over the receipt of that telegram. She knew that whatever Miss Thomas
and Miss Garrett undertook would be accomplished, and she rightly
regarded the success of the convention as already assured. Her
expectations were more than realized. The college evening was
undoubtedly the most brilliant occasion of its kind ever arranged for a
convention. President Ira Remsen of Johns Hopkins University presided,
and addresses were made by President Mary E. Woolley of Mount Holyoke,
Professor Lucy Salmon of Vassar, Professor Mary Jordan of Smith,
President Thomas herself, and many others.
From beginning to end the convention was probably the most notable yet
held in our history. Julia Ward Howe and her daughter, Florence Howe
Hall, were also guests of Miss Garrett, who, moreover, entertained all
the speakers of "College Night." Miss Anthony, now eighty-six, arrived
in Baltimore quite ill, and Mrs. Howe, who was ninety, was taken ill
soon after she reached there. The two great women made a dramatic
exchange on the programme, for on the first night, when Miss Anthony was
unable to speak, Mrs. Howe took her place, and on the second night,
when Mrs. Howe had succumbed, Miss Anthony had recovered sufficiently
to appear for her. Clara Barton was also an honored figure at the
convention, and Miss Anthony's joy in the presence of all these old and
dear friends was overflowing. With them, too, were the younger women,
ready to take up and carry on the work the old leaders were laying down;
and "Aunt Susan," as she surveyed them all, felt like a general whose
superb army is passing in review before him. At the close of the college
programme, when the final address had been made by Miss Thomas, Miss
Anthony rose and in a few words expressed her feeling that her life-work
was done, and her consciousness of the near approach of the end. After
that night she was unable to appear, and was indeed so ill that she
was confined to her bed in Miss Garrett's most hospitable home. Nothing
could have been more thoughtful or more beautiful than the care Miss
Garrett and Miss Thomas bestowed on her. They engaged for her one of the
best physicians in Baltimore, who, in turn, consulted with the leading
specialists of Johns Hopkins, and they also secured a trained nurse.
This final attention required special tact, for Miss Anthony's fear of
"giving trouble" was so great that she was not willing to have a nurse.
The nurse, therefore, wore a housemaid's uniform, and "Aunt Susan"
remained wholly unconscious that she was being cared for by one of the
best nurses in the famous hospital.
Between sessions of the convention I used to sit by "Aunt Susan's" bed
and tell her what was going on. She was triumphant over the immense
success of the convention, but it was clear that she was still worrying
over the details of future work. One day at luncheon Miss Thomas asked
me, casually:
"By the way, how do you raise the money to carry on your work?"
When I told her the work was wholly dependent on voluntary contributions
and on the services of those who were willing to give themselves
gratuitously to it, Miss Thomas was greatly surprised. She and Miss
Garrett asked a number of practical questions, and at the end of our
talk they looked at each other.
"I don't think," said Miss Thomas, "that we have quite done our duty in
this matter."
The next day they invited a number of us to dinner, to again discuss
the situation; and they admitted that they had sat up throughout the
previous night, talking the matter over and trying to find some way to
help us. They had also discussed the situation with Miss Anthony, to
her vast content, and had finally decided that they would try to raise
a fund of $60,000, to be paid in yearly instalments of $12,000 for five
years--part of these annual instalments to be used as salaries for the
active officers. The mere mention of so large a fund startled us all.
We feared that it could not possibly be raised. But Miss Anthony plainly
believed that now the last great wish of her life had been granted.
She was convinced that Miss Thomas and Miss Garrett could accomplish
anything--even the miracle of raising $60,000 for the suffrage
cause--and they did, though "Aunt Susan" was not here to glory over the
result when they had achieved it.
