As the crowd rumbled around me with oaths to carry on and fight injustice and Mr. Butler stepped forward to give the minority report supporting my memorial, Representative Bingham slipped down the stairs to stand next to me.
“Give up, Victoria,” he whispered. “You have every right to take your memorial to the New York legislature and try to get the state to act, but remember, I hold sway there as well, and that’s one place where even your darling Benjamin can’t help you.”
I clenched my jaw, willing my anger not to show. Go to hell. Oh, how I longed to say those three sharp-edged words, to spit them in his face. But no, I would not insult the person who held my only remaining hope of victory in his hands. Instead, I swallowed my pride. “I will fight with every avenue that is open to me, no matter who believes my efforts futile. Besides, I have supporters who hold more power than even you.”
The congressman’s laugh came out as a puff of white in the cold air. “If you’re referring to the president, your faith is misplaced. You’ll see.”
Over the following days, the media hounded me for an interview. But I would not talk, not yet. The story would be very different once President Grant came through for me—or at least made a statement denouncing the committee’s decision. Then, and only then, would I speak.
Days passed without a single word from the president. I held fast to my belief in the man who had so warmly welcomed me. But then I overheard two reporters, one from the New York Sun and one from the Washington Star, talking in the Willard lobby.
“I asked President Grant what he thought about Bingham’s dismissal of Woodhull’s memorial,” the one from the Star said. “At first he wouldn’t say a word. I kept on him, and finally he said, ‘The matter of women’s suffrage is closed.’ What do you make of that?”
My muscles tensed to deflect the blow my mind was ill-prepared to receive, and I sucked in air as though I’d been stabbed. Mr. Bingham was right; everything the president had said to me had been lip service. I ground my teeth. How dare he lie to me! The president may have been the highest power in the land, but that did not give him license to deceive his constituents.
I glared at the reporters. The one from the New York Sun, a Mr. Charles Gibson Dana, had been hounding me for an interview for more than a week. Well, he would get his wish and then some.
I stomped over to him. “Get your pencil out, Mr. Dana. I’m ready to make my statement.”
“Here? Now?”
“Yes. Take it or leave it.”
Mr. Dana fumbled for his notepad. When his pencil was poised, he said, “Go ahead.”
“You have asked me for my reaction to the outcome of my memorial. It is this— President Grant has got so many weak men in his Cabinet who control him that he is afraid to do what he knows to be right. Politically, the administration is throughout weak and corrupt. We would be glad to have the president’s assistance because he is president; but he knows very well that we don’t care for him and mean to depose him. If he had done what he knew to be right at the outset, we would have sustained him, and he would have been strong today; but his weakness and cowardice have been his ruin.”
FEBRUARY 1871
I rubbed my aching temples. All I wanted was to return home to New York and lose myself in the brokerage business while I recovered from the sting of Congress’s rejection. But now that I had the National Committee’s attention, they weren’t going to let me go easily. They had already scheduled my first speech for that very night at Lincoln Hall.
I was no speaker. I had more than proven that in stumbling through my memorial not once but twice. However, Mr. Butler and Isabella were determined to turn me into one, as well as into a woman acceptable in high society.
Just that morning, Isabella had marched down to my room, not even greeting me before beginning my first lesson.
“This should be burned.” Isabella waved a letter in my face. It was my handwriting on lined paper from the brokerage firm. “I want you to use nice notepaper hereafter—and send your correspondence in envelopes. You are no longer a banker or a businesswoman but a prospective queen, a lady in every sense of the word. These are too rough, a dreadful eyesore, and so mannish. If you are to be our accepted standard bearer, be perfect, be exquisite in neatness, elegance, and decorousness.” She took one last look at the note before tossing it into the fire. “And we must work on your handwriting. You can’t rely on your husband to be your secretary forever.”
Now Mr. Butler was modeling for me the proper mode and manner of speaking, showing me how to imbue my voice with fire that would transfer to my listeners.
“You remind me of the Methodist preachers Ma took me to see when I was young, full of bluster and power and utterly compelling.”
As I rehearsed, reciting my speech over and over, I called those same men to mind, doing my best to transmit my own personal zeal in the words I delivered.
“That was better,” the congressman said when I finished. “Your delivery is gaining in force and confidence. Remember to stand up straight. It will help you breathe more fully, which will enable you to speak louder. Take your time. If you rush, your echo will fall all over itself, and your words will be tangled together for those in the back. You want every single person in the theatre to hear you as though you are having a one-on-one conversation.”
I nearly hugged him. That was the personal connection I was striving for, what I so admired and envied in speakers like Anna Dickinson and Kate Field. It was what would move my listeners from passive thought into passionate action.
The clock on his desk chimed. “Ah, now I must leave you. Don’t worry. You are ready. I’ll be there to introduce you.”
But as eight o’clock neared, it became clear he wasn’t going to show up after all. I sat backstage with Isabella, trying to hold myself completely still. I would be as calm and collected as the women I admired.
