Authors: Marion Meade
Buck kept pestering her and Tennie to take up fortune-telling quickly before they starved. "Great balls of fire,” he would drawl, a familiar glint in his one good eye, "we can make a fortune here. The city is loaded with swells."
But Vicky couldn't concentrate on money. She was too busy exploring the city. Sometimes she walked around the corner to Lafayette Street where she discovered the fabulous Astor Library. The prophecy had said she would live in a city surrounded by ships. Now, as she strolled along the wharves by the Hudson and East rivers, or peered down into the churning green waters of New York harbor, she felt her destiny close enough to touch.
Bemused, she roamed up one street and down the next. Never had she seen so many churches. It seemed as if each block boasted its own house of worship. On Sunday mornings, it sounded like the whole city was ringing.
At first, Vicky assumed that New York must be a very religious city. Every time she opened a paper, she read about one minister or another. They were the city's celebrities, some of them more famous than stage stars. The best known was Henry Ward Beecher, a stocky man with a mane of gray hair. His emotional sermons could make people laugh or cry. Beecher's pulpit, at Plymouth Church across the river in Brooklyn, was so popular that special ferryboats had to be added on Sundays to accommodate all the worshipers. The boats were known as "Beecher's ferries."
If nearly every block had a church, Vicky soon noticed another common sight. Slowly, she began to doubt the show of godliness and must have murmured angrily to herself, "What hypocrisy!"
For if God were for sale on Sundays, sex was for sale every day of the week. There was nothing secret about the bustling, thriving business of prostitution. The brothels, making themselves as conspicuous as possible, even advertised in the papers.
Strolling on the Bowery, Vicky could also see the street prostitutes, some of them young and well dressed, others aging and desperate. She observed that passersby looked at them with contempt.
One of the preachers' favorite topics for sermons was the evils of prostitution. "Yes," said Vicky to herself, "men sit in church on Sunday and nod their heads in agreement. But who keeps these poor women in business? There would be no prostitution if men did not patronize them."
Then another thought occurred to her. Society insists that women aren't interested in sex. Secretly men take their pleasure with prostitutes; then they turn around and condemn them. Vicky felt no horror at the prostitutes, only waves of pity.
"It's not their fault," she whispered to herself. "Society has doomed them." They were not, after all, so different from other women who offered themselves as sexual objects to lure a man into marriage.
"All of us," fumed Vicky, "are forced to deny we have sexual feelings." Someday, she vowed, people would have to face the truth about women and sex.
Still thinking of the prostitutes, she turned the corner sharply and strode down Great Jones Street.
Buck flew up the front steps at Number 17 and flung himself through the door with such velocity that the parlor windows rattled.
"Vicky!" he bellowed. "Tennie! Everybody!"
At the sound of his shouts, the family began to appear, even fourteen-year-old Byron who squatted in confusion at the top of the staircase.
Beside himself, Buck began to dance madly around the hall, babbling that he had done something extraordinary. Finally he calmed himself sufficiently to make his announcement: he had arranged an appointment for Vicky and Tennie to meet Cornelius Vanderbilt.
The group stared at him in awe, which was precisely the reaction he expected. Nobody needed to ask, "Who is Cornelius Vanderbilt?” He was the richest man in America.
Despite the millions Vanderbilt had made from his vast shipping and railroad empires, he had no use for the things most Americans held dear. He disdained gentlemanly behavior and turned his back on fashionable society. "What do I care about the law?" he had once shouted arrogantly. "Haint I got the power?"
At the age of seventy-six, he did as he liked, which meant playing cards with his cronies and racing his horses at Saratoga. He couldn't stand phonies or people who talked high-falutin. Above all, he hated doctors and ministers. Instead, when his joints began to ache, he consulted a spiritual healer who could relieve his pain by "the laying on of hands." Rather than attend church, he visited a psychic on Staten Island who brought him messages from his dead mother.
These facts about Vanderbilt were common gossip which contributed to his reputation as an eccentric. For Buck, who never stopped scheming to promote his talented daughters, they meant the key to the promised land.
