suffrage debates with prominent opponents of the Cause. I have already
referred to the debate in Kansas with Senator Ingalls. Equaling this
in importance was a bout with Dr. Buckley, the distinguished Methodist
debater, which had been arranged for us at Chautauqua by Bishop Vincent
of the Methodist Church. The bishop was not a believer in suffrage, nor
was he one of my admirers. I had once aroused his ire by replying to
a sermon he had delivered on "God's Women," and by proving, to my own
satisfaction at least, that the women he thought were God's women had
done very little, whereas the work of the world had been done by those
he believed were not "God's Women." There was considerable interest,
therefore, in the Buckley-Shaw debate he had arranged; we all knew he
expected Dr. Buckley to wipe out that old score, and I was determined to
make it as difficult as possible for the distinguished gentleman to do
so. We held the debate on two succeeding days, I speaking one afternoon
and Dr. Buckley replying the following day. On the evening before I
spoke, however, Dr. Buckley made an indiscreet remark, which, blown
about Chautauqua on the light breeze of gossip, was generally regarded
as both unchivalrous and unfair.
As the hall in which we were to speak was enormous, he declared that one
of two things would certainly happen. Either I would scream in order to
be heard by my great audience, or I would be unable to make myself heard
at all. If I screamed it would be a powerful argument against women as
public speakers; if I could not be heard, it would be an even better
argument. In either case, he summed up, I was doomed to failure.
Following out this theory, he posted men in the extreme rear of the
great hall on the day of my lecture, to report to him whether my words
reached them, while he himself graciously occupied a front seat. Bishop
Vincent's antagonistic feeling was so strong, however, that though, as
the presiding officer of the occasion, he introduced me to the audience,
he did not wait to hear my speech, but immediately left the hall--and
this little slight added to the public's interest in the debate. It
was felt that the two gentlemen were not quite "playing fair," and the
champions of the Cause were especially enthusiastic in their efforts to
make up for these failures in courtesy. My friends turned out in force
to hear the lecture, and on the breast of every one of them flamed the
yellow bow that stood for suffrage, giving to the vast hall something of
the effect of a field of yellow tulips in full bloom.
When Dr. Buckley rose to reply the next day these friends were again
awaiting him with an equally jocund display of the suffrage color, and
this did not add to his serenity. During his remarks he made the serious
mistake of losing his temper; and, unfortunately for him, he directed
his wrath toward a very old man who had thoughtlessly applauded by
pounding on the floor with his cane when Dr. Buckley quoted a point I
had made. The doctor leaned forward and shook his fist at him.
"Think she's right, do you?" he asked.
"Yes," admitted the venerable citizen, briskly, though a little startled
by the manner of the question.
"Old man," shouted Dr. Buckley, "I'll make you take that back if you've
got a grain of sense in your head!"
The insult cost him his audience. When he realized this he lost all his
self-possession, and, as the Buffalo Courier put it the next day, "went
up and down the platform raving like a Billingsgate fishwife." He lost
the debate, and the supply of yellow ribbon left in the surrounding
counties was purchased that night to be used in the suffrage celebration
that followed. My friends still refer to the occasion as "the day we
wiped up the earth with Dr. Buckley"; but I do not deserve the implied
tribute, for Dr. Buckley would have lost his case without a word from
me. What really gave me some satisfaction, however, was the respective
degree of freshness with which he and I emerged from our combat. After
my speech Miss Anthony and I were given a reception, and stood for hours
shaking hands with hundreds of men and women. Later in the evening we
had a dinner and another reception, which, lasting, as they did, until
midnight, kept us from our repose. Dr. Buckley, poor gentleman, had to
be taken to his hotel immediately after his speech, given a hot bath,
rubbed down, and put tenderly to bed; and not even the sympathetic heart
of Susan B. Anthony yearned over him when she heard of his exhaustion.
It was also at Chautauqua, by the way, though a number of years earlier,
that I had my much misquoted encounter with the minister who deplored
the fashion I followed in those days of wearing my hair short. This
young man, who was rather a pompous person, saw fit to take me to task
at a table where a number of us were dining together.