As the auditorium filled, however, my resolve cracked, and I fought back a wave of panic that threatened to send me hurtling toward the alley to vomit. Someone had mentioned earlier that the hall seated more than a thousand people. Now they were setting up extra chairs and people were standing in the aisles. That meant my audience had to be closer to thirteen or fourteen hundred.
I grabbed Isabella’s arm as the older woman stood. “Will you pray with me? It’s the only thing that calms my nerves.”
“Of course, my dear.”
My trembling hands clasped in Isabella’s cool, dry palms, I closed my eyes. “Heavenly Father, great spirits that guide our lives, be with us and empower us this night. Embolden our voices and give power to our words that your truth of universal equality might be heard through us. In Jesus’s name we pray.”
“Amen,” Isabella answered. “Do you feel better now?”
I nodded. “Much.”
Isabella led me out onto the stage, where Paulina Wright Davis, fellow suffragist and organizer of the first National Women’s Rights Convention some twenty years before, already sat, waiting to introduce us. Paulina rose and approached the footlights, raising her hands to signal quiet from the crowd, whose anticipation to see this new renegade speaker was palpable.
“The objective of this lecture is to present to you concisely the legal and moral arguments in favor of enfranchising half of the citizens of the United States. If neither parties existing now are ready to take this issue, which is the only live one of this day, a new party will spring up that will grind these to a powder.” Paulina paused before continuing in an even stronger tone. “The one demand is for equal justice, not reformed laws, not crumbs and favors, but equal justice.” She gestured behind her to where I was seated. “Our first speaker tonight is the first woman to see clearly and present persistently the demand for suffrage as a right plainly guaranteed by the Constitution and its amendments. I give you Mrs. Victoria C. Woodhull.”
Polite applause followed me as I walked unsteadily to center stage, taking my place before the footlights. Lightheadedness threatened to overwhelm me
just as it had before delivering my memorial. Breathe. Remember what Mr. Butler said. Breathe.
“I come before you…” I paused, alarmed at how timid and uneven my voice sounded. “I come before you to declare that my sex are entitled to the inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” I stopped again, glancing back at Isabella for support and saying a silent prayer to my spirits.
Isabella joined me at center stage, wrapping an arm about my waist. Warmth and love radiated through her, giving me the courage to go on.
“The first two,” I continued, “I cannot be deprived of except for cause and by due process of the law, but upon the last, a right is usurped to place restrictions so general as to include the whole of my sex and for which no reasons of public good can be assigned. I ask for the right to pursue happiness by having a voice in that government to which I am accountable.”
A whisper of movement, and Isabella’s hand fell away. I was alone in the spotlight now, but I was ready—passion for my subject replaced my fear.
“I and others of my sex find ourselves controlled by a form of government in the inauguration of which we had no voice, and in whose administration we are denied the right to participate, though we are a large part of the country.”
As I spoke, I caught glimpses of the audience. Women, and a few men, sat in rapt concentration, hanging on my every word. My old theatre training came back as I warmed to the role of outspoken advocate for women—not only women like me but women like Minnie and the poor farm wives of the Ozarks, all those I had cared for over the years.
“I am subject to tyranny,” I declared. “I am taxed in every conceivable way. For publishing, for engaging in the banking and brokerage business—I must pay. I must pay high prices for tea, coffee, and sugar. To all these I must submit that men’s government may be maintained, a government in the administration of which I am denied a voice, and from its edicts there is no appeal.
“Women have no government. We mean treason,” I thundered. “We mean secession and on a thousand times grander scale than was that of the South. We are plotting revolution; we will overslaugh this bogus republic and plant a government of righteousness in its stead, which shall not only profess to derive its power from the consent of the governed but shall do so in reality.”
Letting my powerful words serve as their own conclusion, I gave a small bow to the audience, signaling the end of my speech.
Applause erupted along with joyous cheers and whistles. Though both Isabella and Representative Butler—who arrived halfway through my speech—gave additional speeches that night, I was the one the crowd wanted. One by one, they trickled up to me after the event, expressing their praise and gratitude for my courage and forthrightness.
A few days later, a letter from Elizabeth Cady Stanton echoed their sentiments. “We have waited six thousand years, and the time has finally come to seize the bull by the horns, as you are doing in Washington and Wall Street.”
MARCH 1871
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
I was finally home in New York and eager to get back to business. I had more fire in my belly than since announcing my candidacy for president. Both the press and the suffrage leaders were on my side, and I wasn’t going to lie down simply because Congress had told me no. That hadn’t worked for my father when I was little, and I’d be damned if it was going to work for them.
If my own enthusiasm wasn’t enough to motivate me to step up my efforts to get out my message, the overflowing bags of mail waiting on my desk at the brokerage on Monday did the trick.
I picked up one envelope and removed its contents. It was a scathing rebuke from Mrs. Catharine Beecher. She accused me of not only “making a shameful mockery of womanhood” but of corrupting her younger sister, Isabella, by filling her head with “lies no God-fearing woman should entertain, much less subscribe to.” If that wasn’t enough, she continued, “You are a witch who has cast a spell on my poor, innocent sister. As a righteous Christian woman, it is my duty to do all within my power to drive the Devil back to hell and destroy you. You have my word I shall do just that until my dying day.”
