strikes by the coal workers and advocated labor unions for workers. Later, it would be the first newspaper in the United States to print the Communist Manifesto.
The area in which it pioneered, however, was sexuality. If anything infuriated Vicky, it was hypocrisy. The Victorian era happened to be an extremely hypocritical period of history, and nowhere was there more deception than in matters of sex.
On the surface, Victorians appeared to be genteel, mannerly, and proper. Underneath, behavior was often strikingly different. Men insisted that women remain pure and virginal. At the same time, it was common to have a mistress or patronize a prostitute.
In public, prostitution was attacked as a great evil. This was a favorite theme for the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher. One of his most popular sermons, "The Strange Woman," described venereal disease in lurid detail. "Every year, in every town," intoned Beecher from his pulpit at Plymouth Church, "die wretches scalded and scorched with agony."
In private, prostitution was tolerated. Indeed, it was a big business. There were over twenty thousand prostitutes in New York City alone.
Bishop Simpson of the Methodist Episcopal Church claimed that there were as many prostitutes in New York as there were Methodists. The superintendent of police called this an exaggeration, but he did admit that the city had 621 houses of prostitution, 96 houses of assignation where a man and woman could meet to rent a room, and 75 dance halls where "women of ill repute" hung out. In addition, there was no way of count
ing the women who roamed the streets.
What everybody knew, but nobody admitted, was that a man with money could find a woman at any time of day or night. Vicky ran articles exposing this situation when no other publication dared to mention it. She published the names of those who owned houses of prostitution, and these included respectable citizens and even churches. She described the conditions under which prostitutes had to work and how little of their earnings they kept. Payoffs to the police were noted as well.
Vicky believed that prostitutes were victims. Since prostitution could probably not be eliminated, she wanted it to be legalized. Most of the evils would be lessened, she thought, if brothels were licensed by the police and inspected regularly by doctors.
The Weekly discussed other unmentionable topics: birth control, abortion, venereal disease, and female sexual response. In an age when many women were so modest that they would not permit a doctor to examine them, the Weekly blasted such prudery and advised women to learn about their bodies.
On top of all this, Vicky openly avowed her belief in sexual freedom for women and crusaded for a single, not double, standard of morality for both women and men. The public lumped together her writings about sex into one category: "free love." Eventually she would have a reputation for being a notorious "free lover." "Respectable" citizens thought she was horrible.
Vicky was not the first woman to speak of female sexuality. Before her had been the English feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, who lived with two men without being married. In the late 1700s, she had argued that when a woman and man no longer feel strong physical attraction for each other, their relationship should end. After Vicky would come the birth-control pioneer, Margaret Sanger. Both these women fared better with the public than Vicky, who had the misfortune to live in a prudish age.
In her time, Vicky was the only feminist to see the connection between feminism and sexual freedom. Others, like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, believed women should have the same privileges as men, but their private lives were models of Victorian respectability.
It was now the summer of 1870. Although only June, the scorched city already baked under a heat wave. Vicky began arriving at the Weekly office earlier so that she could work in the morning coolness. At her desk, she dipped her pen into the inkwell; but the fresh, white sheet of paper before her remained empty. Her eyes kept moving to a letter she had received a few days ago. It demanded a reply, but Vicky could think of none.
"Dear Mrs. Woodhull," the brief note read. "Will you ask Demosthenes if there is any new argument not yet made on the 14th and 15th Amendments that he will bring out through some of us at the coming convention?" And it was signed Elizabeth Cady Stanton.
Although the Weekly had been on the stands for nearly six weeks, this was the first personal word she had received from anyone in the women's movement. Vicky felt a bit hurt when they had completely ignored the new paper. But Mrs. Stanton sounded like a kind, friendly woman.
After the Civil War, the slaves had received their freedom. The Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments to the Constitution had granted black males the right to vote. For the past several years, the feminists had focused nearly all their attention on these two amendments. Could they be interpreted to include females? Would it be necessary to add another amendment to the Constitution to ensure women the ballot? The feminists were still laboring to find the right answer. At their annual convention coming up in January, they planned to devote almost the entire agenda to this question.
Reading the note again, Vicky suddenly wondered if Mrs. Stanton could be mocking her. Why should Demosthenes give new ideas to Mrs. Stanton and her friends? They pretended she didn't exist. Full of bitterness for a moment, Vicky said to herself, "If Demosthenes helps anyone, it will be me."
That steaming evening, she climbed to the roof of her Murray Hill mansion. Almost nightly she came up here to escape the noisy Claflin brood, to meditate, pray, and think in peace. Above her head the velvet sky was dotted with stars. She looked down on the quiet blackness below and saw the branches of trees shining by the gleam of the street lamps.
Slowly Vicky could feel herself relaxing. Since that morning she had read over the amendments so often that she knew them by heart.
