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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 country-woman, 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.'' The
word was spoken. And though it was not a very strong word, it
came from a strong man, and therefore helped us.
Election day, as usual, brought its
surprises and revelations. Mrs. Cooper asked her Chinese cook
how the Chinese were voting--i. e., the native-born Chinamen who
were entitled to vote--and he replied, blithely, "All Chinamen
vote for Billy McKee and `NO' to women!'' It is an interesting
fact that every Chinese vote was cast against us. All day we
went from one to another of the polling-places, and I shall
always remember the picture of Miss Anthony and the wife of
Senator Sargent wandering around the polls arm in arm at eleven
o'clock at night, their tired faces taking on lines of deeper
depression with every minute; for the count was against us.
However, we made a fairly good showing. When the final counts
came in we found that we had won the state from the north down
to Oakland, and from the south up to San Francisco; but there
was not a sufficient majority to overcome the adverse votes of
San Francisco and Oakland. With more than 230,000 votes cast,
we were defeated by only 10,000 majority. In San Francisco the
saloon element and the most aristocratic section of the city
made an equal showing against us, while the section occupied by
the middle working-class was largely in favor of our amendment.
I dwell especially on this campaign, partly because such
splendid work was done by the women of California, and also
because, during the same election, Utah and Idaho granted full
suffrage to women. This gave us four suffrage states--Wyoming,
Colorado, Utah, and Idaho--and we prepared for future struggles
with very hopeful hearts.
It was during this California
campaign, by the way, that I unwittingly caused much
embarrassment to a worthy young man. At a mass-meeting held in
San Francisco, Rabbi Vorsanger, who was not in favor of suffrage
for women, advanced the heartening theory that in a thousand
years more they might possibly be ready for it. After a
thousand years of education for women, of physically developed
women, of uncorseted women, he said, we might have the ideal
woman, and could then begin to talk about freedom for her.
When the rabbi sat down there was a
shout from the audience for me to answer him, but all I said was
that the ideal woman would be rather lonely, as it would
certainly take another thousand years to develop an ideal man
capable of being a mate for her. On the following night Prof.
Howard Griggs, of Stanford University, made a speech on the
modern woman--a speech so admirably thought out and delivered
that we were all delighted with it. When he had finished the
audience again called on me, and I rose and proceeded to make
what my friends frankly called "the worst break'' of my
experience.
Rabbi Vorsanger's ideal woman was
still in my mind, and I had been rather hard on the men in my
reply to the rabbi the night before; so now I hastened to give
this clever young man his full due. I said that though the rabbi
thought it would take a thousand years to make an ideal woman, I
believed that, after all, it might not take as long to make the
ideal man. We had something very near it in a speaker who could
reveal such ability, such chivalry, and such breadth of view as
Professor Griggs had just shown that he possessed.
That night I slept the sleep of the
just and the well-meaning, and it was fortunate I did, for the
morning newspapers had a surprise for me that called for steady
nerves and a sense of humor. Across the front page of every one
of them ran startling head-lines to this effect:
DR. SHAW HAS FOUND HER IDEAL MAN The
Prospects Are That She Will Remain in California Professor
Griggs was young enough to be my son, and he was already married
and the father of two beautiful children; but these facts were
not permitted to interfere with the free play of fancy in
journalistic minds. For a week the newspapers were filled with
all sorts of articles, caricatures, and editorials on my ideal
man, which caused me much annoyance and some amusement, while
they plunged Professor Griggs into an abysmal gloom. In the
end, however, the experience proved an excellent one for him,
for the publicity attending his speech made him decide to take
up lecturing as a profession, which he eventually did with great
success. But neither of us has yet heard the last of the Ideal
Man episode. Only a few years ago, on his return to California
after a long absence, one of the leading Sunday newspapers of
the state heralded Professor Griggs's arrival by publishing a
full-page article bearing his photograph and mine and this
flamboyant heading: SHE MADE HIM And Dr. Shaw's Ideal Man Became
the Idol of American Women and Earns $30,000 a Year.