On the 15th of February we left Baltimore for Washington, where Miss
Anthony was to celebrate her eighty-sixth birthday. For many years
the National American Woman Suffrage Association had celebrated our
birthdays together, as hers came on the 15th of the month and mine on
the 14th. There had been an especially festive banquet when she was
seventy-four and I was forty-seven, and our friends had decorated the
table with floral "4's" and "7's"--the centerpiece representing "74"
during the first half of the banquet, and "47" the latter half. This
time "Aunt Susan" should not have attempted the Washington celebration,
for she was still ill and exhausted by the strain of the convention. But
notwithstanding her sufferings and the warnings of her physicians, she
insisted on being present; so Miss Garrett sent the trained nurse to
Washington with her, and we all tried to make the journey the least
possible strain on the patient's vitality.
On our arrival in Washington we went to the Shoreham, where, as always,
the proprietor took pains to give Miss Anthony a room with a view of the
Washington monument, which she greatly admired. When I entered her room
a little later I found her standing at a window, holding herself up with
hands braced against the casement on either side, and so absorbed in the
view that she did not hear my approach. When I spoke to her she answered
without turning her head.
"That," she said, softly, "is the most beautiful monument in the world."
I stood by her side, and together we looked at it in silence I realizing
with a sick heart that "Aunt Susan" knew she was seeing it for the last
time.
The birthday celebration that followed our executive meeting was an
impressive one. It was held in the Church of Our Father, whose pastor,
the Rev. John Van Schaick, had always been exceedingly kind to Miss
Anthony. Many prominent men spoke. President Roosevelt and other
statesmen sent most friendly letters, and William H. Taft had promised
to be present. He did not come, nor did he, then or later, send any
excuse for not coming--an omission that greatly disappointed Miss
Anthony, who had always admired him. I presided at the meeting, and
though we all did our best to make it gay, a strange hush hung over
the assemblage a solemn stillness, such as one feels in the presence
of death. We became more and more conscious that Miss Anthony was
suffering, and we hastened the exercises all we could. When I read
President Roosevelt's long tribute to her, Miss Anthony rose to comment
on it.
"One word from President Roosevelt in his message to Congress," she
said, a little wearily, "would be worth a thousand eulogies of Susan
B. Anthony. When will men learn that what we ask is not praise, but
justice?"
At the close of the meeting, realizing how weak she was, I begged her
to let me speak for her. But she again rose, rested her hand on my
shoulder, and, standing by my side, uttered the last words she ever
spoke in public, pleading with women to consecrate themselves to the
Cause, assuring them that no power could prevent its ultimate success,
but reminding them also that the time of its coming would depend wholly
on their work and their loyalty. She ended with three words--very
fitting words from her lips, expressing as they did the spirit of her
life-work--"FAILURE IS IMPOSSIBLE."
The next morning she was taken to her home in Rochester, and one month
from that day we conducted her funeral services. The nurse who had
accompanied her from Baltimore remained with her until two others had
been secured to take her place, and every care that love or medical
science could suggest was lavished on the patient. But from the first
it was plain that, as she herself had foretold, "Aunt Susan's" soul was
merely waiting for the hour of its passing.
One of her characteristic traits was a dislike to being seen, even by
those nearest to her, when she was not well. During the first three
weeks of her last illness, therefore, I did what she wished me to do--I
continued our work, trying to do hers as well as my own. But all the
time my heart was in her sick-room, and at last the day came when I
could no longer remain away from her. I had awakened in the morning with
a strong conviction that she needed me, and at the breakfast-table I
announced to her niece, Miss Lucy Anthony, the friend who for years has
shared my home, that I was going at once to "Aunt Susan."
"I shall not even wait to telegraph," I declared. "I am sure she has
sent for me; I shall take the first train."
