Tennie added fuel to the fire by implying to a reporter that she had it on good authority that the Victoria League was backed by Cornelius Vanderbilt. As everyone knew she was still occasionally seeing the elderly tycoon—thanks in no small part to my efforts after our mother’s blackmail debacle—the rumor was assumed to be true. When questioned, the commodore would say nothing, which would set tongues wagging even more.
For my part, I pretended to be shocked and honored by such a spontaneous outpouring of support. I responded to the invitation in the next issue of the Weekly.
“Your timing could not be more fortuitous, as I have returned to my humanitarian objectives of uniting suffrage with labor reform under the platform of human rights. The freedom of women and the freedom of the laborer are conjointly the cause of humanity. The fusion of the women and the workingmen and the Internationalists will render the Democrats and Republicans as parties unnecessary. The National Labor Union, just now convening in St. Louis, has, for the first time, invited women upon equal terms to that convention. It is, of course, noticed that neither Republicans nor Democrats have invited us yet to their political assemblages.
“I will admit, in the spirit of openness, that my announcement as a candidate a year ago was for the mere purpose of lifting a banner, of provoking agitation, and creating a rallying point for suffrage. But now, seeing as how people support me and have taken to my cause, I have little doubt of the possibility of success. Little as the public think it, a woman who is now nominated may be elected next year.”
NOVEMBER 1871
One year remained until the presidential election. The event I had carefully planned for today tested exactly how a woman attempting to vote would be treated. At best, our band of reformers would gain notoriety for succeeding; at worst, we would be arrested like so many suffragists before us. Either way, I was sure to make the papers. I even invited Johnny to accompany us as we made our way to the polling place to ensure every moment would be documented in the Herald for posterity.
Approximately a dozen women, including Tennie and me, were gathered in the drawing room of our Murray Hill mansion when the clock struck half past two. We had registered to vote two days before without anyone trying to stop us, so the atmosphere was one of hopeful excitement. Pray God we would be able to cast our votes as easily.
“Ladies, please, if I may have your attention,” I called above the chatter. “Today, buoyed by the rights granted us in the Constitution of the United States, we set out to become the first female voters in the great state of New York. We will be meeting John DeNoon Reymert, a seasoned lawyer of some repute, at our polling place in case there are any questions as to the legality of our actions. But to quiet any last-minute fears you may have, Tennie will now read the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments of the Constitution for us.”
After Tennie concluded, we opened our parasols as we emerged onto the sunny street and marched to the little furniture store at 682 Sixth Avenue, which doubled as the polling place for our district and ward. We sang hymns of freedom as we walked, attracting a small following of ordinary citizens and a reporter from the World.
Inside the store’s large waiting area, we met my elderly lawyer, who greeted us warmly. This plus our very presence at a polling place—traditionally a male haven—attracted quite a bit of attention from those standing around.
“What’s the likes of you fair pusses doing here? You lost?” one man asked with a guffaw at his own wit.
I stared him down. “I am here to exercise my privilege as a citizen of the United States to vote.”
Before the man could harass me further, I, followed by the other women, strode into the smaller inner room where voting took place. Up ahead, at the end of the long, disorderly line, a glass voting window separated the election officials from the voters. The man casting his vote had to step up onto a platform, in full view of everyone else in the room, and hand his ballot to the official, who put it in the corresponding box out of reach of the voter but within sight of all present. There was absolutely no question for whom he had voted when he left the platform.
Ahead, two men were elbowing one another, arguing over who was first. A strolling police officer admonished everyone to “form an orderly line,” but some still cut in or assumed a front place because of their surname or occupation, much to the grumbling of the common men.
However, once word trickled up the line that there were women present, the men remembered their gallantry and insisted the ladies go first. I was quickly ushered to the head of the line, curious spectators of both sexes behind me.
I had been hoping for a little less attention, but I would play the hand dealt to me. Squaring my shoulders, I stepped onto the stage and presented my ballot to the inspector.
He recoiled as though I was handing him his death warrant. “I can’t take it. I can’t even look at it.”
“You refuse to take my vote?” My eyebrows rose even though this was the reaction I’d expected.
“We can’t receive it,” the small man with the badge of an election official repeated.
“By what right do you refuse to accept the vote of a citizen of the United States?”
“By this.” He thumped a copy of the Constitution, clearly annoyed.
Mr. Reymert mounted the platform. “But refer to the second article. You will see that ‘all citizens,’ not ‘all males,’ are entitled to vote.”
“We haven’t a copy of the Amendments here, and even if we had, I could not take the vote.”
I produced the copy of the Amendments we had read from earlier. “Here. Read the Fourteenth and Fifteenth articles and tell me if you still have legal grounds for denying my vote.”
“I cannot.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“I have been instructed to accept no votes from women.”
“Is it a crime to be a woman?”
While the lawyer and election officials tried to sort out the scene I had created, I stepped aside. There was no better opportunity than this to deliver my Constitutional Equality speech, to educate people during a moment when their minds were already attuned to politics. At least this way, they would know what the scene playing out before them was about.