We had other unusual experiences in
California, and the display of affluence on every side was not
the least impressive of them. In one town, after a heavy rain,
I remember seeing a number of little boys scraping the dirt from
the gutters, washing it, and finding tiny nuggets of gold. We
learned that these boys sometimes made two or three dollars a
day in this way, and that the streets of the town-- I think it
was Marysville--contained so much gold that a syndicate offered
to level the whole town and repave the streets in return for the
right to wash out the gold. This sounds like the kind of thing
Americans tell to trustful visitors from foreign lands, but it
is quite true.
Nuggets, indeed, were so numerous
that at one of our meetings, when we were taking up a
collection, I cheerfully suggested that our audience drop a few
into the box, as we had not had a nugget since we reached the
state. There were no nuggets in the subsequent collection, but
there was a note which read: "If Dr. Shaw will accept a gold
nugget, I will see that she does not leave town without one.''
I read this aloud, and added, "I have never refused a gold
nugget in my life.''
The following day brought me a pin
made of a very beautiful gold nugget, and a few days later
another Californian produced a cluster of smaller nuggets which
he had washed out of a panful of earth and insisted on my
accepting half of them. I was not accustomed to this sort of
generosity, but it was characteristic of the spirit of the
state. No-where else, during our campaign experiences, were we
so royally treated in every way. As a single example among
many, I may mention that Mrs. Leland Stanford once happened to
be on a train with us and to meet Miss Anthony. As a result of
this chance encounter she gave our whole party passes on all the
lines of the Southern Pacific Railroad, for use during the
entire campaign. Similar generosity was shown us on every side,
and the question of finance did not burden us from the beginning
to the end of the California work.
In our Utah and Idaho campaigns we
had also our full share of new experiences, and of these perhaps
the most memorable to me was the sermon I preached in the Mormon
Tabernacle at Salt Lake City. Before I left New York the Mormon
women had sent me the invitation to preach this sermon, and when
I reached Salt Lake City and the so-called "Gentile'' women
heard of the plan, they at once invited me to preach to the
"Gentiles'' on the evening of the same Sunday, in the Salt Lake
City Opera House. On the morning of the sermon I approached the
Mormon Tabernacle with much more trepidation than I usually
experienced before entering a pulpit. I was not sure what
particular kind of trouble I would get into, but I had an
abysmal suspicion that trouble of some sort lay in wait for me,
and I shivered in the anticipation of it. Fortunately, my
anxiety was not long drawn out. I arrived only a few moments
before the hour fixed for the sermon, and found the congregation
already assembled and the Tabernacle filled with the beautiful
music of the great organ. On the platform, to which I was
escorted by several leading dignitaries of the church, was the
characteristic Mormon arrangement of seats. The first row was
occupied by the deacons, and in the center of these was the
pulpit from which the deacons preach. Above these seats was a
second row, occupied by ordained elders, and there they too had
their own pulpit. The third row was occupied by, the bishops
and the highest dignitaries of the church, with the pulpit from
which the bishops preach; and behind them all, an effective
human frieze, was the really wonderful Mormon choir.
As I am an ordained elder in my
church, I occupied the pulpit in the middle row of seats, with
the deacons below me and the bishops just behind. Scattered
among the congregation were hundreds of "Gentiles'' ready to
leap mentally upon any concession I might make to the Mormon
faith; while the Mormons were equally on the alert for any
implied criticism of them and their church. The problem of
preaching a sermon which should offer some appeal to both
classes, without offending either, was a perplexing one, and I
solved it to the best of my ability by delivering a sermon I had
once given in my own church to my own people. When I had
finished I was wholly uncertain of its effect, but at the end of
the services one of the bishops leaned toward me from his place
in the rear, and, to my mingled horror and amusement, offered me
this tribute, "That is one of the best Mormon sermons ever
preached in this Tabernacle.''
