"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.
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
"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.
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
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