Sex Wars (32 page)

Budington, who kept up on everything important going on in the causes they were both passionate about, told him that Jesup was appointing a committee on Obscene Literature. Anthony was burning to be part of this new crusade of the YMCA. Who knew more about that subject than himself? He needed to reach these men and offer himself to their cause. The time was ripe. He had to prove to them that he was the man to prune the tree of evil and protect the young men from their worst enemies, the forces that summoned them into vice. He had only to reach these important and wealthy men to get them to make him their deputy.

T
HE TIME HAD COME,
Victoria was sure, for her to move into the larger world and accomplish the great tasks Demosthenes and her spirits had long promised would be her destiny. Society needed her. She knew what it was to grow up ignorant of her own body, to bleed her menses and think she was dying because her crazy hyperreligious mother could not bring herself to discuss sex. She knew what it was to be exploited as a child, helpless as a woman, to be forced into sex without her consent. She knew what it was to be yoked with a drunkard in a hideous travesty of love, to bear a child alone in a tenement and almost bleed to death. She knew what it was to have to support not only herself but a child, and then a drunken drug-addicted husband, and then, with Tennie, the entire Claflin clan plus Canning again. She could not be cruel to him, although she kept him at a distance from herself and from Zulu Maud. Canning spent most of his days taking care of the boy, seeing he ate, got cleaned up, dressed and had some exercise. Canning and Byron seemed able to communicate, both broken souls but hardly devoid of feeling.

Tennie and she had started
Woodhull & Claflin’s Weekly
to promote their ideas about woman’s rights, labor rights, economic reform, whatever struck them as important, and whatever Stephen Pearl Andrews and James wanted to write. It was smartly done, sixteen pages with easy-to-read type—unlike most papers—good layout and clear writing. Tennie had a sense of style, and their paper looked like quality but with a certain raci-ness. Victoria strongly supported women’s education and equal pay for equal work. She ran a Washington column every issue and solicited reports on movements in Europe. She herself wrote a story about a nursing home in Brooklyn where alcoholism was being appropriately treated as a disease. They covered the stock market and financial news, as well as the arts. They always had a couple of poems and book reviews. They even covered sports, fashion and yachting. In the first issue, they began serializing a translation of a novel by George Sand, with whom Victoria felt a kinship. From the beginning, they had plenty of advertising, and every issue afterward brought more. Tennie had taken it upon herself to rope in advertisers before they started, but soon no persuasion was needed. Then they handed off subscriptions and ads to an agent, who did it all professionally.

It was time to go to Washington again. Tennie and James could run the brokerage firm in her absence. Victoria was careful to stroke their clients and make sure they felt personally cared for before she packed up three trunks and left on the train. Benjamin Butler was delighted to see her. He came to her hotel, and before and after their lovemaking, brought her up to date on what was going on in Congress. Victoria and Tennie had been supporting the Sixteenth Amendment to give the vote to women, but Benjamin told her it was a dead horse. Voting it into committee was a way to kill it. She should seek a different path to victory. He suggested that she focus on an argument that the Constitution gave the right to vote to all citizens, and women were citizens. She wrote an essay to that effect for the
Weekly,
and then followed it up two weeks later with a closely argued document based on constitutional law which Butler wrote and she went over, changing some of the language, then signed and sent on to New York.

He was a man who liked nudity. He liked her to leave her robe off while they were talking. Victoria viewed modesty as hypocrisy. If she was intimate with a man, why pretend to shudder if he wanted to look at her body as well as touch or enter it? The sight of a man’s naked body meant little to her. Mostly she was attracted to a man’s personality, his knowledge, his ability. A dynamic man who could teach her something fascinating and useful excited her. Such a man was worth knowing on every level.
Butler was almost bald, but he had lush whiskers. His eyes were dark and piercing in their gaze. No one would ever call him handsome—he was short and resembled a pug—yet when he walked into a room, everyone knew he had arrived, men and women alike, and they turned to him. He exuded an energy that was electric.