Tennie greeted his announcement with suspicion. Why, she asked, would Commodore Vanderbilt want to meet them?
"Hell, he's a regular fella," roared Buck happily, as if Vanderbilt were already his buddy. "He'll see anybody, so long as they state their business and don't take up too much of his time."
Buck had told Vanderbilt's secretary that one of his daughters could cure any sickness and the other was the best fortune-teller in the world. But Vanderbilt didn't have to take Buck's word. He could see for himself. Buck had also said that his daughters were extremely beautiful.
The next afternoon, Tennie and Vicky carefully dressed in their best outfits. Escorted by a strutting Buck, they walked several blocks northwest to 10 Washington Place, Vanderbilt's red brick house just off Washington Square.
The silver-haired Commodore took a fancy to them immediately, especially to Tennie. "My little sparrow," he was soon calling her affectionately. She, in turn, called him "old boy." With her ivory complexion, cherubic blue eyes and round face wreathed by tawny curls, Tennie looked like an innocent china doll. But, in contrast, she had the kind of personality—irreverent and high-spirited—that her generation found unacceptable in a woman.
Tennie should have been born in the 1920s; she would have made a wonderful "flapper." Bold and impulsive in manner, brash in speech, she generally behaved as she pleased. She acted natural. Other women of her day did not. As a result, Tennie was always shocking people. Vanderbilt happened to be an exception. Probably because the two of them were very much alike, he found her delightful.
For Vicky, he felt admiration. While the irrepressible Tennie romped through his mansion, exclaiming over the expensive furnishings, Vicky sat rigid and dignified in a chair. Her quick intelligence, her grave melodic voice, and the delicate beauty of her slender face impressed him greatly. Very often he would ask her for psychic advice on the stock market.
As the visits became more frequent, the friendship between the "old boy" and the two young women grew warmer. Later, people would say that Tennie became his mistress. Probably this was true. In any case, several months after their first meeting, the lonely old man asked twenty-three-year-old Tennie if she would like to become Mrs. Vanderbilt. She refused.
Knowing better than to mention this incredible proposal to her parents, she confided only in her older sister. While Vicky understood the reasons behind Tennie's decision, she nevertheless asked her to consider the offer carefully.
But Tennie had already made up her mind. Not only did she feel that Vanderbilt was too old for her, she also reminded Vicky how much she cherished her freedom.
Neither mentioned the opportunity for financial security Tennie was passing up. It also probably occurred to them that the rejected Commodore might not wish to see them anymore. But the visits went on, and the Commodore continued to reward them generously for their services. In addition to cash, he offered something far better. Suggesting that they use their earnings to buy stock, he began giving them tips on which stocks he thought might do well. When stock prices rose or fell, he advised them on when to sell, when to buy more.
Before long, Vicky and Tennie had a full-time career playing the stock market. Since it was not customary for women to deal directly with brokers, each day James would set off for Wall Street to buy and sell shares for them. Their profits began to accumulate and accumulate.
Life at 17 Great Jones Street began to change dramatically. As the money rolled in, the inhabitants of the house suddenly realized they were wealthy. At least, they certainly acted as though they were. Maids and a cook were hired. A governess was engaged to care for Byron and Zulu Maud. Everyone bought fine new clothes. Roxanna, now a lady of leisure, ordered lace curtains for all the windows and elegant walking suits for herself. Utica filled her wardrobe with low-cut, ruffled gowns in shades of primrose yellow, apple green, and burnt orange. Overnight, Buck transformed himself into a dandy with a clipped beard and expensive leather boots. He began spending most of his time at the racetrack.
Vicky and Tennie seemed to be the only ones who didn't go completely overboard. Vicky's taste had always been conservative; Tennie imitated her. Even though their clothes weren't flashy, they spent a great deal on the finest imported broadcloth, cut and styled into fashionable suits.
Vicky's favorite colors were the purples. The rich shades of plum, violet, lavender, lilac, and mauve accented her pale skin and lustrous blue eyes. She wore no jewelry but would fasten a single white rose on the bodice of her gown or in her hair. Altogether, she cut an impressive figure.
