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In The Life of
Susan B. Anthony it is mentioned that 1888 was a year of special
recognition of our great leader's work, but that it was also the
year in which many of her closest friends and strongest
supporters were taken from her by death. A. Bronson Alcott was
among these, and Louisa M. Alcott, as well as Dr. Lozier; and
special stress is laid on Miss Anthony's sense of loss in the
diminishing circle of her friends--a loss which new friends and
workers came forward, eager to supply. "Chief among these,''
adds the record, "was Anna Shaw, who, from the time of the
International Council in '88, gave her truest allegiance to Miss
Anthony.''
It is true that
from that year until Miss Anthony's death in 1906 we two were
rarely separated; and I never read the paragraph I have just
quoted without seeing, as in a vision, the figure of "Aunt
Susan'' as she slipped into my hotel room in Chicago late one
night after an evening meeting of the International Council. I
had gone to bed--indeed, I was almost asleep when she came, for
the day had been as exhausting as it was interesting. But
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, "Aunt Susan,'' then
nearing seventy, was still as fresh and as full of enthusiasm as
a young girl. She had a great deal to say, she declared, and she
proceeded to say it-- sitting in a big easy-chair near the bed,
with a rug around her knees, while I propped myself up with
pillows and listened.
Hours passed and
the dawn peered wanly through the windows, but still Miss
Anthony talked of the Cause always of the Cause--and of what we
two must do for it. The previous evening she had been too busy
to eat any dinner, and I greatly doubt whether she had eaten any
luncheon at noon. She had been on her feet for hours at a time,
and she had held numerous discussions with other women she
wished to inspire to special effort. Yet, after it all, here she
was laying out our campaigns for years ahead, foreseeing
everything, forgetting nothing, and sweeping me with her in her
flight toward our common goal, until I, who am not easily
carried off my feet, experienced an almost dizzy sense of
exhilaration.
Suddenly she
stopped, looked at the gas-jets paling in the morning light that
filled the room, and for a fleeting instant seemed surprised. In
the next she had dismissed from her mind the realization that we
had talked all night. Why should we not talk all night? It was
part of our work. She threw off the enveloping rug and rose.
"I must dress
now,'' she said, briskly. "I've called a committee meeting
before the morning session.''
On her way to the
door nature smote her with a rare reminder, but even then she
did not realize that it was personal. "Perhaps,'' she remarked,
tentatively, "you ought to have a cup of coffee.''
That was "Aunt
Susan.'' And in the eighteen years which followed I had daily
illustrations of her superiority to purely human weaknesses. To
her the hardships we underwent later, in our Western campaigns
for woman suffrage, were as the airiest trifles. Like a true
soldier, she could snatch a moment of sleep or a mouthful of
food where she found it, and if either was not forthcoming she
did not miss it. To me she was an unceasing inspiration--the
torch that illumined my life. We went through some difficult
years together--years when we fought hard for each inch of
headway we gained --but I found full compensation for every
effort in the glory of working with her for the Cause that was
first in both our hearts, and in the happiness of being her
friend. Later I shall describe in more detail the suffrage
campaigns and the National and International councils in which
we took part; now it is of her I wish to write--of her bigness,
her many-sidedness, her humor, her courage, her quickness, her
sympathy, her understanding, her force, her supreme
common-sense, her selflessness; in short, of the rare beauty of
her nature as I learned to know it.
Like most great
leaders, she took one's best work for granted, and was chary
with her praise; and even when praise was given it usually came
by indirect routes. I recall with amusement that the highest
compliment she ever paid me in public involved her in a tangle
from which, later, only her quick wit extricated her. We were
lecturing in an especially pious town which I shall call B----,
and just before I went on the platform Miss Anthony remarked,
peacefully:
"These people
have always claimed that I am irreligious. They will not accept
the fact that I am a Quaker--or, rather, they seem to think a
Quaker is an infidel. I am glad you are a Methodist, for now
they cannot claim that we are not orthodox.''
