by Marion Meade
More and more these days, she found herself turning to nine-year-old Zulu Maud. She felt strangely comforted by her daughter's presence. The girl had grown into a quiet child, solemn and patient beyond her years, who was always offering to do small chores for her mother. Vicky wished she could spend more time with Zulu Maud because it was clear the lonely child did not really enjoy her boisterous Claflin relatives.
Byron had been lost to her for many years. Rarely did he acknowledge her presence. Instead, he preferred the company of his father. The sixteen-year-old boy's body had almost matured into manhood, bur his mind dwelt in other spheres. Canning was also lost in a hazy world of alcohol and drugs. Father and son clung to each other.
Over the months, Roxanna had worked herself into such a sulk that sometimes Vicky wished she could ship her back to the Midwest. Instead of directing her bad temper at Vicky, though, she took out her frustrations on James. Provoking needless arguments over nothing, she began to needle James about earning his living from Vicky and Tennie. Roxanna conveniently overlooked the fact that, between the brokerage firm and the newspaper, James often put in a twelve-hour workday.
When quarrels broke out in the household, as they did frequently, all of Vicky's sisters except Tennie sided with Roxanna. Although Vicky supported them, as well as their children, they bore her no gratitude or affection. For many years, she had tried to win their love. Now she realized it was impossible. Jealous and sullen, they could never accept her success or prominence.
Vicky spent many long hours writing and rewriting her Memorial for Congress. Consulting a stack of law books, she struggled to present her arguments as convincingly as possible. When she had finished in November, she decided to send up a trial balloon to test public reaction. Running a short article in the Weekly under the attention-getting headline Startling Annunciation, she briefly summarized her theory that the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments gave women the right to vote. Then she sat back to wait.
To her dismay, she received almost no response. One newspaper sarcastically dismissed her idea as foolishness.
In a sense, Vicky's article was a belated reply to Mrs. Stanton's letter of the previous summer. Surely, she thought, Mrs. Stanton would contact her again. But Vicky had no word from Mrs. Stanton or from any of the feminists. Did they, too, consider her silly?
Finally, it was Tennie who reported the gossip going around feminist circles. "They say it was Butler's idea! Guess they don't think you're smart enough."
Quivering, Vicky managed a tense smile.
"They reject my argument because they don't like me," she replied. "What fools and hypocrites they are. All their talk of sisterhood! They only want to be sisters with respectable ladies like themselves."
At that time, nearly all the feminists were middle-class, educated women. Their rebellion against the low status of women was mainly intellectual. They were fortunate enough to lead comfortable lives. None had suffered from poverty or physical drudgery. None was divorced. None had worked to support her children.
Vicky had a real knowledge of woman's oppression because she had lived it. Unlike the feminist leaders, she had never been sheltered from the harsh realities of life. Unquestionably, this accounts for much of her radical approach to feminism.
Now, her feelings battered, she began to hate the women's movement. "They talk about women's rights but when a woman uses her rights, they spit on her," she fumed. "They think they're too good to associate with me." For a moment, she felt very small and insignificant.
In December, Vicky boarded a train for Washington to deliver her Memorial to Congress. Waiting at the station with good news was Congressman Butler. On January 11, she would be addressing the House Judiciary Committee. The "Queen of Prostitutes," as some newspapers were now calling her, would be the first woman to receive this honor.
7
Victoria and the Feminists
Isabella Beecher Hooker was suspicious and very, very upset. Earlier in the day, several hundred feminists had begun arriving in Washington for the annual January convention of the National Woman's Suffrage Association. Isabella, the organizer of the convention, already had had enough trouble trying to arrange for speakers. She had failed so miserably that Susan Anthony returned early from a lecture tour to straighten out the mess.
