Free Woman (10 page)

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.

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.