The journey brought me very close to death. As we were approaching
Wilkes-Barre our train ran into a wagon loaded with powder and dynamite,
which had been left on the track. The horses attached to it had been
unhitched by their driver, who had spent his time in this effort, when
he saw the train coming, instead of in signaling to the engineer. I was
on my way to the dining-car when the collision occurred, and, with every
one else who happened to be standing, I was hurled to the floor by the
impact; flash after flash of blinding light outside, accompanied by
a terrific roar, added to the panic of the passengers. When the train
stopped we learned how narrow had been our escape from an especially
unpleasant form of death. The dynamite in the wagon was frozen, and
therefore had not exploded; it was the explosion of the powder that had
caused the flashes and the din. The dark-green cars were burned almost
white, and as we stood staring at them, a silent, stunned group, our
conductor said, quietly, "You will never be as near death again, and
escape, as you have been to-day."
The accident caused a long delay, and it was ten o'clock at night when
I reached Rochester and Miss Anthony's home. As I entered the house Miss
Mary Anthony rose in surprise to greet me.
"How did you get here so soon?" she cried. And then: "We sent for you
this afternoon. Susan has been asking for you all day."
When I reached my friend's bedside one glance at her face showed me the
end was near; and from that time until it came, almost a week later, I
remained with her; while again, as always, she talked of the Cause, and
of the life-work she must now lay down. The first thing she spoke of was
her will, which she had made several years before, and in which she
had left the small property she possessed to her sister Mary, her niece
Lucy, and myself, with instructions as to the use we three were to
make of it. Now she told me we were to pay no attention to these
instructions, but to give every dollar of her money to the $60,000
fund Miss Thomas and Miss Garrett were trying to raise. She was vitally
interested in this fund, as its success meant that for five years the
active officers of the National American Woman Suffrage Association,
including myself as president, would for the first time receive salaries
for our work. When she had given her instructions on this point she
still seemed depressed.
"I wish I could live on," she said, wistfully. "But I cannot. My spirit
is eager and my heart is as young as it ever was, but my poor old body
is worn out. Before I go I want you to give me a promise: Promise me
that you will keep the presidency of the association as long as you are
well enough to do the work."
"But how can I promise that?" I asked. "I can keep it only as long as
others wish me to keep it."
"Promise to make them wish you to keep it," she urged. "Just as I wish
you to keep it."
I would have promised her anything then. So, though I knew that to hold
the presidency would tie me to a position that brought in no living
income, and though for several years past I had already drawn alarmingly
upon my small financial reserve, I promised her that I would hold the
office as long as the majority of the women in the association wished
me to do so. "But," I added, "if the time comes when I believe that some
one else can do better work in the presidency than I, then let me feel
at liberty to resign it."
This did not satisfy her.
"No, no," she objected. "You cannot be the judge of that. Promise me
you will remain until the friends you most trust tell you it is time to
withdraw, or make you understand that it is time. Promise me that."
I made the promise. She seemed content, and again began to talk of the
future.
"You will not have an easy path," she warned me. "In some ways it will
be harder for you than it has ever been for me. I was so much older than
the rest of you, and I had been president so long, that you girls have
all been willing to listen to me. It will be different with you. Other
women of your own age have been in the work almost as long as you have
been; you do not stand out from them by age or length of service, as I
did. There will be inevitable jealousies and misunderstandings; there
will be all sorts of criticism and misrepresentation. My last word
to you is this: No matter what is done or is not done, how you are
criticized or misunderstood, or what efforts are made to block your
path, remember that the only fear you need have is the fear of not
standing by the thing you believe to be right. Take your stand and hold
it; then let come what will, and receive blows like a good soldier."
I was too much overcome to answer her; and after a moment of silence
she, in her turn, made me a promise.
"I do not know anything about what comes to us after this life ends,"
she said. "But if there is a continuance of life beyond it, and if I
have any conscious knowledge of this world and of what you are doing, I
shall not be far away from you; and in times of need I will help you all
I can. Who knows? Perhaps I may be able to do more for the Cause after I
am gone than while I am here."
Nine years have passed since then, and in each day of them all it seems
to me, in looking back, I have had some occasion to recall her words.