Now this, she thought, as she stared at the newspaper on her lap. There, in black and white, was a report that Victoria Woodhull would address the House Judiciary Committee tomorrow morning, January 11, 1871. Her appearance was set for ten a.m., exactly the same time as the opening of the convention. Although this was entirely a coincidence, Isabella suspected that Vicky had arranged it deliberately.
Meeting later at teatime with Susan, Pauline Davis, and other feminists, Isabella could not contain her anger. Nor could the others, who seemed to forget all about the convention. They could talk of nothing but Mrs. Woodhull.
Not surprisingly, they remembered the gossip they'd heard about Vicky: she was divorced; she lived with both her husbands; she entertained radicals and "free lovers"; she held orgies.
One woman brought up the unconventional Tennie and her relationship with Commodore Vanderbilt.
"She's a bold one," said Isabella. "They say she smokes cigars."
What disturbed them most was Vicky's coup. None of the feminists had been invited to address Congress. How had an immoral woman like Victoria Woodhull managed to achieve this great honor? Their cries of outrage mounted to a crescendo.
Finally Susan Anthony made a suggestion. "Why don't we attend the committee hearing tomorrow and find out what she has to say?"
"Certainly not," retorted Isabella obstinately. "I would never associate with that woman nor will I contaminate myself by listening to her speak." The others fluttered in agreement.
The group was meeting at the home of Senator Samuel Pomeroy where Isabella was a house guest. Susan suggested that they ask the senator from Kansas for his opinion.
As it happened, Senator Pomeroy had no sympathy with their agitation.
"This is not the way politics works," he told them bluntly. "Men could never work in a political party if they stopped to investigate each member's background. If you are going into a fight, you must accept all the help you can get."
Swallowing their pride, the feminists decided to postpone their convention until the next afternoon.
January 11 was a typical Washington winter day, sunny and fairly mild. Arriving early at the Capitol with Tennie and James, Vicky nervously clutched a copy of her speech— "Further Arguments in Support of Victoria Woodhull's Memorial." Soon the marble corridor outside the hearing room began to fill up. Clerks hurried through the crowd carrying sheafs of papers and documents. Congressmen assembled in small groups, peeping at Vicky out of the corners of their eyes. Also waiting in the corridor were three stern-looking women—Susan Anthony, Isabella Beecher Hooker, and Pauline Davis.
Vicky recognized Susan immediately, but the other faces were not familiar. Fearful of meeting their eyes, she continued talking to Tennie. It would be impossible for her to speak to them. From the frosty expressions on their faces, she could read their feelings about her.
Actually, the women were gaping at Vicky more in disbelief than in disapproval. Until this morning, they had never seen her in person, and they had difficulty believing their eyes.
"Why, she looks like a lady!" declared Isabella in a shocked whisper.
Vicky wore a tasteful plum-colored gown with a white rose at her throat. Her face, framed by short curly hair, looked sad. In truth, she was scared to death.
James had been quietly circulating through the crowd to hear what people were saying about Vicky. Now he returned to her side.
"One of those women over yonder must be the Reverend Beecher's sister," he reported. "I overheard her say that she had no intention of speaking to you. Then a gentleman told her that a Beecher should be the last person to criticize you because—are you listening?—because her brother preaches to at least twenty
of his mistresses every Sunday. What do you think that means?"
"Oh, James," Vicky answered sharply. "How should I know?"
All she could think of was her coming ordeal. Simply being there made her feel awestruck. Suddenly her childhood inferiority swept over her again. She was a nobody. Her family were trash. Respectable folks looked down on her.
The doors to the committee room stood open now, and people began filing in. As she looked around, Vicky thought, "None of these people likes me or wishes me well, except Mr. Butler." Her impulse was to turn and walk out.
It was time for the hearing to begin. Vicky heard herself being introduced. As she rose to her feet, she felt her hands grow moist with perspiration. This was the first public speech she had ever made, and as she opened her mouth, the words came out in a whisper. Someone asked her to repeat because she couldn't be heard.
