A scandalized murmur swept the crowd only to be replaced by Utica’s shouts of “I am her sister. Unhand me,” when a police officer tried to drag Utica from her box. This angered the crowd even more, and the officer was forced to exit the box to a chorus of “Shame!”
Theodore once again came to my rescue, calling to Utica, “You shall all be heard if you give us time. I must say, however, that this lady”—he gestured to me—“has hired the hall and is entitled to be heard first.”
I mouthed my thanks to Theodore before turning once again to the audience. I was sweating profusely, pulse pounding, hands shaking. Please, God, let there not be any further interruptions. “Now, let me ask, would it not rather be the Christian way, in such cases, to say to the disaffected party: ‘Since you no longer love me, go your way and be happy and make those to whom you go happy also.’ I know of no higher, holier love than that.”
“Are you a Free Lover?” shouted someone.
I screamed inwardly. Was that all these people cared about—what I did and with whom? Did no one wish to hear the reasoning behind my beliefs? No, they were more concerned with branding me an adventuress.
I hurled my script pages to the floor, shouting as they scattered at my feet. “Yes, I am a Free Lover! I have an inalienable constitutional and natural right to love whom I may, to love as long or as short a period as I can, to change that love every day as I please.” A growing wave of hisses threatened to drown me out, but I raised my voice even further. “And with that right, neither you nor any law you can frame have any right to interfere, and I have the further right to demand a free and unrestricted exercise of that right.”
I was shouting to be heard, but be heard I would be, even if I tore my vocal chords in the process. These were words the crowd needed to hear.
“I believe promiscuity to be anarchy and the very antithesis of that for which I aspire. But I protest, and I believe every woman who has purity in her soul protests, against all laws that would compel her to maintain relations with a man for whom she has no regard and for which is often added the delirium of intoxication. I protest against this form of slavery.”
Utica stepped to the front of her box again. The crowed stilled to hear what she would say.
She pointed at me. “I would ask her, how can we reform the women she speaks of and at the same time teach them to live promiscuously with men?”
I shot back, “Were the relations of the sexes thus regulated, misery, crime, and vice would be banished and the pale, wan face of female humanity replaced by one glowing with radiant delight and healthful bloom and the heart of humanity would beat with a heightened vigor and renewed strength and its intellect be cleared of all shadows, sorrows, and blights. Contemplate this and then denounce me for advocating freedom if you can, and I will bear your curse with a better resignation.”
Theodore suddenly appeared at my side and whispered into my ear, “The police are threatening to shut the event down. It is time for us to go.”
With that, he ushered me off the stage and signaled to the workers to douse the footlights.
I refused to come out of my room for two days after the speech, preferring to remain curled up in my blankets with the windows shuttered. My head ached, my heart ached, and the tears would not stop falling. My ungrateful family had done it again—wrecked what would have otherwise been a glorious night for me. If they truly were seeking to ruin me, they were doing excellent work.
I sat up as a memory danced through my mind—Stephen’s beautiful wife in a trance, warning me to “beware the Judas kiss.” I should have listened, been prepared. Of the countless messages I had heeded, why had I chosen to ignore that one? It was foretold all along that they would ruin me in my hour of greatest triumph. I was a fool.
A knock sounded at the door, and Tennie pushed in, balancing a breakfast tray and a pile of newspapers, both of which she set at the foot of the bed. I nibbled on a crust of toast, thumbing through the papers. Some had stayed quiet, but many others were ruthless in their denouncement of my views and me. The New York Herald declared, “Victoria and Theodore: Mrs. Woodhull claims the right to change her husband every day in the presence of three thousand people,” while the Gazette’s front page pronounced, “Died of Free Love, November 25th in Steinway Hall, the Woman Suffrage Movement.”
I groaned and tossed the papers to the floor, curled my arms about my ribs as if for warmth, and stared at one of the green-and-gold walls. “Free Love is not what I asked for nor what I pleaded for. What I asked for was educated love; that one’s daughter be taught to love rightly so that she could, under no circumstances, love unworthily.”
Tennie asked, breaking her silence, “Do you remember when Stephen advised us that it is not what we say but what people hear that’s what matters?”
I forced myself to look up. “Yes. Why?”
“Well, thanks to this press coverage, plenty of people heard you have radical, even scandalous, views and are anxious to hear them firsthand.”
I squinted at her, shaking my head in confusion. “What are you saying?”
Tennie stood and opened first one then a second set of shutters, allowing a golden stream of light to wash in. I blinked. Tennie was smiling, glowing even, with suppressed joy.
“You are the most in-demand ticket in town. While you’ve been up here wallowing in self-pity, I’ve been arranging your next lecture tour. You’ve received thirteen invitations in less than forty-eight hours. Three of those conflicted, so I could only book you in eleven.”
I threw off the covers and jumped to my feet. “Why did you not tell me?”
“Because you needed your rest. You’ll be visiting eleven cities in thirteen days. It’s all arranged. You leave first thing in the morning.”