When they were uttered I did not fully comprehend all they meant, or the
clearness of the vision that had suggested them. It seemed to me that
no position I could hold would be of sufficient importance to attract
jealousy or personal attacks. The years have brought more wisdom; I have
learned that any one who assumes leadership, or who, like myself, has
had leadership forced upon her, must expect to bear many things of which
the world knows nothing. But with this knowledge, too, has come the
memory of "Aunt Susan's" last promise, and again and yet again in
hours of discouragement and despair I have been helped by the blessed
conviction that she was keeping it.
During the last forty-eight hours of her life she was unwilling that I
should leave her side. So day and night I knelt by her bed, holding her
hand and watching the flame of her wonderful spirit grow dim. At times,
even then, it blazed up with startling suddenness. On the last afternoon
of her life, when she had lain quiet for hours, she suddenly began to
utter the names of the women who had worked with her, as if in a final
roll-call. Many of them had preceded her into the next world; others
were still splendidly active in the work she was laying down. But young
or old, living or dead, they all seemed to file past her dying eyes that
day in an endless, shadowy review, and as they went by she spoke to each
of them.
Not all the names she mentioned were known in suffrage ranks; some of
these women lived only in the heart of Susan B. Anthony, and now, for
the last time, she was thanking them for what they had done. Here was
one who, at a moment of special need, had given her small savings; here
was another who had won valuable recruits to the Cause; this one had
written a strong editorial; that one had made a stirring speech. In
these final hours it seemed that not a single sacrifice or service,
however small, had been forgotten by the dying leader. Last of all,
she spoke to the women who had been on her board and had stood by her
loyally so long--Rachel Foster Avery, Alice Stone Blackwell, Carrie
Chapman Catt, Mrs. Upton, Laura Clay, and others. Then, after lying in
silence for a long time with her cheek on my hand, she murmured: "They
are still passing before me--face after face, hundreds and hundreds of
them, representing all the efforts of fifty years. I know how hard they
have worked I know the sacrifices they have made. But it has all been
worth while!"
Just before she lapsed into unconsciousness she seemed restless and
anxious to say something, searching my face with her dimming eyes.
"Do you want me to repeat my promise?" I asked, for she had already made
me do so several times. She made a sign of assent, and I gave her the
assurance she desired. As I did so she raised my hand to her lips and
kissed it--her last conscious action. For more than thirty hours after
that I knelt by her side, but though she clung to my hand until her own
hand grew cold, she did not speak again.
She had told me over and over how much our long friendship and
association had meant to her, and the comfort I had given her. But
whatever I may have been to her, it was as nothing compared with what
she was to me. Kneeling close to her as she passed away, I knew that
I would have given her a dozen lives had I had them, and endured
a thousand times more hardship than we had borne together, for the
inspiration of her companionship and the joy of her affection. They were
the greatest blessings I have had in all my life, and I cherish as my
dearest treasure the volume of her History of Woman Suffrage on the
fly-leaf of which she had written this inscription:
REVEREND ANNA HOWARD SHAW:
This huge volume IV I present to you with the love that a mother
beareth, and I hope you will find in it the facts about women, for you
will find them nowhere else. Your part will be to see that the four
volumes are duly placed in the libraries of the country, where every
student of history may have access to them.
With unbounded love and faith,
SUSAN B. ANTHONY.
That final line is still my greatest comfort. When I am misrepresented
or misunderstood, when I am accused of personal ambition or of working
for personal ends, I turn to it and to similar lines penned by the same
hand, and tell myself that I should not allow anything to interfere with
the serenity of my spirit or to disturb me in my work. At the end of
eighteen years of the most intimate companionship, the leader of
our Cause, the greatest woman I have ever known, still felt for me
"unbounded love and faith." Having had that, I have had enough.
