by Lynn Austin
I thought of the act I had been taught to play, the delicate art of flirtation I had rehearsed with Nelson Kent the other day. Would I have to continue acting, continue smiling enigmatically even after I was married?What if I could never be myself again, reading detective novels and letting my imagination run wild? The thought made me shudder.
“But I want you to understand, Violet, that if you do marry, it should be to someone who allows you to be your own person, not his ornament or prize. Let me ask you this: do you enjoy all that socializing and calling-card folderol that you do with Agnes? Do you really want to get married and be like those women, serving tea and gossiping for the rest of your life?” My grandmother had asked a similar question.
“I confess that I did find it a little boring when we discussed the weather for twenty minutes. But Aunt Agnes says we’re going to attend cultural events too. And book discussions.”
“Book discussions,” Matt said derisively. “Those women should read something with substance, like Mary Wollstonecraft’s masterpiece, A Vindication of the Rights of Women.”
I didn’t say so, but I couldn’t picture Aunt Agnes’ crowd delving into a book with such a formidable title. “What is it about?” I asked.
“Mary Wollstonecraft was years ahead of her time. She wrote that book one hundred years ago, in 1792. She said it was time for women to rise up and revolt against the status quo—the way our ancestors rebelled during the revolution. The patriots protested against taxation without representation. But do you realize that, as a woman, I’m forced to pay taxes on my home, yet I cannot vote for the man who imposed those taxes?”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Of course it isn’t fair. As one woman in the suffrage movement has said, ‘I don’t know what women’s rights are, but I have suffered under a sense of women’s wrongs.’ ”
People were getting on and off the streetcar as Aunt Matt lectured, and at times the car became quite crowded. She paid no attention to the other passengers, nor did she seem to care if anyone overheard the controversial things she was saying. Her booming voice was filled with righteous indignation as she lectured me.
I was listening so intently to my aunt’s speech that I almost missed the signpost as the streetcar rumbled past LaSalle Street. That was it! LaSalle was the name of the street where my mother lived. It would be easy for me to retrace my steps and find it again. All I had to do was board the same streetcar, ride it straight to LaSalle, and get off. I could figure out which direction to turn on LaSalle once I got there, but hopefully it wouldn’t be a long walk to my mother’s house from the intersection.
“Are you paying attention, Violet?” Aunt Matt asked. I had swiveled around in my seat to get a good look at the street, but I quickly turned back again.
“Yes, Aunt Matt. Please go on. It’s very interesting.”
“Thousands of women became involved in the abolition movement before the War Between the States, and we worked very hard to bring an end to slavery. It was easy for us to sympathize with the slaves, you see. We understand what it’s like to be considered inferior and to be denied all of the privileges that white men take for granted.
“Then the Fifteenth Amendment was passed, allowing Negro men to vote—but the women who had fought so hard to help them win that right were left out! The new amendment stated that no one could be denied the right to vote on the basis of race, color, or the fact that he was previously a slave. It said absolutely nothing about gender. Now tell me, Violet: If it was wrong for a Negro man to be held in bondage, to be considered the property of a white man, then why is it all right for a woman to be enslaved to her husband? To be considered his property? For her wages to go to him?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I admitted. The more I listened to Aunt Matt, the easier it was to understand why she always looked so furious. I was starting to clench my fists too.
“Another of our leaders, Susan B. Anthony, made up her mind to register to vote in Rochester, New York, along with her sister and several friends. Of course the men tried to intimidate them, but on election day, Miss Anthony and sixteen other registered women cast their votes. The U.S. Chief Marshal served her with a warrant, charging her with voting illegally. The court fined her one hundred dollars. She refused to pay it. That was twenty-one years ago, and she still hasn’t paid. Miss Anthony is the current president of the National American Women’s Suffrage Association, by the way—at the age of seventy-three.”
“What’s the point of women voting?” I asked.
“What’s the point!”
I knew by her look of horror that I’d asked the wrong question. “Madame Beauchamps told us that it isn’t feminine for women to take an interest in politics,” I quickly explained.
“What?”
I lowered my voice to a near whisper after my aunt’s shout drew stares. “Madame said that ladies needed to know only enough about politics and things like that to attract a man’s interest. She said men didn’t like women who were too intelligent.”
“Lies! Male propaganda!” she sputtered. “What a horrible thing to teach impressionable young girls! How could your father send you to such a ridiculous institution? He’s just like all the other men, trying to keep women in subjection! I don’t suppose they taught you anything about modern science or mathematics or …”
My aunt was raving. I knew she didn’t expect me to reply, so I didn’t. Besides, I was busy trying to sink down in my seat to avoid being noticed.
“I can see that you’ll require an entirely revised education,” she continued. “The question is where to begin? You’ve obviously been wrongfully indoctrinated already. But you seem very bright, Violet. Have you ever thought of furthering your education?”
“I have a high-school diploma,” I replied. I remembered all the hard work it had required to balance books on my head and to memorize names, and I added, “I graduated from Madame Beauchamps’ School for—”
“Not that moronic place! I mean a real college, where women are allowed to learn alongside men, studying the sciences and so forth, not how to bat your eyelashes and flutter your fan.”