The lecture tour was well-timed and beneficial in many ways. It gave me much needed publicity in other cities—the Pittsburgh Dispatch called me “the most prominent woman of our time”—but more importantly, it brought in coin that would keep the landlord at bay a little longer. If Wall Street had taught me nothing else, it was that money was more persuasive than the false concern for virtue that fed my neighbors’ complaints against me. I would enjoy watching their efforts to have me evicted backfire; my newfound cash would outweigh even this latest scandal.
However, I hadn’t been expecting such a chilly homecoming. While the rest of the Northeast was singing my praises, the doors of many of my closest companions were suddenly closed, allies turned to enemies. Even the firm suffered; James reported we had lost several of our biggest clients.
What was worse, I was not alone in this sudden shunning. Theodore, as the man who had introduced me, fared far worse than I. He appeared on my doorstep, a sobbing mess, the night I returned. He reeked of brandy. I quickly shuffled him into the parlor where we could be alone. I guided him onto the royal-blue lounge where we had planned so many issues of the Weekly and laid his head on my chest while he wept like a babe.
“I am undone,” he said between sobs. “My reputation is ruined.”
I rocked him, patting his head and cooing affectionately, “There, there. It cannot be so bad.”
Once Theodore regained some measure of control, the story came pouring out of him. “I have nothing. While you were off on your whirlwind tour, all my lecture dates were canceled, invitations to events and parties rescinded.” He gave me a wry look. “Everyone may want to see the female Free Lover, but no one dares associate with the one who introduced her. I bet Beecher is thanking God and all the saints he was too much a coward to do it himself.”
And that I didn’t have the heart to denounce a man who wasn’t there to defend himself. I pulled Theodore to me again, this time laying my head on his shoulder. “You know how fickle these society people are. They may have their backs to you at the moment, but give them time and they will come around. Someone always has to be on the outside looking in. It is simply your turn.”
Theodore grunted dubiously. “I do not think so. I’m ashamed to adm
it this, but I even tried making excuses to get them to change their minds. I…I blamed you—your interjections and deviation from the prepared speech—for what happened so they wouldn’t cast blame on me. Can you ever forgive me?”
I sat up so I could look at him, cupping his cheek. “There is nothing to forgive. What you say is true. If I had stayed to the script, things likely would not have ended so badly, but I did as my heart moved me. That is an end to it.”
Theodore nodded and kissed me softly on the cheek. “Thank you.”
I sighed. “So where do we stand?”
Theodore blew out a breath, less addled now that he had confessed all. “As far as I can tell, you still have the suffragists, Spiritualists, and Section Twelve. If you can keep them, you still stand a fair shot as a candidate next year.”
“I have no fear from any of those, so that pleases me. But the negative media attention has to stop.”
“Speaking of fear, has Tennie told you of the curious letter the Weekly received from a Miss Mary Bowles?”
“No. Why?”
“I think it may be just the thing we need to strike fear into the heart of Wall Street.” He stood, searching through the oak partner’s desk Tennie and I shared as he spoke. “All those tycoons and their haughty wives have secrets they wish to keep hidden. Well, thanks to Miss Bowles, we now hold the key.”
“Oh, I am intrigued.”
“If I could find the blasted thing.” He opened drawers and stuck his hand in cubbyholes, examining and discarding scraps of paper. “In short, she says your words at Steinway Hall touched the hearts of many on Broadway and the Bowery. She’s offering you unprecedented access to her client rolls—and what’s more, Miss Wood and Madame de Ford have agreed to do the same. Ah, here it is!”
I took the letter, skipping over the woman’s life story and her plans to close her brothel to the important bit. I read aloud. “‘If you, in the prosecution of your blessed mission as a social reformer, have any need to see more behind the scenes and to understand the real state of New York society better, I will give you access to my two big books. You will find in them the names of all classes—from doctors of divinity to counter jumpers and runners for mercantile houses. Make what use of them you please.’” I looked up, a broad smile blossoming across my face. “This is a goldmine.”
Theodore yawned from the couch, eyes growing heavy. “It is. Tennie wants to publish both it and a reply thanking her for her kind offer and implying you may well make use of them.” He leaned his head back on the cushions, seemingly content.
“She is brilliant. This will go a long way toward scaring our detractors into silence. You may even get your invitations back.”
Silence.
“Theodore?”
He was fast asleep.
DECEMBER 1871
My election as co-president of the International Workingmen’s Association, Section Twelve, back in July had been a major coup in my plan to make my presidential dreams a reality. But at the time, it was largely ceremonial. Now, as Tennie and I took the reins of power in earnest, I vowed to show the country its workers were a force to be reckoned with, a populace not to be ignored.
But first the public had to understand what the workers were fighting for. Stephen had read Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto to me, translating it from the original German, but most people hadn’t had such an opportunity because no one had yet printed it in English. With Stephen’s help, I would see that changed. The lengthy document was set to run in the December 30th issue of the Weekly while people still railed against the killing of the three Communards in Paris, a full six months after the revolution had ended. Even those who didn’t sympathize with the movement saw the killings for what they were—murder—so now was the time to shed light on their cause.
