Free Woman (7 page)

Of course, the brokerage business was hardly her life's ambition. But it was a beginning. People would notice her. How could they help but take note of the first women brokers in the history of Wall Street?

The next few weeks were busy ones. Vicky and Tennie rented a suite of two rooms on the ground floor of the Hoffman House, a first-class hotel in the Wall Street area. Above all, they wanted to give the impression of being ultra-respectable ladies. This probably accounts for the elaborate way they decorated the suite. There were sofas and easy chairs, oil paintings and sculpture, even a piano.

On the wall, Vicky hung a framed religious motto: Simply to Thy Cross I Cling. Tennie, irreverent as always, decided she'd rather trust in someone she considered more reliable than God. Next to the religious slogan she hung a picture of Commodore Vanderbilt.

Each of them ordered engraved business cards. Vicky's read
Mrs. Victoria C. Woodhull.
Tennie, deciding at the last minute to give herself both a middle initial and a "respectable" married name, called herself
Mrs. Tennie C. Claflin.

On January 19, 1870, they opened for business. Attention, which Vicky wanted, was immediately forthcoming. Even better, it appeared to be serious, respectful attention. The very next day, a brief article appeared in the New York
Herald
: "The general routine of business in Wall Street was somewhat varied today by the mingling in its scenes of two fashionably dressed ladies as speculators." The item went on to note that nobody seemed to know who the women were or where they had obtained their knowledge of stocks.

Vicky leaped at the opportunity to remedy the situation. She promptly sent off a dignified letter to the
Herald,
coolly implying that their venture was not extraordinary. "We were not a little surprised at seeing our appearance in Wall Street noticed in your columns of yesterday," she wrote. Then, with a superb sense of public relations, she invited the
Herald
to send a reporter around.

As might be expected, the reporter spent most of his column describing the office decor and the sisters' physical appearance. Vicky, he wrote, wore a plain but stylish dress and a rose in her hair. Tennie, who apparently smiled throughout the interview, was pictured as "the photograph of a business woman—keen, shrewd, wholesouled."

No questions were asked about how they had acquired their financial expertise or why they had taken the unprecedented step of opening a brokerage office. If Vicky and Tennie felt excited about attracting the attention of the press, they hid it beautifully. "Cool" was the only word for them.

In the same issue, the
Herald
ran a long editorial titled "Women in Wall Street." It was duly noted that Vicky and Tennie were the first women to invade the all-male sanctuary of the Stock Exchange. Also that their daring action reflected the American woman's growing interest in getting out of the house. After explaining the sociological significance of "the lady brokers," the editorial gallantly concluded by wishing them luck.

In the privacy of their office, Vicky and Tennie could barely contain their rapture. Such enthusiastic words were far more than they had ever hoped for.

As they read the editorial aloud, Vicky stopped at the phrase "lady brokers."

"Do you think that's a way of confessing that male brokers are not always gentlemen?" she giggled.

In every way, their reception was far better than they had anticipated. Tennie went straight out and purchased a scrapbook in which to paste the newspaper clippings. It was to be the first of many clippings and many scrapbooks.

Three weeks later, they moved to more businesslike quarters at 44 Broad Street. This time they launched their new office with a gala opening-day reception. Every newspaper sent reporters. Every brokerage house in the city sent a representative. Businesses in the area closed their doors and hurried over to see what was going on. Even Commodore Vanderbilt put in an appearance.

Before the day was over, four thousand people had thronged through the offices of, as one paper dubbed them, "the Queens of Finance." In fact, the press outdid itself to dream up colorful names—"the Bewitching Brokers," "the She-brokers," "the Female Sovereigns of Wall Street."

There was no doubt that the press adored them. Not only were they a novelty but they also made good copy. Every report commented on the fact that they were very attractive women.