I felt hurt that she would insult my school. But in truth, I had been terribly bored there. My friend Ruth and I hated all of the restrictions we faced as “proper young ladies.” And so we had rebelled by covertly reading detective stories and dime novels. “If I were a man,” I often told Ruth, “and I could be anything I wanted to be, I think I would become a detective.”
“I must show you the Woman’s Pavilion at the World’s Columbian Exposition,” Aunt Matt said. “All of the planning, as well as the daily operation, has been under the guidance of the Board of Lady Managers. Even the building was designed by a female architect, Sophia Hayden.” Aunt Matt pulled herself to her feet as the streetcar slowed to a halt. “Come, Violet. This is where we get off.”
We stepped off the streetcar and walked two blocks to where a crowd of women had gathered outside a brick building. A sign above the storefront read: Women’s Suffrage Headquarters. A second sign in the window read: Come in and learn why women ought to vote.
“Hurry,” Aunt Matt said, tugging me by the arm. “The speeches are about to start.”
I watched in surprise as a woman stepped up on a raised platform in front of the building to enthusiastic applause. The idea of a woman delivering a speech in a public place was outrageous. I glanced around, wondering if the police would rush forward to arrest her.
“Men want to deny women the right to speak in public,” Aunt Matt said, as if reading my mind. “But we won’t be denied.”
“As many of you know,” the speaker began, “this July marks the forty-fifth anniversary of the first Women’s Rights Convention in America. In July of 1848, our tireless colleagues Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott gathered with a group of like-minded women to discuss their rights and protest their condition. They drew up our Declaration of Sentiments and Resolutions, stating that the Creator has endowed women w
ith certain unalienable rights too. Our declaration calls for an end to the absolute tyranny of men over women; for equality in higher education and in economic opportunity; for the right to equal child custody provisions; the right to speak in public and to testify in court. Most of all, the declaration calls for a woman’s right to vote. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s why we’re here today.”
She paused, waiting for the cheers and applause to die away. “Fifteen years ago, in 1878, our leader, Miss Susan B. Anthony, persuaded one courageous United States senator to propose a Constitutional Amendment guaranteeing women the right to vote. It was defeated. And it has been repeatedly defeated every year for the past fifteen years. But we will not let those defeats stop us!”
This time I got swept away too and found myself applauding with Aunt Matt and the other women.
“Thousands of women have signed our petition once again,” the speaker continued, “asking our United States senators to support a constitutional amendment granting women the right to vote. I urge you to join our demonstration as we march to our senator’s office today and present him with our request. We will be heard!”
Before I knew what was happening, someone handed signs to Aunt Matt and me and we were swept along as the crowd marched down the street. One group of women carried a banner that read National American Women’s Suffrage Association. I hadn’t felt such a thrill of excitement since the night Ruth Schultz and I crept into the school’s basement at the stroke of midnight, carrying a candle, in an attempt to divine who our future husbands would be.
Cross traffic came to a halt as Aunt Matt and I surged down the middle of the street with hundreds of other women. Heads turned and pedestrians stopped to watch as we marched past. Cab drivers and teamsters shook their fists at us in rage for blocking traffic. We were definitely attracting attention.
Then I spotted an expensive carriage similar to Aunt Agnes’, and I stopped in my tracks. Neither she nor her wealthy friends would be caught dead at this rally. What if one of them saw me? Would it ruin my chances for a wealthy husband?
The woman behind me bumped into me, forcing me forward again. But I had lost my enthusiasm for the cause, knowing that I had a great deal more to lose. What did it matter if I won the right to vote if I never found true love?
I instinctively lowered my sign. I was afraid to look at the crowds of people lining the sidewalks as we marched past. I heard angry catcalls and wished I were shorter, or that I could hide in the center of the procession. If only I had worn a larger hat—or one with a veil.
Yet the rebel in me realized that Aunt Matt had made some excellent points. In spite of Madame B.’s indoctrination, I did balk at the idea that I was somehow inferior. Besides, on the train ride into the city I had decided to leave my suffocating cocoon and fly freely, and this certainly felt like flying. I lifted my sign again, proud to be supporting a good cause. And maybe, if I held my sign just right, I could fight for women’s suffrage and shield my face from view at the same time.
I marched for several more blocks in this proud yet timorous state—until I spotted a squad of uniformed policemen armed with billy clubs moving into the middle of the street to stop us.
“Aunt Matt? Are … are the police going to arrest us?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. Honestly! The city officials should be ashamed of themselves for sending the police. This is a peaceful march. The constitution grants men the rights to freedom of speech and freedom of assembly; shouldn’t women be accorded the same rights?”
“I-I guess so.”