Returning briefly to New York, she worked on a memorial—a petition by a private citizen to Congress. Butler would know how to approach that body. She would argue as she had in her articles that the Constitution already gave women the right to vote as citizens, and no further legislation was needed to assure that right. She would petition Congress to pass an act declaring that women were citizens and thus had suffrage. She carefully prepared her speech, consulting James and especially Stephen. She went over it again and again, strengthening the legal arguments. She worked on the memorial until she thought she had something Congress would have to listen to—if she got the chance to stand before the lawmakers. For a woman to do this would be most unusual, and she would need every bit of Senator Butler’s influence and power to bring it off. Telegraphing Butler, she set off again.

The better hotels of Washington were watering holes for members of Congress, their wives and mistresses, the lobbyists who swarmed around them. The public rooms were thick with smoke while the men drank mint juleps and whiskey skins. Before each introduction, Benjamin would prepare her, feeding her information so that she could charm them. “He’s prouder of his hunting dogs than of his office or his children.” “He’s a fanatical operagoer. Adores Italian opera.” “He likes to think himself a great gourmet and an expert on wines.” “He loves to talk about his exploits in the Civil War—which were negligible. Flatter him.” “He imagines himself a great orator. Tell him you heard his last speech from the gallery and were moved to tears.”

She listened, she memorized, and she performed. Quickly her fame spread among the politicians: intelligent, beautiful and charming and unusually knowledgeable for a woman. She grew a little weary of Washington, where gossip was an obsession, a job, an amusement and a tool. She was spending more time with Butler than she had anticipated. As a winning general, he had occupied New Orleans, where he had been called “Beast Butler” because he ordered that New Orleans ladies who spat upon or insulted his soldiers in the streets would be arrested as prostitutes. He also ordered that every escaped slave under his jurisdiction was to be considered “contraband of war” and therefore immediately free. In the Senate,
he was powerful and respected among the radical Republicans. He had led the unsuccessful attempt to impeach Johnson. He took her memorial in hand and went over it, reworking parts and making suggestions for other passages.

Benjamin told her that many women suffragists were in town for a convention Isabella Beecher Hooker was organizing. Susan B. Anthony had pleaded with one of the congressmen on the House Judiciary Committee to move the Sixteenth Amendment granting the vote to women out of committee and onto the floor of the House. He told her Congress had more important questions to consider than such silliness. She responded that when women had the vote, their questions would gain importance at once. But Susan and Isabella were stymied, she heard from Benjamin, who knew them all.

“Never you mind, Vickie darling,” Benjamin said, squeezing her shoulder. “You shall address the Joint House and Senate Judiciary Committees the day after tomorrow.”

“Really? Are you serious? You’ve done it!” She hugged him hard. He was not a tall man, but he was solidly built, like a bull on hind legs. He had some other characteristics imputed to bulls. She could feel his erection. For the miracle he had created for her, he deserved to have it used. “Here,” she said, unbuttoning him. “Come and let’s see what we can do with this.”

Benjamin would only have sex with him on top. For a short man, he was heavy. Sometimes she felt as if he would squeeze the breath out of her. He was a rough lover, heavy-handed, passionate, impulsive. Once they were launched, the bed could have caught fire and she did not think he would notice. She was more accustomed to men like James and Stephen, whom she must take in hand and excite, whom she led through the act. With Benjamin, it was as if she stepped into a swiftly moving river and the current took her. She enjoyed letting go. Once he entered her, he went on and on. She had no trouble reaching orgasm once, sometimes twice with him. His prick was thick, like the rest of him. It was more like rutting than making love, but quite satisfying. She did not have to flatter him, to cajole or sweet-talk. He was about as sentimental as a spittoon. He did not speak of making love or joining; he simply called it fucking. He liked her body and praised it. He liked her without pretending more. She trusted him and his advice. They were allies.

That evening, Victoria was chatting with a congressional aide in the lounge of her hotel who told her that not only was the press coming in force, but the woman’s rights convention had postponed its opening for a
day so that they could hear her. She owed Benjamin a tremendous boon. She could not have asked for better timing or publicity for her entrée into the woman’s rights movement, a possible political base for her.