She was still
enveloped in the comfort of this reflection when she introduced
me to our audience, and to impress my qualifications upon my
hearers she made her introduction in these words:
"It is a pleasure
to introduce Miss Shaw, who is a Methodist minister. And she is
not only orthodox of the orthodox, but she is also my right
bower!''
There was a gasp
from the pious audience, and then a roar of laughter from
irreverent men, in which, I must confess, I light-heartedly
joined. For once in her life Miss Anthony lost her presence of
mind; she did not know how to meet the situation, for she had no
idea what had caused the laughter. It bubbled forth again and
again during the evening, and each time Miss Anthony received
the demonstration with the same air of puzzled surprise.
When we had
returned to our hotel rooms I explained the matter to her. I do
not remember now where I had acquired my own sinful knowledge,
but that night I faced "Aunt Susan'' from the pedestal of a
sophisticated worldling.
"Don't you know
what a right bower is?'' I demanded, sternly.
"Of course I
do,'' insisted "Aunt Susan.'' "It's a right-hand man--the kind
one can't do without.''
"It is a card,''
I told her, firmly--"a leading card in a game called euchre.''
"Aunt Susan'' was
dazed. "I didn't know it had anything to do with cards,'' she
mused, mournfully. "What must they think of me?''
What they thought
became quite evident. The newspapers made countless jokes at our
expense, and there were significant smiles on the faces in the
audience that awaited us the next night. When Miss Anthony
walked upon the platform she at once proceeded to clear herself
of the tacit charge against her.
"When I came to
your town,'' she began, cheerfully, "I had been warned that you
were a very religious lot of people. I wanted to impress upon
you the fact that Miss Shaw and I are religious, too. But I
admit that when I told you she was my right bower I did not know
what a right bower was. I have learned that, since last night.''
She waited until
the happy chortles of her hearers had subsided, and then went
on. "It interests me very much, however,'' she concluded, "to
realize that every one of you seemed to know all about a right
bower, and that I had to come to your good, orthodox town to get
the information.'' That time the joke was on the audience.
Miss Anthony's
home was in Rochester, New York, and it was said by our friends
that on the rare occasions when we were not together, and I was
lecturing independently, "all return roads led through
Rochester.'' I invariably found some excuse to go there and
report to her. Together we must have worn out many Rochester
pavements, for "Aunt Susan's'' pet recreation was walking, and
she used to walk me round and round the city squares, far into
the night, and at a pace that made policemen gape at us as we
flew by. Some disrespectful youth once remarked that on these
occasions we suggested a race between a ruler and a rubber
ball--for she was very tall and thin, while I am short and
plump. To keep up with her I literally bounded at her side.
A certain amount
of independent lecturing was necessary for me, for I had to earn
my living. The National American Woman Suffrage Association has
never paid salaries to its officers, so, when I became
vice-president and eventually, in 1904, president of the
association, I continued to work gratuitously for the Cause in
these positions. Even Miss Anthony received not one penny of
salary for all her years of unceasing labor, and she was so poor
that she did not have a home of her own until she was
seventy-five. Then it was a very simple one, and she lived with
the utmost economy. I decided that I could earn my bare expenses
by making one brief lecture tour each year, and I made an
arrangement with the Redpath Bureau which left me fully
two-thirds of my time for the suffrage work I loved.
This was one
result of my all-night talk with Miss Anthony in Chicago, and it
enabled me to carry out her plan that I should accompany her in
most of the campaigns in which she sought to arouse the West to
the need of suffrage for women. From that time on we traveled
and lectured together so con
stantly that each of us developed an almost uncanny knowledge of
the other's mental processes. At any point of either's lecture
the other could pick it up and carry it on--a fortunate
condition, as it sometimes became necessary to do this. Miss
Anthony was subject to contractions of the throat, which for the
moment caused a slight strangulation. On such occasions--of
which there were several--she would turn to me and indicate her
helplessness. Then I would repeat her last sentence, complete
her speech, and afterward make my own.