Quietly she began to read her speech, outlining her legal arguments to prove that the Constitution already gave women the right to vote. Gradually her voice grew stronger and more dramatic. But by bit, her nervousness fled; the words began to tumble out. Her cheeks grew flushed and her eyes sparkled.
"Women, white and black, belong to races, although to different races," she said. "A race of people comprises all the people, male and female."
Her sincere passion, an intense belief in the truth of her argument, came across strongly to the audience. They listened, spellbound.
"The right to vote cannot be denied on account of race. Neither does sex have anything to do with the right to vote."
She went on, glancing only occasionally at the papers in her hand. In conclusion, she asked the committee to make a recommendation to Congress. The existing laws should be clarified, she said, to include women.
Congressman Riddle rose to announce that Mrs. Woodhull's petition would be closely considered. A report on their decision would be issued as soon as possible. Then the meeting was adjourned.
Committee members crowded around to shake Vicky's hand and offer congratulations. A moment later, she felt herself encircled by many arms warmly grasping and hugging her. It was the feminists, their faces bright with excitement and admiration. The change in them was remarkable. They all talked at once, telling her how brilliant she had been and how grateful they felt.
"The greatest step forward in the history of the women's movement has been made this morning," Isabella Hooker crowed, "and you have made it."
More women from the feminist convention had gathered outside the hearing room, and they, too, fussed over Vicky and her Memorial.
"Please do take lunch with us," pleaded Susan Anthony. "Then we would be so honored if you would attend our convention and repeat your speech for the rest of the ladies."
In a mood of triumph, Vicky and Tennie happily went off to lunch with Susan and her friends. All Vicky's feelings of hurt evaporated. Secretly she had always wanted to be their friend. Now it looked as if she had won them over completely.
Two hours later, she was seated on the convention platform at Lincoln Hall. Glancing around her, she noticed many important people—several senators, the black leader Frederick Douglass, and the officers of the National Woman's Suffrage Association. She tried to smile. The white rose pinned to her dress was beginning to droop.
Susan Anthony, addressing the delegates, described the historic event which had impressed her so much that morning.
"I have persuaded Mrs. Woodhull to deliver her Memorial again this afternoon," she announced. "Although she is inexperienced as a public speaker, she has consented for the sake of the women's movement."
Vicky trembled as she stood at the center of the platform. But once she began to speak, her stage fright disappeared. When she had finished, the hall went wild. Delegates applauded, cheered, and stamped their feet. Vicky had never seen anything like it. Neither, remarked Isabella Hooker, had she.
Fired by enthusiasm, the delegates voted to cancel the rest of the speeches and panel discussions on their agenda. There was no need for further discussion about how women might get the vote. Now, thanks to Vicky, their path was clear.
"It's time for action!" called out one delegate. "I propose we go to the polls and vote!”
Accordingly, a bold resolution was drawn up and approved. It read: "It is the duty of American women to apply for registration to vote. In all cases where they fail to secure it, suits should be instituted."
Small wonder that the captivated feminists adored Vicky. They were convinced that their battle was over.
Back in New York, the adulation continued. Vicky's new feminist friends called on her at home and invited her to tea. Isabella Beecher Hooker, recently having vowed she would never speak to Vicky, became her most devoted admirer. Often she wrote her letters which began, "My Darling Queen. . . ."
Vicky made headlines across the country. "This is the bravest and best move the women have made yet," one paper gushed.
The Philadelphia Press described Vicky's appearance at the feminist convention: "Mrs. Woodhull sat sphinx-like during the convention. General Grant himself might learn a lesson of silence from the pale, sad face of this unflinching woman. She reminds one of the forces of nature behind the storm, or a small splinter of the indestructible."
The weeks ahead were to be the most gratifying of Vicky's life. From all sides came love, admiration, and respect. She received invitations to lecture and soon had embarked on a new career as a speaker. People began calling her "The Woodhull," as if she were a ship or a public monument. For the time being, the public forgot her reputation as a "loose" woman.