"All persons born or naturalized in the United States . . . are citizens of the United States. . . . No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States. . . . The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or bridged ... on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude."
"All persons, all persons, . . ." she repeated to herself hypnotically. Perhaps the answer might be hidden in those two words. Suddenly a thought flashed into her mind. The amendments clearly stated that all persons were citizens, and all citizens had the right to vote. Were not women "persons"? The male legislators who had drafted the amendments were not thinking of women when they wrote those sentences. Probably they did not regard women as persons.
"But, of course, we are," Vicky thought excitedly. "Our right to vote may not be spelled out but surely it is implied."
Was an implication good enough? She was unsure. Lying on her back, staring up at the Big Dipper, she decided to say nothing to others for the moment. The matter deserved more thought.
Vicky did not forget her definition of "persons" in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments. The idea continued to simmer at the back of her mind.
One night in September, she gave a lavish party. That night the mansion, brilliantly lit, looked like a fairyland. Reflected in the parquet floors was the gleam of wax candles in their cut-glass chandeliers. Her guests danced the Virginia reel and the Spanish fandango. Later, there would be refreshments—ice cream and cakes and beautiful glace fruits.
Someone took her arm. "Vicky, I would like to present a friend, the Honorable Benjamin Butler." Extending her hand in welcome, Vicky bowed graciously.
Mr. Butler was so short that she had to bend down to converse with him. She thought she had never met anyone quite so ugly. He was stout, bald, and his spindly legs made him look like a dwarf.
She fought back a smile. This quaint little man had been an important general during the Civil War; indeed, in the South, he still had a reputation for being cruel and bloodthirsty. Once, when some southern women refused to greet him by turning their backs on him, he had joked, "They know which end of them looks best." His lack of gallantry earned him the nickname "Beast Butler."
A lawyer by profession, Butler was now a member of Congress. He also sat on the powerful House Judiciary Committee, the congressional committee that ruled on all petitions requesting a change in the nation's laws.
Vicky immediately drew Congressman Butler to one side. While carefully outlining her thoughts on the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments, she discovered several encouraging facts about her guest. He sympathized with the feminist cause. He believed her interpretation of the amendments was valid. What's more, he seemed eager to help her.
This eagerness to help was not unusual in Vicky's relationships with men. It did not always endear her to women. In fact, Susan Anthony once remarked that she didn't trust Victoria Woodhull because she surrounded herself with men. "She is wholly owned and dominated by men-spirits," Susan said. Nobody "owned and dominated" Vicky; but in some respects, it was a fair comment. Vicky's beauty and intelligence—a kind of magnetism she had—drew men to her. They fell all over themselves to be of service. Rarely did she refuse.
Butler now busily described the steps Vicky might take. He suggested that she draft a special petition called a Memorial. Any person or group believing a law was unjust could present their grievances to Congress in this manner. If the nation's legislators thought the Memorial had merit, eventually the unjust law would be changed.
Once Vicky had written down her legal arguments, Butler added, she should send them to the House Judiciary Committee where he would see that they got prompt and serious attention.
Privately, Butler doubted that his colleagues on the Committee would approve Vicky's radical interpretation. Most of them tended to be stuffy and conservative. But Butler believed it worth a try. Perhaps if the congressmen met the dashing Vicky, they would be more favorably impressed by her theories.
"My dear, I have an idea," he declared enthusiastically, thinking aloud as he spoke. "Sometimes, on rare occasions, a petitioner is invited to personally address Congress on the subject of his Memorial. I might be able to arrange for you to appear."
As Vicky listened to Congressman Butler, she could hardly believe her good fortune. Here was a man who had just walked into her drawing room, unannounced, and handed her the key to the Congress. Was there no end to her luck?
"Mr. Butler, I would be so grateful," she exclaimed.
"Well, my dear, I cannot promise you," he warned. "After all, a woman has never addressed Congress before. We might run into a slight problem there. But I assure you that I will do my best."
Later, after her guests had departed, Vicky climbed to the roof. It was a clear, chilly night, the sky so full of stars she couldn't begin to count them. She wanted to reach up on tiptoe and grasp a whole handful—Orion and Polaris and still higher, the Pleiades.
Arching her neck upward, she began to smile. Recently she had read a statement saying that participation in politics would excite women to the point of insanity. What nonsense! Did Catherine II of Russia go mad? Did Anne of Austria? Speaking for herself, Vicky had never felt saner. Never had she held her future so firmly in her own two hands.
At the same time, though, she felt vaguely disturbed. She was sadly aware that her relations with her family had grown thin and strained. Much of the romance she had once known with James had turned stale. They were still friends, comrades, and business partners. But rarely lovers, even though she loved him more deeply than any other man she had ever known.