I sat back, appalled at the vitriol contained in so few lines. It was as if Catharine had been channeling a demon when she wrote it. But I was not threatened. Catherine could rail against me until she’d spilled as much ink as water in the ocean, and it wouldn’t be more than hateful words. I tossed the letter onto the rubbish pile where such filth belonged.
The next letter I picked was written in a spidery, shaking hand by a woman who claimed to be ninety years old. “I was born on a little farm outside of St. Louis. And oh, have these old eyes seen some sights. I grew up during the birth of our nation, witnessed firsthand the terrors of the Civil War, wept as our president was assassinated, and watched as the Negros were set free. Each one seemed a nightmare or a miracle that wouldn’t ever be topped. But here you are, Mrs. Woodhull, a beacon of light. A woman running for president—never thought I’d live to see the day—and one that ain’t got no ‘punction ‘bout bothering those powerful men ‘til they finally turn an ear your way. I been tellin’ my girls and their girls after them ‘bout you and that they oughta do more to get the vote. Please know y’all are in our prayers and we’re fighting right alongside you in spirit. May God bless you.” It was signed Ella Mae Johnson.
This was it—the proof I needed that women were responding to my call. The thousands of signatures Susan, Isabella, and Elizabeth had captured were wonderful, but most of them came from society matrons and their brethren. But these letters—postmarked from towns large and small across the country—were from ordinary people, the salt-of-the-earth types I had known all my life. As such, they meant more to me than all of the signatures in Boston, Washington, D.C., and New York combined. These were the women who Congress needed to hear from.
Sudden inspiration overtook me like a fever. Rising, I barreled into the parlor, where James and Stephen were working on the next edition of the Weekly.
“Am I too late? Have you put it to bed yet?”
“No, not yet. Why?” Stephen regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and worry, half rising from his chair to meet me. He squinted as he examined my face. “Are you unwell?”
“On the contrary, I’ve never felt better.” I grabbed a proof out of Stephen’s hand. “What do we have in this issue? Can anything wait?”
Stephen crossly snatched back the paper. “I’m sure something can. What is so important?”
I was already scribbling across the back of a discarded page. “I want to run my Constitutional Equality speech again along with a brief article asking people to petition Congress. You should see these letters, see what they are already doing without any prompting from me. If we include a sample petition, I know women will take action. Do you have room for that?”
While Stephen and James conferred, arguing over what should stay and what should go, I re-read what I had written.
“Everyone should feel that he or she is a leader and should set about the good work; should draw a petition and sign it themselves and get everybody else whom it is possible to do the same, then forward it either direct to their representative in Congress or to Mrs. Josephine Griffing, Secretary of the National Suffrage Association, Washington, D.C., who will see everything of this kind attended to. It is my sincere hope a million names should show Congress our steadfastness in this matter.
“Not only must these petitions flow from the people upon Congress so as to overwhelm it, but the same power should be brought to bear upon the legislature of every state. Friends of the cause should act in concert. Their real power has never been felt. But when our individual lights shine as one, we shall become a flame to burn the blindfold off the eyes of Lady Justice, so that we, her sisters, might take our equal place alongside men.”
My brief article provoked an immediate response, with misdirected petitions from across the nation pouring into the Weekly offices, spreading my name and exploits from coast to coast. This was
aided in no small part by Susan and Elizabeth, who were both on lecture tours and freely using my name when speaking of the new spark within the movement.
The previous morning, I’d received a brief note from Susan who was taking her speech, “The New Situation,” across the Midwest, Upper Plains, and East Coast. “Dear Woodhull, I have just read your speech of the sixteenth. It is ahead of anything said or written. Bless your dear soul for all you are doing to help strike the chains from woman’s spirit. Go ahead! Bright, glorious, young, and strong spirit and believe in the best love and hope and faith of Susan B. Anthony.”
That was the boost I’d needed for my flagging spirits. For all my newfound passion, the gossip could be fatiguing. Last week I had been out to dinner with James, Mr. Vanderbilt, Tennie, and Stephen, celebrating the success of both the Weekly and my burgeoning speaking career. Tennie and I had excused ourselves to the powder room only to encounter a cluster of busybodies who failed to notice our entrance.
“Have you seen Queen Victoria out there holding court?” one woman asked.
“Yes, indeed,” a second answered. “She’s got them all in attendance tonight: Colonel Blood, her king consort; Mr. Andrews, her minister of publicity; and her sister brought along the minister of finance, Commodore Vanderbilt.”
They collapsed into giggles before Tennie cleared her throat and gave them a mocking finger wave, sending half of them skulking out like chastised dogs while the others laughed all the harder.
Such was the life of a public figure, or at least, so I told myself as I made my final preparations to leave for my first lecture tour. I would begin in Boston, where I was sure to face staunch resistance as it was the home of the conservative American Woman Suffrage Association and the Beecher family.
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