News of the family's sudden affluence soon traveled back to the Midwest. Who should arrive on their doorstep but the two oldest Claflin daughters, Margaret Ann and Polly? Both were divorced, but Polly had remarried. Naturally they brought their entire families with them. The brownstone, which had seemed so spacious a short while ago, now began to shrink. It never occurred to Vicky to send them away. As uneasy as her family made her at times, she always remained loyal.
To support all these relatives in the style to which they were quickly becoming accustomed required a considerable amount of money. But now Vicky and Tennie had it.
Life was not all work. Once a lonely outsider, Vicky began to make new friends who gave her a sense of belonging. At first, it was James who sought out the city's radicals. When he met interesting people, he'd bring them home. Visionaries, idealists, and reformers soon began to appear at 17 Great Jones Street. The talk was stimulating and lively. Vicky's guests had plenty to say, particularly about politics, government corruption, and the double standard which made one set of rules for women and another for men. Many of the visitors were women—writers, teachers, nurses, lecturers, all of them cultured females.
Vicky's home quickly became a salon, a place where thinking people gathered to discuss the latest ideas and issues. Part of the attraction was the ravishing Vicky herself. Her infectious energy vitalized those who met her. They viewed her as a woman of flaming intelligence, one whose strength of character and personality made her opinions doubly worth hearing. Some people were attracted by her beauty and powers of clairvoyance. Nearly everyone remarked on her musical voice. It sounded like a flute. In everyday conversation, her speech could be fairly ordinary. But when fired to speak on a subject which moved her, her voice seemed to rise from the bottom of her soul.
One evening a new face appeared in her parlor, a tall bearded man named Stephen Pearl Andrews. Vicky worshiped learning, and the sixty-year-old Andrews was the most brilliant person she had ever met. He knew more than James. In fact, the immensity of his knowledge staggered most of his contemporaries.
Andrews spoke thirty languages, including Chinese, and he was trying to develop a universal language which he called "Alwato." An authority on history and government, he had devised a system of world government, a sort of United Nations, which he named the "Pantarchy." A radical committed to social revolution, he believed in socialism, "free love," and feminism. He enjoyed the company of bright women. When his wife, Esther, had studied medicine, Andrews attended classes with her.
It is not surprising that Vicky should have been deeply impressed by his learning. As for Andrews, he felt an immediate attraction to this woman whose revolutionary ideas paralleled his own. He saw nothing extraordinary about her ambition to be President. Besides, he was shrewd enough to notice that Vicky was rich, very rich. And that she earned the money herself, something few other wealthy women could claim.
If Vicky was smart enough to make a fortune on Wall Street, thought Andrews, she should have no trouble handling the Presidency.
Today, most politicians have their "brain trusts," a small group of valued advisers. In Vicky's day, the idea was not quite so common. Nevertheless, she saw the wisdom in collecting dedicated friends who would work for her cause. James, her first mentor, had been the beginning of her brain trust. Now she added Andrews.
In some ways, Demosthenes had proved correct. In New York City, Vicky became wealthy. Still, much of the prophecy had not happened. She had achieved no fame or even made a start toward her political ambitions. For that matter, outside of her circle of friends, nobody knew she existed. "People won't vote for a nobody," she fretted to herself. Perhaps this feeling that her progress had come to a standstill accounts for what happened next.
One evening, shortly before Christmas, she was entertaining a parlor full of guests. The discussion had turned to women and how they were effectively shut out of the business world. Even two aggressive women like Vicky and Tennie made their financial transactions through James. It had never occurred to them to break tradition by appearing on Wall Street themselves.
"Vicky," somebody called out jokingly, "you and Tennie should start your own brokerage house. Then the men on Wall Street will have to deal with women whether they like it or not."
Another guest took up the theme. "Sure, and they'll have to take off their hats when your carriage drives up!"
Everyone roared with delight at the idea.
Vicky didn't laugh. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Her brain began to click away. She felt positive that the Commodore would help them get started. He was certainly not a feminist, but the idea of backing two women would appeal to his sense of humor.