News of Section Twelve’s protest against the killings reached me in Washington. While Tennie and I were happily making nuisances of ourselves at the American Woman Suffrage Association convention—paying young boys to hand out copies of our paper and ensuring they were left on every seat so that my name would constantly be before the eyes of Catharine Beecher and Lucy Stone—Section Twelve planned a funeral march without us. I read with horror Stephen’s note detailing the illegal march of nearly one hundred souls and the subsequent arrest of six IWA leaders.
I rushed home to find Stephen, acting as president in our absence, was actively organizing a joint parade of Sections Nine and Twelve for the following Sunday.
“Stephen, I don’t think this is wise. Let tempers cool before you act,” I cautioned.
“We can’t expect the men to sit around and do nothing. These are people used to working with their hands and getting into fights. They needed to expend their pent-up energy and anger at the deaths of their Parisian counterparts and the unjust arrest of their leaders. To ask them to do otherwise would be a grave insult.”
“And that justifies a possible riot? Ha.”
“There will be no riot. The police will be there, as they were last week.”
“So are you willing to be arrested as leader of this illegal rabble? I am not.” I crossed my arms. “I will not go along with this without police approval.”
Stephen smiled at me wickedly. “Actually, you have to and so does Tennie. Part of your duty as president of the IWA is to lead any organized events held by our section. The only reason you weren’t called into service the first time is because you were out of town.”
I wanted to wring his neck. The bastard had trapped me. If I said no, I risked the fury of the members, who would take it as a personal betrayal. I couldn’t afford to lose their support. I would have to attend and pray nothing went wrong.
When the carriage bearing Tennie, James, Stephen, Theodore, and me arrived at the Cooper Institute that Sunday, I remained in my seat. Stephen took me by the arm and tried to drag me onto the street, but I held fast to the door frame.
“The police are doing nothing to quell the growing crowds. I will not put myself in danger,” I said.
I wasn’t being melodramatic. People donning red sashes, ribbons, and banners were everywhere, lining the parade route, peering down from windows and balconies, even sitting on overhanging tree branches.
“Madame, I must insist you join us,” the mustachioed grand marshal said, offering his hand to help me down.
Once again, I was cornered. But that didn’t mean I had to go along quietly. “Ridiculous! An outrage to public safety. Isn’t that part of what we are fighting for?”
I carried on my protest but took my place at the head of the throng, behind the black-draped wagon containing an empty bier that would lead the mourners. Tennie stood by my side, carrying the flag of the Paris Commune. James, Stephen, and Theodore flanked us on three sides like knights of old.
Behind us stretched row upon row of people lined up five abreast. These included Negro Civil War veterans who were playing a funeral march on their drums along with various male and female members of Sections Twelve and Nine carrying a banner that read, “Honor to the martyrs of the Universal Republic.” Cuban revolutionists carried banners of blue and white while the French carried red. Sprinkled in between were Irish, German, and Italian groups along with the Printer’s Society and various other revolutionaries.
Some blocks away, a church bell tolled twice, and the parade set out, the pace slow, the atmosphere somber. From both sides of the street, the mocking, jeering crowd called us all manner of derogatory names. Several times, I was nearly hit by rotten produce, and once, a rock grazed my elbow. Still, the police made no move to control the situation.
“They are hoping for a riot,” I whispered to James, who held my arm firmly, body angled in to shield me from anything else thrown by the crowd. Despite our ups and downs, he rose to my defense when it mattered.
At the corner of Bowery and Great Jones Street, an overturned wagon and team blocked the route, so we veered from Bowery onto Great Jones Street, passing the house where Tennie and I had first lived after coming to
New York. Katherine stood on the stoop, grinning and bouncing a baby in her arms. She waved and called to us. I waved back. It was wonderful to see my old friend again, and looking so well.
As Union Square grew visible in the distance, the crowd swelled with even more people pouring out of every side street to join the marching throng. Tennie and I were forced shoulder to shoulder as James, Theodore, and Stephen formed an even tighter barrier to protect us from the crush. From somewhere in the crowd, a band began a dirge to accompany us the final blocks.
At Union Square, the press of people was so great I could hardly breathe. “James, please, let me out.”
“I can’t. They will rush toward you, knock you to the ground. I will not let them harm you.”
He was right. From every side came shouts of “Speech! Speech!” and demands for us to lead the rallying cry for justice. When the men around me declined, the crowd turned on us.
“Can our lady presidentesses not speak for themselves?” someone asked.
“Aye, they are not fit to lead. Presidentesses my arse,” came another.
Stephen detached himself from our retinue. “Get them out of here,” he said softly before raising his arms to the crowd. “My fellow IWA members, we come here today to protest a grave injustice.”
I didn’t hear the rest of his impromptu speech. My world became a mass of sweaty wool and greasy hair as I pushed and elbowed through the crowd amid shrieks and curses from those I disturbed. Keeping one hand in James’s, I tried not to trip on my skirts or the uneven paving stones while keeping the waiting carriage in sight.
We were nearly there when half a dozen men detached from the crowd and stepped between us and our method of escape.
“Look what we have here, Bennie,” a sharp-featured, dark-haired man in a pipe hat and moth-eaten workman’s clothes called. A wicked grin split his face. “I do believe these are the Bewitching Brokers.”
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