But the papers also were fair enough to describe them as serious businesswomen. Wrote the
Herald
: "Their extraordinary coolness and self-possession, and evident knowledge of the difficult role they have undertaken, is far more remarkable than their personal beauty and graces of manner, and these are considerable."

Initially, the press took them at face value as refined ladies. No reporter asked Vicky, for example, if she was married or where she had been for thirty-two years. Eventually, of course, a few enterprising newspapermen did get around to investigating her background and private life. It is to Vicky's credit that she answered honestly, at least most of the time. The information she did supply had a predictable effect.

Most people were scandalized by her divorce. Her clairvoyance and the tale about Demosthenes brought titters and shakes of the head. Her belief in "free love," only whispered about at this point, also caused offense.

But Vicky paid no attention. She was famous now. Her name—and Tennie's—appeared almost every day in the nation's newspapers. It was all very exciting.

At 44 Broad Street, Vicky looked at her surroundings with deep satisfaction. What a magnificent office, she thought proudly. There were walnut desks covered with green felt and Marvin safes of the highest quality. A sign hung near the front door to discourage the curious who just wanted a peek at the sisters. It read,
All gentlemen will state their business and retire at once.
Outside on the street stood a carriage and driver, always waiting to drive Vicky or Tennie to their appointments.

What a contrast with the life Vicky had led just a year or two ago. Sometimes, sitting at her desk, her thoughts would slip backward—to the darkened parlors where she had told fortunes; to the police pounding on their door with another complaint; to hustling out of Ottawa, Illinois, after Tennie had been indicted for manslaughter when a patient died at Buck's "cancer" clinic. But such grim reminiscing never lasted long. More and more, she banged the lid down hard on her early memories. She preferred to forget. Sometimes, it seemed like those days had never existed.

Vicky enjoyed her work. Although recently James had begun to handle much of the paper work, she sat at her desk in the front office. Brisk and businesslike, she talked to customers, most of them men. Some people on the Street said that she and Tennie were only there for show, that there must be a man behind the scenes doing all the real work. One man tried to give them a forged check, but Vicky immediately spotted the deception and saved the firm a loss of nearly $66,000.

When no customers appeared, Vicky could relax. Lounging behind her desk, she might eat early strawberries and thick fresh cream sent by some friend on the Street. Or she chatted with Buck, who visited nearly every day. Or she cut articles from newspapers and magazines and pasted them into a scrapbook. In those days, a mention in the newspaper supposedly disgraced any woman who wasn't an actress or an agitator. But Vicky loved the press because they were kind to her.

Newspaper articles were a way in which she could measure her success. Seeing her name in print gave her a strange satisfaction. Besides, both she and Tennie enjoyed being interviewed. And the papers loved them because they always had something interesting to say.

One afternoon Vicky told a reporter, "All this talk about women's rights is moonshine!"

He looked surprised. Vicky wasn't finished, though.

"Women have every right," she explained. "All they need to do is exercise them. That's what we're doing. We are doing more for women's rights, by being here on Wall Street, than all the speeches will do in ten years."

If Vicky's statements to the press usually tended to be serious, the reporters knew they could count on Tennie to say something outrageous.

"Miss Tennie," she was asked, "don't you find it embarrassing to work on Wall Street where you are the only woman? People talk about you, you know."

Tennie flung up her arms in disgust. "If I cared about public opinion, I wouldn't leave my house," she retorted defiantly. "The people who gossip about me are powdered dandies and silly crybaby girls. I despise them." Tennie never minced words.

For sentimental reasons, Vicky was attached to the house on Great Jones Street. But with so many freeloading Claflins living there, it had become cramped. Now she could truly afford to live in a mansion and that is precisely what she decided to do. She found an elegant house just off Fifth Avenue in the Murray Hill section of the city. It was even more impressive than Commodore Vanderbilt's house.