"Miss Shaw," he said, abruptly, "I have been asked very often why
you wear your hair short, and I have not been able to explain. Of
course"--this kindly--"I know there is some good reason. I ventured to
advance the theory that you have been ill and that your hair has fallen
out. Is that it?"
"No," I told him. "There is a reason, as you suggest. But it is not that
one."
"Then why--" he insisted.
"I am rather sensitive about it," I explained. "I don't know that I care
to discuss the subject."
The young minister looked pained. "But among friends--" he protested.
"True," I conceded. "Well, then, among friends, I will admit frankly
that it is a birthmark. I was born with short hair."
That was the last time my short hair was criticized in my presence, but
the young minister was right in his disapproval and I was wrong, as I
subsequently realized. A few years later I let my hair grow long, for
I had learned that no woman in public life can afford to make herself
conspicuous by any eccentricity of dress or appearance. If she does so
she suffers for it herself, which may not disturb her, and to a greater
or less degree she injures the cause she represents, which should
disturb her very much.
XII. BUILDING A HOME
It is not generally known that the meeting of the International Council
of Women held in Chicago during the World's Fair was suggested by Miss
Anthony, as was also the appointment of the Exposition's "Board of Lady
Managers." "Aunt Susan" kept her name in the background, that she might
not array against these projects the opposition of those prejudiced
against woman suffrage. We both spoke at the meetings, however, as
I have already explained, and one of our most chastening experiences
occurred on "Actress Night." There was a great demand for tickets for
this occasion, as every one seemed anxious to know what kind of speeches
our leading women of the stage would make; and the programme offered
such magic names as Helena Modjeska, Julia Marlowe, Georgia Cayvan,
Clara Morris, and others of equal appeal. The hall was soon filled, and
to keep out the increasing throng the doors were locked and the waiting
crowd was directed to a second hall for an overflow meeting.
As it happened, Miss Anthony and I were among the earliest arrivals at
the main hall. It was the first evening we had been free to do exactly
as we pleased, and we were both in high spirits, looking forward to the
speeches, congratulating each other on the good seats we had been given
on the platform, and rallying the speakers on their stage fright; for,
much to our amusement, we had found them all in mortal terror of their
audience. Georgia Cayvan, for example, was so nervous that she had to
be strengthened with hot milk before she could speak, and Julia Marlowe
admitted freely that her knees were giving way beneath her. They really
had something of an ordeal before them, for it was decided that each
actress must speak twice going immediately from the hall to the overflow
meeting and repeating there the speech she had just made. But in the
mean time some one had to hold the impatient audience in the second
hall, and as it was a duty every one else promptly repudiated, a row of
suddenly imploring faces turned toward Miss Anthony and me. I admit that
we responded to the appeal with great reluctance. We were SO comfortable
where we were--and we were also deeply interested in the first intimate
glimpse we were having of these stars in the dramatic sky. We saw our
duty, however, and with deep sighs we rose and departed for the second
hall, where a glance at the waiting throng did not add to our pleasure
in the prospect before us.
When I walked upon the stage I found myself facing an actually hostile
audience. They had come to look at and listen to the actresses who had
been promised them, and they thought they were being deprived of that
privilege by an interloper. Never before had I gazed out on a mass of
such unresponsive faces or looked into so many angry eyes. They were
exchanging views on their wrongs, and the general buzz of conversation
continued when I appeared. For some moments I stood looking at them,
my hands behind my back. If I had tried to speak they would undoubtedly
have gone on talking; my silence attracted their attention and they
began to wonder what I intended to do. When they had stopped whispering
and moving about, I spoke to them with the frankness of an overburdened
heart.
"I think," I said, slowly and distinctly, "that you are the most
disagreeable audience I ever faced in my life."
They gasped and stared, almost open-mouthed in their surprise.
"Never," I went on, "have I seen a gathering of people turn such ugly
looks upon a speaker who has sacrificed her own enjoyment to come and
talk to them. Do you think I want to talk to you?" I demanded, warming
to my subject. "I certainly do not. Neither does Miss Anthony want to
talk to you, and the lady who spoke to you a few moments ago, and whom
you treated so rudely, did not wish to be here. We would all much prefer
to be in the other hall, listening to the speakers from our comfortable
seats on the stage. To entertain you we gave up our places and came here
simply because the committee begged us to do so. I have only one thing
more to say. If you care to listen to me courteously I am willing to
waste time on you; but don't imagine that I will stand here and wait
while you criticize the management."