The first time
this happened we were in Washington, and "Aunt Susan'' stopped
in the middle of a word. She could not speak; she merely
motioned to me to continue for her, and left the stage. At the
end of the evening a prominent Washington man who had been in
our audience remarked to me, confidentially:
"That was a nice
little play you and Miss Anthony made to-night--very effective
indeed.''
For an instant I
did not catch his meaning, nor the implication in his knowing
smile.
"Very clever,
that strangling bit, and your going on with the speech,'' he
repeated. "It hit the audience hard.''
"Surely,'' I
protested, "you don't think it was a deliberate thing--that we
planned or rehearsed it.''
He stared at me
incredulously. "Are you going to pretend,'' he demanded, "that
it wasn't a put-up job?''
I told him he had
paid us a high compliment, and that we must really have done
very well if we had conveyed that impression; and I finally
convinced him that we not only had not rehearsed the episode,
but that neither of us had known what the other meant to say. We
never wrote out our speeches, but our subject was always
suffrage or some ramification of suffrage, and, naturally, we
had thoroughly digested each other's views.
It is said by my
friends that I write my speeches on the tips of my fingers--for
I always make my points on my fingers and have my fingers named
for points. When I plan a speech I decide how many points I wish
to make and what those points shall be. My mental preparation
follows. Miss Anthony's method was much the same; but very
frequently both of us threw over all our plans at the last
moment and spoke extemporaneously on some theme suggested by the
atmosphere of the gathering or by the words of another speaker.
From Miss
Anthony, more than from any one else, I learned to keep cool in
the face of interruptions and of the small annoyances and
disasters inevitable in campaigning. Often we were able to help
each other out of embarrassing situations, and one incident of
this kind occurred during our campaign in South Dakota.
We were holding a
meeting on the hottest Sunday of the hottest month in the
year--August--and hundreds of the natives had driven twenty,
thirty, and even forty miles across the country to hear us. We
were to speak in a sod church, but it was discovered that the
structure would not hold half the people who were trying to
enter it, so we decided that Miss Anthony should speak from the
door, in order that those both inside and outside might hear
her. To elevate her above her audience, she was given an empty
dry-goods box to stand on. This makeshift platform was not
large, and men, women, and children were seated on the ground
around it, pressing up against it, as close to the speaker as
they could get. Directly in front of Miss Anthony sat a woman
with a child about two years old--a little boy; and this infant,
like every one else in the packed throng, was dripping with
perspiration and suffering acutely under the blazing sun. Every
woman present seemed to have brought children with her,
doubtless because she could not leave them alone at home; and
babies were crying and fretting on all sides. The infant nearest
Miss Anthony fretted most strenuously; he was a sturdy little
fellow with a fine pair of lungs, and he made it very difficult
for her to lift her voice above his dismal clamor. Suddenly,
however, he discovered her feet on the dry-goods box, about on a
level with his head. They were clad in black stockings and low
shoes; they moved about oddly; they fascinated him. With a yelp
of interest he grabbed for them and began pinching them to see
what they were. His howls ceased; he was happy. Miss Anthony was
not. But it was a great relief to have the child quiet, so she
bore the infliction of the pinching as long as she could. When
endurance had found its limit she slipped back out of reach, and
as his new plaything receded the boy uttered shrieks of
disapproval. There was only one way to stop his noise; Miss
Anthony brought her feet forward again, and he resumed the
pinching of her ankles, while his yelps subsided to contented
murmurs. The performance was repeated half a dozen times. Each
time the ankles retreated the baby yelled. Finally, for once at
the end of her patience, "Aunt Susan'' leaned forward and
addressed the mother, whose facial expression throughout had
shown a complete mental detachment from the situation.
"I think your
little boy is hot and thirsty,'' she said, gently. "If you would
take him out of the crowd and give him a drink of water and
unfasten his clothes, I am sure he would be more comfortable.''