She proceeded to decorate her new home in the grandest manner. She bought leaded crystal chandeliers, gothic clocks, carved mahogany tables, gilt chairs, and enormous mirrors which stretched from floor to ceiling. To keep her palace spotless, she hired a battalion of servants. The extravagance worried her, but now she had a home fit for a queen. It might seem a contradiction that Vicky, dedicated to a socialist system that advocated sharing of wealth, would wish to live like a queen. Perhaps this was partly due to the extreme poverty of her early life. Once she was able to afford luxuries, she did not pass them up.

One day, soon after the move to Murray Hill, the maid announced a visitor. "He won't give his name, ma'am," she reported. "He says he's an old friend of the family's."

From the look of distaste on the maid's face, Vicky knew she was not impressed with the mysterious caller. In fact, she'd left him waiting outside on the doorstep.

Opening the door, Vicky stared in disbelief. There in the chilly February twilight, shivering in a thin suit, stood Canning. She promptly pulled him inside and called a maid to prepare a room. Her former husband looked terribly ill. His face was deathly pale. She discovered that Canning had another problem in addition to alcohol. He had become addicted to a drug, to morphine.

Now forty-six, Canning looked a good twenty years older than his age. After years of abuse, his body had almost burned itself out. Most of the time he played with Byron or wandered around the house in a daze. But he was harmless and bothered nobody. Vicky let him stay.

The return of Canning sparked a fresh wave of gossip. Now people had something far more juicy to whisper about. Mrs. Woodhull, they gasped, was living with both of her husbands!

Vicky may have heard the gossip. Or she may not have. Either way, something far more important was occupying her thoughts. Her "brain trust" had convinced her that the time had come to run for President of the United States.

5

A Different Kind of Woman

On the morning of April 2, 1870, New Yorkers opened the pages of the
Herald
over their breakfast porridge. If they got as far as the editorial page, they spotted a letter to the editor that caused them to shake their heads in astonishment.

Under the headline
First Pronunciamento
was a historic bombshell signed by Victoria C. Woodhull. It began, a bit immodestly, by informing readers that she, Vicky, was "the most prominent representative of the only unrepresented class in the Republic."

True, she was one of the most famous women in the land. But her statement would do little to endear her to Susan B. Anthony and others who had been fighting for women's rights when Vicky was reading fortunes in the Middle West. Vicky didn't mean to insult the feminist leaders. She simply felt their route to equality was not very effective. Action, not talk, was her solution.

She went on to say, "While others argued the equality of women with men, I proved it by successfully engaging in business." Here again was her contention that women have the same rights as men; they just don't use them.

Then she got to the point: "I now announce myself candidate for the Presidency."

Aware of the stir her letter would create, she hastened to assure the public that she was not a crackpot.

"I anticipate criticism," she wrote, "but however unfavorable the comment this letter may evoke, I trust that my sincerity will not be called into question.

"I have deliberately and of my own accord placed myself before the people as a candidate for the Presidency of the United States, and having the means, courage, energy and strength necessary for the race, intend to contest it to the close."

Money, courage, strength—these she possessed. But there was one essential for election that she did not mention because she did not have it—manhood.

The next national election would not be held until 1872. Nevertheless, James and Stephen advised that she would need two years to establish herself in the minds of the voters. One of the chief subjects discussed by her "brain trust" did not concern politics at all. It had to do with reeducating the men of this country, the ones who cast the ballots. Very, very few men approved of women in public life. They believed women belonged in the home, preferably in the kitchen. Most women agreed.

The great political parties did not take women seriously. After all, a woman couldn't even vote. A woman on the ticket would be more than a liability. It would be a joke.

In 1870 Ulysses S. Grant, a Republican and a Civil War hero, occupied the White House. Nobody doubted that the popular general would run for a second term in the 1872 election. The Democrats had no idea whom they would nominate, but it certainly wouldn't be a female. There were other, smaller parties, too. But they weren't crazy about women candidates either.

The only way a woman could hope to compete was to nominate herself. With luck, she might marshal enough public support to get her name on the ballot.