By this time I felt as if I had a child across my knee to whom I was
administering maternal chastisement, and the uneasiness of my audience
underlined the impression. They listened rather sulkily at first; then
a few of the best-natured among them laughed, and the laugh grew and
developed into applause. The experience had done them good, and they
were a chastened band when Clara Morris appeared, and I gladly yielded
the floor to her.
All the actresses who spoke that night delivered admirable addresses,
but no one equaled Madame Modjeska, who delivered exquisitely a speech
written, not by herself, but by a friend and countrywoman, on the
condition of Polish women under the regime of Russia. We were all
charmed as we listened, but none of us dreamed what that address would
mean to Modjeska. It resulted in her banishment from Poland, her native
land, which she was never again permitted to enter. But though she paid
so heavy a price for the revelation, I do not think she ever really
regretted having given to America the facts in that speech.
During this same period I embarked upon a high adventure. I had always
longed for a home, and my heart had always been loyal to Cape Cod. Now I
decided to have a home at Wianno, across the Cape from my old parish at
East Dennis. Deep-seated as my home-making aspiration had been, it was
realized largely as the result of chance. A special hobby of mine has
always been auction sales. I dearly love to drop into auction-rooms
while sales are in progress, and bid up to the danger-point, taking care
to stop just in time to let some one else get the offered article. But
of course I sometimes failed to stop at the psychological moment, and
the result was a sudden realization that, in the course of the years, I
had accumulated an extraordinary number of articles for which I had no
shelter and no possible use.
The crown jewel of the collection was a bedroom set I had picked up in
Philadelphia. Usually, cautious friends accompanied me on my auction-room
expeditions and restrained my ardor; but this time I got away alone and
found myself bidding at the sale of a solid bog-wood bedroom set which
had been exhibited as a show-piece at the World's Fair, and was now,
in the words of the auctioneer, "going for a song." I sang the song. I
offered twenty dollars, thirty dollars, forty dollars, and other excited
voices drowned mine with higher bids. It was very thrilling. I offered
fifty dollars, and there was a horrible silence, broken at last by the
auctioneer's final, "Going, going, GONE!" I was mistress of the
bog-wood bedroom set--a set wholly out of harmony with everything else
I possessed, and so huge and massive that two men were required to
lift the head-board alone. Like many of the previous treasures I had
acquired, this was a white elephant; but, unlike some of them, it was
worth more than I had paid for it. I was offered sixty dollars for one
piece alone, but I coldly refused to sell it, though the tribute to my
judgment warmed my heart. I had not the faintest idea what to do with
the set, however, and at last I confided my dilemma to my friend, Mrs.
Ellen Dietrick, who sagely advised me to build a house for it. The idea
intrigued me. The bog-wood furniture needed a home, and so did I.
The result of our talk was that Mrs. Dietrick promised to select a
lot for me at Wianno, where she herself lived, and even promised to
supervise the building of my cottage, and to attend to all the other
details connected with it. Thus put, the temptation was irresistible.
Besides Mrs. Dietrick, many other delightful friends lived at
Wianno--the Garrisons, the Chases of Rhode Island, the Wymans, the
Wellingtons--a most charming community. I gave Mrs. Dietrick full
authority to use her judgment in every detail connected with the
undertaking, and the cottage was built. Having put her hand to this
plow of friendship, Mrs. Dietrick did the work with characteristic
thoroughness. I did not even visit Wianno to look at my land. She
selected it, bought it, engaged a woman architect--Lois Howe of
Boston--and followed the latter's work from beginning to end. The only
stipulation I made was that the cottage must be far up on the beach, out
of sight of everybody--really in the woods; and this was easily met, for
along that coast the trees came almost to the water's edge.
The cottage was a great success, and for many years I spent my vacations
there, filling the place with young people. From the time of my sister
Mary's death I had had the general oversight of her two daughters,
Lola and Grace, as well as of Nicolas and Eleanor, the two motherless
daughters of my brother John. They were all with me every summer in
the new home, together with Lucy Anthony, her sister and brother, Mrs.