For two days after "Aunt Susan's" death she lay in her own home, as if
in restful slumber, her face wearing its most exquisite look of peaceful
serenity; and here her special friends, the poor and the unfortunate of
the city, came by hundreds to pay their last respects. On the third
day there was a public funeral, held in the Congregational church,
and, though a wild blizzard was raging, every one in Rochester seemed
included in the great throng of mourners who came to her bier in
reverence and left it in tears. The church services were conducted
by the pastor, the Rev. C. C. Albertson, a lifelong friend of Miss
Anthony's, assisted by the Rev. William C. Gannett. James G. Potter,
the Mayor of the city, and Dr. Rush Rhees, president of Rochester
University, occupied prominent places among the distinguished mourners,
and Mrs. Jerome Jeffries, the head of a colored school, spoke in behalf
of the negro race and its recognition of Miss Anthony's services.
College clubs, medical societies, and reform groups were represented by
delegates sent from different states, and Miss Anna Gordon had come on
from Illinois to represent the Woman's National Christian Temperance
Union. Mrs. Catt delivered a eulogy in which she expressed the love
and recognition of the organized suffrage women of the world for Miss
Anthony, as the one to whom they had all looked as their leader. William
Lloyd Garrison spoke of Miss Anthony's work with his father and other
antislavery leaders, and Mrs. Jean Brooks Greenleaf spoke in behalf
of the New York State Suffrage Association. Then, as "Aunt Susan" had
requested, I made the closing address. She had asked me to do this and
to pronounce the benediction, as well as to say the final words at her
grave.
It was estimated that more than ten thousand persons were assembled
in and around the church, and after the benediction those who had been
patiently waiting out in the storm were permitted to pass inside in
single file for a last look at their friend. They found the coffin
covered by a large American flag, on which lay a wreath of laurel and
palms; around it stood a guard of honor composed of girl students of
Rochester University in their college caps and gowns. All day students
had mounted guard, relieving one another at intervals. On every side
there were flowers and floral emblems sent by various organizations, and
just over "Aunt Susan's" head floated the silk flag given to her by the
women of Colorado. It contained four gold stars, representing the four
enfranchised states, while the other stars were in silver. On her breast
was pinned the jeweled flag given to her on her eightieth birthday
by the women of Wyoming--the first place in the world where in the
constitution of the state women were given equal political rights with
men. Here the four stars representing the enfranchised states were
made of diamonds, the others of silver enamel. Just before the lid was
fastened on the coffin this flag was removed and handed to Mary Anthony,
who presented it to me. From that day I have worn it on every occasion
of importance to our Cause, and each time a state is won for woman
suffrage I have added a new diamond star. At the time I write this--in
1914--there are twelve.
As the funeral procession went through the streets of Rochester it was
seen that all the city flags were at half-mast, by order of the City
Council. Many houses were draped in black, and the grief of the citizens
manifested itself on every side. All the way to Mount Hope Cemetery
the snow whirled blindingly around us, while the masses that had fallen
covered the earth as far as we could see a fitting winding-sheet for
the one who had gone. Under the fir-trees around her open grave I obeyed
"Aunt Susan's" wish that I should utter the last words spoken over her
body as she was laid to rest:
"Dear friend," I said, "thou hast tarried with us long. Now thou hast
gone to thy well-earned rest. We beseech the Infinite Spirit Who has
upheld thee to make us worthy to follow in thy steps and to carry on thy
work. Hail and farewell."
XI. THE WIDENING SUFFRAGE STREAM
In my chapters on Miss Anthony I bridged the twenty years between 1886
and 1906, omitting many of the stirring suffrage events of that
long period, in my desire to concentrate on those which most vitally
concerned her. I must now retrace my steps along the widening suffrage
stream and describe, consecutively at least, and as fully as these
incomplete reminiscences will permit, other incidents that occurred on
its banks.
Of these the most important was the union in 1889 of the two great
suffrage societies--the American Association, of which Lucy Stone was
the president, and the National Association, headed by Susan B. Anthony
and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. At a convention held in Washington
these societies were merged as The National American Woman Suffrage
Association--the name our association still bears--and Mrs. Stanton was
elected president. She was then nearly eighty and past active work, but
she made a wonderful presiding officer at our subsequent meetings, and
she was as picturesque as she was efficient.