Free Woman (11 page)

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 Memorial. 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.

One of the important points Harriet Beecher Stowe made in
Uncle Tom's Cabin
was that slavery is not only cruel but also destroys the family. The subjects of marriage and the family fascinated her. One reason may have been that her own marriage had turned out badly. Calvin Stowe acted like a typical Victorian husband—he treated his wife like a servant. He was also fussy, tyrannical, and suffered from constipation.

After ten years of marriage, Harriet couldn't stand him any longer. Developing a mysterious paralysis on the right side of her body, she checked into a Vermont clinic for a "water cure." Her husband and three children were left to fend for themselves. Harriet stayed away a year. In the end, she agreed to come home only if her husband promised to treat her better.

Harriet's experience with marriage had not been much happier than Vicky's. It's conceivable that she might have sympathized with a divorcee like Victoria Woodhull. Instead, she despised her and everything she represented. To show her contempt for the aggressive "new woman," Harriet Stowe chose ridicule as her weapon of attack. She began a novel,
My Wife and I,
which ran in monthly installments in the
Christian Union.
One of the main characters was a brazen feminist named Audacia Dangyereyes who sat on men's laps, smoked cigars, and ran around town acting unwomanly. Audacia, a "free lover," was presented as a silly woman with dreadful behavior. Harriet invited her readers to laugh along with her. They did. Everybody knew she was writing about Victoria Woodhull.

Of course, Harriet Stowe didn't know Vicky personally. The serious Vicky could never be called silly or frivolous. If Audacia resembled anyone, it was Tennie.

Harriet's portrait stung Vicky to fury. How dare anyone make fun of her? It was humiliating. And when she felt humiliated, she began to grow bitter and depressed. There were moments now when she'd gaze into the mirror and feel ugly.

"I'm thirty-two," she would tell herself sadly. "I'm old."

Harriet struck at Vicky's touchiest point—she couldn't laugh at herself. To her, life was serious, even tragic, because she had known much pain and suffering. After her appearance before Congress, she hoped the bad times had been left behind. Now she understood that some people would never like or accept her. Respectability seemed forever beyond her grasp.

At this time, when Vicky still smarted from Mrs. Stowe's pen, she first heard the story of how the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher had seduced his best friend's wife.

On the night of July 3, 1870, a frightened and heartsick woman who had been recuperating in the country from an illness returned unexpectedly to her home in Brooklyn Heights. Her name was Elizabeth Tilton, but her friends called her "Lib." She went directly to her bedroom on the second floor where she found her husband, Theodore.

Lib Tilton had come home for the express reason of confessing. She told her husband that for the past year and a half, she had been having a love affair with another man.

At first she had not felt too badly because her lover had assured her their intimacy was pure and holy. Now, overwhelmed by guilt, she could carry the burden of the secret no longer. She spilled out the story to her unsuspecting husband and asked his forgiveness.

Stunned, Theodore listened in disbelief. When she had finished all he said was, "Who, Lib? Who is the man?"

"Promise me you will do no harm to the person?" she begged.

Theodore reluctantly agreed.

The name she finally uttered, in a small quiet voice, was the last one Theodore expected to hear. It was Henry Ward Beecher, the most famous minister in the land.

The Reverend Mr. Beecher had married the Tiltons; ever since, he had treated the young couple like a father or an older brother. He had even arranged for Theodore, a struggling young journalist, to become managing editor of the
Independent
, the country's best-known religious publication. In addition to all this, Theodore Tilton regarded Henry Beecher as his dearest friend.

"Incredible," Tilton thought.

Weeping, his wife implored him to tell nobody what had happened. She wished to blot the affair from her memory, pretend it had never taken place. Theodore, who felt "just blasted," numbly agreed to forgive and forget.

Each of them spent the night alone in separate rooms. The next morning, Theodore went early to his office but found he could not work. Tormented by jealousy, he could think of nothing but his wife's infidelity and his rage toward Beecher.

Lib Tilton had kept her secret for a year and a half. Theodore could not even keep it for a few weeks. One evening in early August he was having dinner with his old friend, Elizabeth Stanton. Before the meal ended, he had blurted out the whole story.

"Oh, that the damned lecherous scoundrel should have defiled my bed and at the same time professed to be my best friend," he cried. "I thought he was a saint. Oh, it is too much!"

Mrs. Stanton thought that she had never seen a person in so much mental agony.

Later that evening, returning home to Brooklyn, Theodore found his wife with another old friend of theirs, Susan Anthony. When the couple began to quarrel viciously, Lib accused her husband of being unfaithful himself. Susan, who had never married, found herself an unwilling spectator to this ugly domestic scene. Finally, promising to stay with Lib for the night, she persuaded the hysterical young woman to go to bed.

Eventually, Liz and Susan, who had been the closest of friends for many years, compared notes on what had happened that shocking evening. The story must go no further, they agreed. It would cause a dreadful scandal.

Earlier, Vicky had heard rumors about the Reverend Mr. Beecher. Once she became friendly with many feminists, women who were also friends of the Tiltons, it was only a matter of time before the full scandal reached her ears. Women like Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Stanton were familiar with the trauma taking place in the unhappy Tilton household. They knew that Theodore had finally accused Beecher of adultery. At first, Beecher denied it; then he admitted his guilt; then he had Theodore fired from his job. Theodore, they felt sure, would retaliate. It frightened them.