The parade halted. As I watched the policemen move in, I imagined what it would be like to be taken into custody by a handsome young Irish policeman with curly dark hair and Irish-green eyes. I made up my mind to struggle so that he would have to take me into his brawny arms to subdue me and carry me away, but of course he would fall hopelessly in love with me the moment he lifted me off my feet. He would try to find a way to spring me from jail, but I would refuse to accept his offer, preferring to suffer with my fellow suffragettes. What fun it would be—and so dramatic—to be arrested and locked inside a cell and forced to spend the night in jail! I might even have to share a cell with so-called “women of the night” and listen to their scandalous stories as we ate our meal of bread and water. I would have a prison record and—
I would have a prison record?
I saw all of my chances for a society husband going up in smoke. I tugged on my aunt’s arm to get her attention.
“Um … Aunt Matt?”
“Yes?”
“While I clearly see the merit in what you’re trying to accomplish, and I agree wholeheartedly with everything you’ve said … um … I don’t think Grandmother or my father would be very pleased if we got arrested.”
She frowned as she considered my words. “I suppose you’re right,” she said in disgust. “Maybe another day. This is only your first march, after all.” She grabbed my sign and gave it to one of the other women, along with her own. Then we stepped out of the street and onto the sidewalk to walk back the way we had just come. I could see that Aunt Matt was furious, but whether it was with me or with all the injustice she had endured in life, I didn’t know. I decided to remain quiet.
We returned to the streetcar stop and climbed aboard the first car that arrived. Aunt Matt released an enormous sigh as she sank onto the seat.
“How did you get involved in the suffrage movement?” I asked her—just to let her know I was still on her side.
“One of my earliest memories is of my father’s reaction when my sister Florence was born. ‘If only she had been a boy,’ he said over and over again. ‘Why couldn’t she have been a boy?’ It seemed as though a great tragedy had occurred in our home, like a death in the family. He had the same reaction when Agnes and Bertha were born—deep, deep disappointment.
“As I grew older, I tried very hard to make him proud of me, to show him that I was just as good as any son. I began reading his newspapers, following his court cases, and discussing current events with him. I even learned how to research law cases for him. I wanted to be everything to him that a son would have been.
“But even as he lay dying, he told me, ‘Too bad you weren’t a boy… . It’s my lifelong regret that I never had a son to carry on my work.’ He was disappointed in me and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. It didn’t matter how sharp my mind was or how well I could converse with him. He never forgave me for being trapped in a woman’s body.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said.
“Nearly all men are the same. They want sons. And they blame their wives for failing if they produce only daughters. My mother had a very difficult time delivering Bertha and nearly died. She never should have had another child. But Father insisted that she produce a son for him. My mother died in childbirth along with her fifth child—her fifth daughter.”
By the time Aunt Matt finished her story we were home. I didn’t know what to say to her, but fortunately she went straight into her room and closed the door. Her story left me feeling very sad. I wondered if my father had decided to marry Maude so that he could have a son.
I went into the parlor and collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted and invigorated at the same time. Compared to sipping tea and discussing the merits of thunder, it had been an exhilarating day.
Could Aunt Matt and her friends be right? Were women just as smart and strong and deserving of a good education as men? And should women be allowed to vote? I had a lot to think about.
I hadn’t seen my grandmother’s hat on the hall tree, so I knew she was still out. I would have a few minutes alone with Aunt Birdie’s photographs. I crept over to the secretary, opened the drawer, and had just picked up the first photo when Aunt Birdie came in.
“That’s a picture of Matt,” she said, peering over my shoulder. I had to look very closely before I could see that she was right. Aunt Matt was smiling. And slender. And pretty. She wore a light-colored dress. And jewelry.
“She looks so different,” I said.
“It’s her engagement picture. She had it taken for her beau.”
“I didn’t know Aunt Matt was engaged.”
“We didn’t think she would ever get married. She was thirty-one when she met Robert. He was one of my father’s acquaintances, and he came to visit when Father was dying. The rest of us were all married and had left home by then. Matt lived here alone, taking care of him. His illness was very hard on her. But then Robert Tucker came to call, and Matt fell in love. Oh my, she was so in love!”
“What happened?”
“It turned out he was a thief,” Aunt Birdie whispered.
“What do you mean, a thief?”
“Well, a thief is someone who robs people of their money and all their valuables and—”
“Yes, yes, I know what a thief does, but what kinds of things did this man steal? And how did Aunt Matt find out about it?”
“Why, she found out when he stole her heart, of course.”
“But—”
“Oh, good. There’s the postman,” Aunt Birdie said as the daily mail suddenly fell through the slot in our front door with a plop. “I do hope I get a letter from Gilbert today. He hasn’t written in ever so long.”
I studied Aunt Matt’s picture, unable to get over the enormous change in her. Aunt Birdie was right: Robert Tucker was a thief. He’d stolen Aunt Matt’s smile and all of her joy … along with her heart.
Chapter
8
Saturday, June 10, 1893
Madame Beauchamps had prepared us for a variety of occasions and circumstances, including how to eat snails and nibble caviar, but she had never warned us that being sociable could be so exhausting. I found out just how tiring it was on the evening of the fund-raiser for the Art Institute of Chicago. Aunt Agnes and Uncle Henry took me to the gala event, and from the moment we strode through the door, the evening felt like a test of physical endurance combined with one of Madame’s grueling final examinations.