Rachel Foster Avery, and other friends. We had special fishing costumes
made, and wore them much of the time. My nieces wore knickerbockers, and
I found vast contentment in short, heavy skirts over bloomers. We lived
out of doors, boating, fishing, and clamming all day long, and, as in my
early pioneer days in Michigan, my part of the work was in the open.
I chopped all the wood, kept the fires going, and looked after the
grounds.
Rumors of our care-free and unconventional life began to circulate, and
presently our Eden was invaded by the only serpent I have ever found in
the newspaper world--a girl reporter from Boston. She telegraphed that
she was coming to see us; and though, when she came, we had been warned
of her propensities and received her in conventional attire, formally
entertaining her with tea on the veranda, she went away and gave free
play to a hectic fancy. She wrote a sensational full-page article for
a Sunday newspaper, illustrated with pictures showing us all in
knickerbockers. In this striking work of art I carried a fish net and
pole and wore a handkerchief tied over my head. The article, which was
headed THE ADAMLESS EDEN, was almost libelous, and I admit that for
a long time it dimmed our enjoyment of our beloved retreat. Then,
gradually, my old friends died, Mrs. Dietrick among the first; others
moved away; and the character of the entire region changed. It became
fashionable, privacy was no longer to be found there, and we ceased to
visit it. For five years I have not even seen the cottage.
In 1908 I built the house I now occupy (in Moylan, Pennsylvania), which
is the realization of a desire I have always had--to build on a tract
which had a stream, a grove of trees, great boulders and rocks, and a
hill site for the house with a broad outlook, and a railroad station
conveniently near. The friend who finally found the place for me had
begun his quest with the pessimistic remark that I would better wait for
it until I got to Paradise; but two years later he telegraphed me that
he had discovered it on this planet, and he was right. I have only eight
acres of land, but no one could ask a more ideal site for a cottage; and
on the place is my beloved forest, including a grove of three hundred
firs. From every country I have visited I have brought back a tiny tree
for this little forest, and now it is as full of memories as of beauty.
To the surprise of my neighbors, I built my house with its back toward
the public road, facing the valley and the stream. "But you will never
see anybody go by," they protested. I answered that the one person in
the house who was necessarily interested in passers-by was my maid, and
she could see them perfectly from the kitchen, which faced the road.
I enjoy my views from the broad veranda that overlooks the valley, the
stream, and the country for miles around.
Every suffragist I have ever met has been a lover of home; and only the
conviction that she is fighting for her home, her children, for other
women, or for all of these, has sustained her in her public work.
Looking back on many campaign experiences, I am forced to admit that it
is not always the privations we endure which make us think most tenderly
of home. Often we are more overcome by the attentions of well-meaning
friends. As an example of this I recall an incident of one Oregon
campaign. I was to speak in a small city in the southern part of the
state, and on reaching the station, hot, tired, and covered with the
grime of a midsummer journey, I found awaiting me a delegation of
citizens, a brass-band, and a white carriage drawn by a pair of
beautiful white horses. In this carriage, and devotedly escorted by the
citizens and the band, the latter playing its hardest, I was driven
to the City Hall and there met by the mayor, who delivered an address,
after which I was crowned with a laurel wreath. Subsequently, with this
wreath still resting upon my perspiring brow, I was again driven through
the streets of the city; and if ever a woman felt that her place was in
the home and longed to be in her place, I felt it that day.
An almost equally trying occasion had San Francisco for its setting. The
city had arranged a Fourth of July celebration, at which Miss Anthony
and I were to speak. Here we rode in a carriage decorated with
flowers--yellow roses--while just in front of us was the mayor in a
carriage gorgeously festooned with purple blossoms. Behind us, for more
than a mile, stretched a procession of uniformed policemen, soldiers,
and citizens, while the sidewalks were lined with men and women whose
enthusiastic greetings came to Miss Anthony from every side. She was
enchanted over the whole experience, for to her it meant, as always, not
a personal tribute, but a triumph of the Cause. But I sat by her side
acutely miserable; for across my shoulders and breast had been draped a
huge sash with the word "Orator" emblazoned on it, and this was further
embellished by a striking rosette with streamers which hung nearly
to the bottom of my gown. It is almost unnecessary to add that this
remarkable decoration was furnished by a committee of men, and was also
worn by all the men speakers of the day. Possibly I was overheated by
the sash, or by the emotions the sash aroused in me, for I was stricken
with pneumonia the following day and experienced my first serious
illness, from which, however, I soon recovered.