She was frightened when the time came for her to go to Capitol Hill. Although Benjamin, James and Stephen had all had a hand in the philosophical, legal and constitutional arguments, if she had not understood it, she would never have signed it and she would never go up to Congress to deliver it in person, as requested by the joint committees. She knew that she had mastered the memorial and the arguments behind it, but still her hands were shaking. The joint committees were meeting in a room big enough to hold them and the press and the audience that had collected, including many women who were probably leaders of the convention that had been postponed so they could see and hear her. She recognized Susan B. Anthony from attending her lectures, but could not find Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the woman she most wanted to meet.

Benjamin saw that her hands were trembling. He grasped her arm. “You must be strong! Now is no time for feminine modesty. You must speak up so they can hear you and sound competent and confident. Make me proud.”

“I’m more nervous about the women hearing me than the congressmen and the senators. I know the ladies have heard rumors about me.”

“Well, Isabella Beecher Hooker may snub you—her family are great snobs who think most highly of themselves and each other next to God.”

A congressman standing next to them overheard and turned. “It would ill become a Beecher to cast any smirch on Mrs. Woodhull. I am told that Henry Ward Beecher preaches to twenty of his mistresses every Sunday.”

Victoria smiled at him. At least he seemed to be on her side. She wanted to ask Benjamin who he was, but she was ushered into the hearing room. She drew deep breaths. Spirits be with me, Demosthenes, be with me. I may not be meek, I may not show my fear. I must be bold, as Benjamin has chided me. For a moment, her teeth chattered although the room was overheated.

Her hands trembled for a moment longer. She felt cold and then hot. The woman finely dressed sitting next to Susan B. Anthony, who was all in black like Victoria, must be Isabella. I must conquer you, I must win you to my side, Victoria thought, and looked straight into Isabella’s eyes. She kept her gaze fixed there for several minutes. Isabella blushed. Victoria touched the white rose she always wore at her neck.

Benjamin took charge. He got everyone seated, passed out copies of the memorial, spoke to this one and that one, then called the meeting to order. When she was introduced, she rose and the room swam around her. She held tight to the edge of the table. Her voice caught in her throat and once again she trembled, not just her hands but her entire body. This was her grand moment, and she was failing. She was too weak a woman. The men were looking at each other, out the window, one was reading something—a letter? A note? Another was rolling his eyes. Another yawned and scratched himself. Her voice died in the center of the room. Two of the journalists against the wall were chatting. Another was aiming at a spittoon and missing.

No! She pulled herself upright. I am on the stage. This is a part. I am playing a role I have learned by heart. I have done it many times before. By the fourth sentence her voice rang out as it had when she was acting in silly plays in San Francisco, a strong melodious voice low for a woman and a little husky that could carry up to the second balcony. She breathed from the diaphragm and poured out her words.

Now their eyes were on her. The man with the note put it down. They had stopped smirking, stopped looking out the window. They were listening. Victoria glanced at Isabella. She was sitting with her mouth slightly open, her eyes glistening. Victoria knew she could win her. She gave her entire speech with passion, with clarity. When she had finished, she stood a moment more and then she collapsed into her chair, the breath gone out of her with her inspiration. Her mind felt empty.

One of the congressmen seized her hand. “That was amazing.”

“Do you agree with my arguments?”

“Can’t say I remember a word you said, but you’re a pretty creature if ever I saw one.”

She was led out to Benjamin’s office, where Susan and Isabella joined them. Susan was beaming. She had a wonderful warm smile, clasping Victoria’s hands.

“My dear Woodhull,” Susan said, “you have breathed new life into our movement. You have brought to me hope as strong and energetic as yourself. In two decades of fighting this good fight, I’ve never felt so energized.”

Victoria kissed Susan on the cheek. “Your faith means the world to me. I long to be of use to our great cause.”

Isabella was approaching. She had a high forehead and the Beecher jaw, her hair in long curls. Victoria had years of experience sizing up men
and women. Isabella was an enthusiast, probably also a devotee of spiritualism, like herself. That was the way to approach her.

Isabella started to speak, but Victoria got in first. “We have met before.” She held Isabella’s gaze, having discovered already that the woman was susceptible to that kind of mesmerizing eye lock.

“No…I don’t think so,” Isabella stammered.

“Not in this life,” Victoria said. “But I sense that we knew each other before… On another plane of existence.”