I thanked him, but inwardly I was
aghast. What had I said to give him such an impression? I
racked my brain, but could recall nothing that justified it. I
passed the day in a state of nervous apprehension, fully
expecting some frank criticism from the "Gentiles'' on the score
of having delivered a Mormon sermon to ingratiate myself into
the favor of the Mormons and secure their votes for the
constitutional amendment. But nothing of the kind was said.
That evening, after the sermon to the "Gentiles,'' a reception
was given to our party, and I drew my first deep breath when the
wife of a well-known clergyman came to me and introduced herself
in these words: "My husband could not come here to-night, but he
heard your sermon this morning. He asked me to tell you how
glad he was that under such unusual conditions you held so
firmly to the teachings of Christ.''
The next day I was still more
reassured. A reception was given us at the home of one of
Brigham Young's daughters, and the receiving-line was graced by
the presiding elder of the Methodist Episcopal Church. He was a
bluff and jovial gentleman, and when he took my hand he said,
warmly, "Well, Sister Shaw, you certainly gave our Mormon
friends the biggest dose of Methodism yesterday that they ever
got in their lives.''
After this experience I reminded
myself again that what Frances Willard so frequently said is
true; All truth is our truth when it has reached our hearts; we
merely rechristen it according to our individual creeds.
During the visit I had an
interesting conversation with a number of the younger Mormon
women. I was to leave the city on a midnight train, and about
twenty of them, including four daughters of Brigham Young, came
to my hotel to remain with me until it was time to go to the
station. They filled the room, sitting around in school-girl
fashion on the floor and even on the bed. It was an unusual
opportunity to learn some things I wished to know, and I could
not resist it.
"There are some questions I would
like to ask you,'' I began, "and one or two of them may seem
impertinent. But they won't be asked in that spirit--and please
don't answer any that embarrass you.''
They exchanged glances, and then
told me to ask as many questions as I wished.
"First of all,'' I said, "I would
like to know the real attitude toward polygamy of the present
generation of Mormon women. Do you all believe in it?''
They assured me that they did.
"How many of you,'' I then asked,
"are polygamous wives?''
There was not one in the group.
"But,'' I insisted, "if you really
believe in polygamy, why is it that some of your husbands have
not taken more than one wife?''
There was a moment of silence, while
each woman looked around as if waiting for another to answer. At
last one of them said, slowly: "In my case, I alone was to
blame. For years I could not force myself to consent to my
husband's taking another wife, though I tried hard. By the time
I had overcome my objection the law was passed prohibiting
polygamy.''
A second member of the group
hastened to tell her story. She had had a similar spiritual
struggle, and just as she reached the point where she was
willing to have her husband take another wife, he died. And now
the room was filled with eager voices. Four or five women were
telling at once that they, too, had been reluctant in the
beginning, and that when they had reached the point of consent
this, that, or another cause had kept the husbands from marrying
again. They were all so passion- ately in earnest that they
stared at me in puzzled wonder when I broke into the sudden
laughter I could not restrain.
"What fortunate women you all
were!'' I exclaimed, teasingly. "Not one of you arrived at the
point of consenting to the presence of a second wife in your
home until it was impossible for your husband to take her.''
They flushed a little at that, and
then laughed with me; but they did not defend themselves against
the tacit charge, and I turned the conversation into less
personal channels. I learned that many of the Mormon young men
were marrying girls outside of the Church, and that two sons of
a leading Mormon elder had married and were living very happily
with Catholic girls.
At this time the Mormon candidate
for Congress (a man named Roberts) was a bitter opponent of
woman suffrage. The Mormon women begged me to challenge him to
a debate on the subject, which I did, but Mr. Roberts declined
the challenge. The ground of his refusal, which he made public
through the newspapers, was chastening to my spirit. He
explained that he would not debate with me because he was not
willing to lower himself to the intellectual plane of a woman. |