On our way to California in 1895 Miss Anthony and I spent a day at
Cheyenne, Wyoming, as the guests of Senator and Mrs. Carey, who gave a
dinner for us. At the table I asked Senator Carey what he considered the
best result of the enfranchisement of Wyoming women, and even after the
lapse of twenty years I am able to give his reply almost word for word,
for it impressed me deeply at the time and I have since quoted it again
and again.
"There have been many good results," he said, "but the one I consider
above all the others is the great change for the better in the character
of our candidates for office. Consider this for a moment: Since our
women have voted there has never been an embezzlement of public funds,
or a scandalous misuse of public funds, or a disgraceful condition of
graft. I attribute the better character of our public officials almost
entirely to the votes of the women."
"Those are inspiring facts," I conceded, "but let us be just. There are
three men in Wyoming to every woman, and no candidate for office could
be elected unless the men voted for him, too. Why, then, don't they
deserve as much credit for his election as the women?"
"Because," explained Senator Carey, promptly, "women are politically an
uncertain factor. We can go among men and learn beforehand how they are
going to vote, but we can't do that with women; they keep us guessing.
In the old days, when we went into the caucus we knew what resolutions
put into our platforms would win the votes of the ranchmen, what would
win the miners, what would win the men of different nationalities; but
we did not know how to win the votes of the women until we began to
nominate our candidates. Then we immediately discovered that if the
Democrats nominated a man of immoral character for office, the women
voted for his Republican opponent, and we learned our first big
lesson--that whatever a candidate's other qualifications for office may
be, he must first of all have a clean record. In the old days, when we
nominated a candidate we asked, 'Can he hold the saloon vote?' Now we
ask, 'Can he hold the women's vote?' Instead of bidding down to the
saloon, we bid up to the home."
Following the dinner there was a large public meeting, at which Miss
Anthony and I were to speak. Mrs. Jenkins, who was president of the
Suffrage Association of the state, presided and introduced us to the
assemblage. Then she added: "I have introduced you ladies to your
audience. Now I would like to introduce your audience to you." She began
with the two Senators and the member of Congress, then introduced the
Governor, the Lieutenant-Governor, the state Superintendent of Education,
and numerous city and state officials. As she went on Miss Anthony grew
more and more excited, and when the introductions were over, she said:
"This is the first time I have ever seen an audience assembled for woman
suffrage made up of the public officials of a state. No one can ever
persuade me now that men respect women without political power as much
as they respect women who have it; for certainly in no other state in
the Union would it be possible to gather so many public officials under
one roof to listen to the addresses of women."
The following spring we again went West, with Mrs. Catt, Lucy Anthony,
Miss Hay and Miss Sweet, her secretary, to carry on the Pacific coast
campaign of '96, arranged by Mrs. Cooper and her daughter Harriet, of
Oakland--both women of remarkable executive ability. Headquarters were
secured in San Francisco, and Miss Hay was put in charge, associated
with a large group of California women. It was the second time in the
history of campaigns--the first being in New York--that all the money to
carry on the work was raised by the people of the state.
The last days of the campaign were extremely interesting, and one of
their important events was that the Hon. Thomas Reed, then Speaker of
the House of Representatives, for the first time came out publicly for
suffrage. Mr. Reed had often expressed himself privately as in favor of
the Cause--but he had never made a public statement for us. At Oakland,
one day, the indefatigable and irresistible "Aunt Susan" caught him off
his guard by persuading his daughter, Kitty Reed, who was his idol, to
ask him to say just one word in favor of our amendment. When he arose we
did not know whether he had promised what she asked, and as his speech
progressed our hearts sank lower and lower, for all he said was remote
from our Cause. But he ended with these words:
"There is an amendment of the constitution pending, granting suffrage
to women. The women of California ought to have suffrage. The men of
California ought to give it to them--and the next speaker, Dr. Shaw,
will tell you why."