So extreme was the praise that a backlash was probably inevitable. One of the first groups to criticize Vicky was the opponents of women's rights. Many people believed the feminists to be a bunch of neurotic women with crazy ideas. The fact that they would associate with a woman like Victoria Woodhull proved it.
The other group that rejected Vicky were the feminists. In those days the women's movement was far from united in its goals. In fact, the women had quarreled so bitterly among themselves that some of the more conservative feminists like Lucy Stone had established a rival organization, the American Woman's Suffrage Association.
The days before the Civil War had been an exciting, romantic time. For the first time in history, a few courageous women began to challenge a way of life millenniums old.
After the war, confusion set in. Some feminists thought women should concentrate on getting the vote for the Negro. Others, like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, wanted to work for women. She felt unsure about the ballot being the most important issue. In fact, she once said the ballot was a crumb compared to the larger issue of sexual emancipation. The ills of women ran far deeper than merely not being able to vote.
Unlike Elizabeth Stanton and Susan Anthony, many who called themselves feminists did not think family life had to be changed before women could be liberated. They never questioned woman's inferior position in marriage. They were against divorce. They never discussed indiscreet subjects like birth control or sexuality.
In reality, they were like nonfeminist Victorian women, prudish and straitlaced. Lucy Stone, for example, had once attacked the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt and warned people not to attend her performances. Bernhardt, husband-less, had borne four children.
Now, Lucy Stone and others spoke up disapprovingly. They said Vicky would hurt the cause of women's rights. To support her was irresponsible.
Women from the National Woman's Suffrage Association rushed to Vicky's defense. Mrs. Stanton, who had not been able to attend the convention and still had not met Vicky, declared that women should not destroy one another. "If Victoria Woodhull must be crucified," she said, "let men drive the spikes that plait the crown of thorns. This woman stands before us today as an able speaker and writer. Her face, manners and conversation all indicate the triumph of the moral, intellectual and spiritual."
Susan Anthony, traveling in the Midwest, was busy delivering a lecture, "The New Situation," based on the Woodhull M
emorial. Wherever she went, she championed Vicky. Those who criticized Vicky got a tart answer. "Mrs. Woodhull's character is just as good as that of most congressmen," Susan snapped. Her tongue could be razor sharp. Once she was debating Horace Greeley, the celebrated New York publisher.
"Miss Anthony," baited Greeley, "the bullet and the ballot go together. If you vote, are you also prepared to fight?"
"Why certainly, Mr. Greeley," Susan answered. "Just as you fought in the Civil War—at the point of a goose quill."
For Vicky, she expressed nothing but encouragement. "Go ahead, bright, glorious, young and strong spirit," she wrote to her, "and believe in the best love and hope and faith of S. B. Anthony."
The House Judiciary Committee rejected Vicky's petition, but this failed to discourage the feminists. Believing she was correct about woman's implied right to vote, they continued to rave about her to anyone who would listen.
Ironically, most women at that time were totally uninterested in voting. They refused to take the women's movement seriously. Even the most prominent women reformers—educated, articulate women—didn't care a fig for the ballot. Two of the women's movement's most formidable opponents were Catherine Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe. Both found Vicky appalling.
"She's a snake who should be given a good swat with a shovel," Harriet reportedly remarked.
The Beechers were the most famous, admired family in the land. All but one of the children of Lyman Beecher had distinguished themselves in one way or another. Five became ministers, the most well known being Henry Ward Beecher. Catherine E. Beecher headed the American Woman's Educational Association. Harriet Beecher Stowe, the most beloved novelist of her day, had written a book about the miseries of slavery. More than any other factor, Uncle Tom's Cabin had helped to arouse northern sentiment against slavery. And finally there was Isabella Beecher Hooker, a leading figure in the women's movement and the only Beecher who supported Victoria Woodhull.