I recited it from memory. A few people looked genuinely interested, but most of the men were gathered around to gawk and laugh. Above them carried Tennie’s high-pitched, “You will regret this when my sister is president,” when she too was turned away. Amidst the chaos, I tracked quiet Mrs. Miller, who slipped behind the arguing men to silently drop her ballot into the box. It was a small victory, one likely to go unnoticed by the history books but a victory nonetheless.
Over the next week, I learned just how much attention my revolutionaries and I had garnered with our little stunt. Brokerage clients relayed that we were the focus of every social gathering from Harlem to Five Points and even out to Brooklyn, as well as the subject of more than one Sunday sermon. Every step of the event was chronicled in the Tribune and World.
Later in the month, Harper’s Weekly printed a half-hearted report of our doings along with a sketch that depicted me forcefully exerting my right. I didn’t care much for the article, but the sketch was perfect. With my arm raised, fingers clutching my ballot as the baffled election officials looked on, they’d captured my spirit and strength better than any words ever would.
My speech on social freedom at Steinway Hall was in less than twenty-four hours, and I still hadn’t received any assurance from Reverend Beecher that he would introduce me. I had no choice but to reach out to him, to remind him of what he had to lose if he didn’t stand up for me.
“Two of your sisters have gone out of their way to assail my character and purpose. You doubtless know that it is in my power to strike back and in ways more disastrous than anything that can come to me. I do not desire to do this. I simply desire justice, and a reasonable course on your part will assist me to it. I must have an interview tomorrow. What I shall or shall not say will depend large
ly on the result of the interview.”
Within two hours of sending the letter, I had his agreement to meet me at his church. Once again, Theodore accompanied me, but this time, he stayed to witness the exchange. Reverend Beecher remained sequestered behind his desk while I sat on a settee near the door, at which Theodore stood guard.
When the reverend made no effort to begin the conversation, I said, “You know my position. The only safety you have is in coming out as soon as possible as an advocate of social freedom. You don’t have to proclaim yourself from the pulpit, but introducing me would go a long way to bridge the gap between what you do and what you say.”
Reverend Beecher stood, wailing, “I cannot! I should sink through the floor. I am a moral coward on this subject, and you know it.” He rounded the desk and came to kneel on the cushion beside me. To my horror, he wept, pulling at my arm like a child and begging, “Let me off.”
I pulled away, wiping my hands on my dress to rid them of his cowardice. “I shall do no such thing. Powerful men with secrets to hide may rise, but they also fall. Someday you have got to fall.” I stood, wishing to be away from this pathetic craven. “If I am compelled to go upon that platform alone, I shall begin by telling the audience why I am alone and why you are not with me.”
Reverend Beecher was sobbing, his breathing far too shallow and too rapid. “I cannot face this thing.” He moaned. “If you are to do as you say, let me have proper notice so that I might take my own life.”
“Oh, come off it,” Theodore snapped, crossing to his former mentor in three long strides. He took Reverend Beecher by the shoulders and shook him. “She is only asking you to introduce her, not stand before the world and give a full confessing of your sins. If you can preach for two hours every Sunday, surely you can speak two paragraphs about this woman.”
The preacher regarded him with red-rimmed eyes. “This thing you ask of me is a great cross.” He sniffed. “But it will be as you say if I can bring my courage up to the terrible ordeal.”
That night, as our carriage sloshed through the sodden city streets, rain beating incessantly against the windows, I wondered aloud if Reverend Beecher would be good to his word.
“I cannot imagine who would come out in all this rain,” Tennie said. “Perhaps God is telling you not to give the speech.” She made a disgusted face as she peered into the night. Tennie’s intake of breath drew my attention outside.
The steps of Steinway Hall were lined with ten-foot-high red banners with gold letters proclaiming, “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” At the door, seven-foot-high posters left visitors in no doubt of the night’s subject: “Victoria C. Woodhull: The Principles of Sexual Freedom – Free Love, Marriage, Divorce, and Prostitution.” They were drenched with rain, and a few were twisted from the wind, but their message still blared to all within sight. On the stairs, people from all walks of life were crammed cheek by jowl, waiting to get in and huddled under umbrellas. My biography may have been poorly received by everyone save the Spiritualists, but no one would have been able to tell judging from the crowd waiting in the rain. I would have to give Stephen a raise; he and his band of promoters had outdone themselves.
The carriage dropped us off at a back entrance, where we were escorted to a large dressing area to await the eight o’clock hour. I paced, practicing my speech quietly to distract myself from the unease taking root in my belly.
I stopped in the wings and peered out at the crowd, which was quickly filling the hall to its three-thousand-person capacity. With still an hour before the lecture, every seat on the ground floor, two balconies, and every bit of standing room in the aisles was filled. Some of the men close to the stage leaned on it, and others bowed over the balconies. They were talking loudly, some fanning themselves with the memorandum I had placed on each seat explaining the purposes of my speech so there could be no doubt.
“Victoria C. Woodhull speaks tonight for the express purpose of silencing the voices and stopping the pens of those who, either ignorantly or willfully, persistently misrepresent, slander, abuse, and vilify her because of her outspoken advocacy of and supreme faith in God’s last and best law. She wishes it to be distinctly understood that freedom does not mean anarchy in the social relations any more than it does in religion and politics; also that the advocacy of its principles requires neither action nor immodest speech.”
By ten minutes after eight, the audience was growing restless, pounding their feet and clapping and chanting, “Woodhull! Woodhull!”
Where in tarnation was Beecher? Not wanting to make them wait any longer, I made for the stage, but the building manager rushed in front of me.
“Mrs. Woodhull, do not go out there. Certain members of the crowd both outside and within are trying to break up the meeting with violence, and some are threatening your life if you speak on what you say you will.”
I threw up my hands. “Oh, this is preposterous. No man will silence me with threats. Have they not learned that by now?” I turned on my heel, headed in the direction of the stage.
Theodore stepped in front of me.
“Are you going to introduce her?” someone asked.
“Yes, by Heaven, since no one else has the pluck to do it,” Theodore said.
When we emerged onto the stage, the crowd surged forward, some perilously close to the gas footlights. I was suddenly acutely aware of every pair of eyes on me, examining me, scrutinizing my black silk dress with the white rose at my throat, silently comparing the woman in the flesh before them to the one they had dreamed up based on gossip and lies.
Theodore took center stage and opened his arms wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, happening to have an unoccupied night, which is an unusual thing for me in the lecture season, I came to this meeting actuated by curiosity to know what my friend would have to say in regard to the great question that has occupied her for so many years of life. I was told she was coming upon this stand unattended and alone. Now, as to her character, I know it and believe in it and vouch for it.”
Applause rose, cut through by a few lewd whistles. I fought to keep my expression neutral, raising my chin against the implications that our relationship was more widely known than I had suspected.
Theodore motioned for the audience to be silent. “As to her views, she will give them to you herself in a few moments, and you may judge for yourself. It may be that she is a fanatic; it may be that I am a fool, but before high heaven, I would rather be both fanatic and fool in one than to be such a coward as would deny to a woman the sacred right of free speech.”
This assertion was greeted with boisterous applause.
“Allow me the privilege of introducing you to Victoria C. Woodhull, who will address you upon the subject of social freedom.”
More applause filled the air as Theodore stepped back, ceding the stage to me. I took in the crowd, my eyes flicking first to one box, in which Tennie sat, then another, which was filled with my friends and—oh God—my family. Doing my best to ignore them, I began to speak.
“Our government is based upon the proposition that all men and women are born free and equal and entitled to certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Now what we, who demand social freedom, ask is simply that the government of this country shall be administered in accordance with the spirit of this proposition. Nothing more, nothing less.”
As I spoke, the spirits gathered around me, encircling me with their arms joined, as if channeling their higher powers into me. Slowly, I deviated from Stephen’s carefully prepared script, inserting my own thoughts.
“Two persons, a male and a female, meet and are drawn together by a mutual attraction—a natural feeling unconsciously arising within their natures of which neither has any control—which is denominated love. Suppose after this marriage has continued an indefinite time, the unity between them departs. Could they any more prevent it than they can prevent the love? It came without their bidding; may it not also go without their bidding? It is the
refore a strictly legitimate conclusion that where there is no love as a basis of marriage, there should be no marriage, and if that which was the basis of a marriage is taken away, that the marriage also ceases from that time, statute laws to the contrary notwithstanding.”
At this, half of the crowed leapt to their feet, cheering, while the other portion hissed.
Theodore stepped from the wings and did his best to get them to sit down and be quiet by shouting “Ladies and gentlemen!” several times, but he was drowned out by the commotion, which lasted a full ten minutes.
Oh, this was ridiculous. They were a crowd of adults, not rowdy schoolchildren. But if they wished to behave as such, I would treat them as such. I stamped my heeled boot on the polished stage. The echo reverberated like thunder, making the hall fall suddenly silent.
“Let the gentleman or lady who is capable of hissing or interrupting me come forward on this platform and define their principles fairly.” If they were going to challenge me, they could state their opinions publicly, just as I did.
A woman in a pink dress stood unsteadily in one of the boxes directly to my right. I took a few steps in her direction, relatively certain that that was the box in which I had seen my family seated. I bit my cheek, dreading what might follow.
Just before she spoke, I recognized my sister Utica. “How would you like to come into this world not knowing who your father and mother was?”
I stared at my sister, not quite certain as to how her question pertained to the subject at hand. But that was irrelevant. It had been asked before the whole forum, so I had to address it as best I could.
“I assert that there are as good and noble men and women on this earth suffering from the stain of illegitimacy as any man or woman before me. God knows I do not know how many illegitimate men or women are in this hall tonight.”
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