Before she had
finished speaking the woman had sprung to her feet and was
facing her with fierce indignation.
"This is the
first time I have ever been insulted as a mother,'' she cried;
"and by an old maid at that!'' Then she grasped the infant and
left the scene, amid great confusion. The majority of those in
the audience seemed to sympathize with her. They had not seen
the episode of the feet, and they thought Miss Anthony was
complaining of the child's crying. Their children were crying,
too, and they felt that they had all been criticized. Other
women rose and followed the irate mother, and many men gallantly
followed them. It seemed clear that motherhood had been
outraged.
Miss Anthony was
greatly depressed by the episode, and she was not comforted by a
prediction one man made after the meeting. "You've lost at least
twenty votes by that little affair,'' he told her.
"Aunt Susan''
sighed. "Well,'' she said, "if those men knew how my ankles felt
I would have won twenty votes by enduring the torture as long as
I did.''
The next day we
had a second meeting. Miss Anthony made her speech early in the
evening, and by the time it was my turn to begin all the
children in the audience--and there were many--were both tired
and sleepy. At least half a dozen of them were crying, and I had
to shout to make my voice heard above their uproar. Miss Anthony
remarked afterward that there seemed to be a contest between me
and the infants to see which of us could make more noise. The
audience was plainly getting restless under the combined effect,
and finally a man in the rear rose and added his voice to the
tumult.
"Say, Miss
Shaw,'' he yelled, "don't you want these children put out?''
It was our chance
to remove the sad impression of yesterday, and I grasped it.
"No, indeed,'' I
yelled back. "Nothing inspires me like the voice of a child!''
A handsome round
of applause from mothers and fathers greeted this noble
declaration, after which the blessed babies and I resumed our
joint vocal efforts. When the speech was finished and we were
alone together, Miss Anthony put her arm around my shoulder and
drew me to her side. "Well, Anna,'' she said, gratefully,
"you've certainly evened us up on motherhood this time.''
That South Dakota
campaign was one of the most difficult we ever made. It extended
over nine months; and it is impossible to describe the poverty
which prevailed throughout the whole rural community of the
State. There had been three consecutive years of drought. The
sand was like powder, so deep that the wheels of the wagons in
which we rode "across country'' sank half-way to the hubs; and
in the midst of this dry powder lay withered tangles that had
once been grass. Every one had the forsaken, desperate look worn
by the pioneer who has reached the limit of his endurance, and
the great stretches of prairie roads showed innumerable
canvas-covered wagons, drawn by starved horses, and followed by
starved cows, on their way "Back East.'' Our talks with the
despairing drivers of these wagons are among my most tragic
memories. They had lost everything except what they had with
them, and they were going East to leave "the woman'' with her
father and try to find work. Usually, with a look of disgust at
his wife, the man would say: "I wanted to leave two years ago,
but the woman kept saying, `Hold on a little longer.' ''
Both Miss Anthony
and I gloried in the spirit of these pioneer women, and lost no
opportunity to tell them so; for we realized what our nation
owes to the patience and courage of such as they were. We often
asked them what was the hardest thing to bear in their pioneer
life, and we usually received the same reply:
"To sit in our
little adobe or sod houses at night and listen to the wolves
howl over the graves of our babies. For the howl of the wolf is
like the cry of a child from the grave.''
Many days, and in
all kinds of weather, we rode forty and fifty miles in uncovered
wagons. Many nights we shared a one-room cabin with all the
members of the family. But the greatest hardship we suffered was
the lack of water. There was very little good water in the
state, and the purest water was so brackish that we could hardly
drink it. The more we drank the thirstier we became, and when
the water was made into tea it tasted worse than when it was
clear.
A bath was the
rarest of luxuries. The only available fuel was buffalo manure,
of which the odor permeated all our food. But despite these
handicaps we were happy in our work, for we had some great
meetings and many wonderful experiences. When we reached the
Black Hills we had more of this genuine campaigning. We traveled
over the mountains in wagons, behind teams of horses, visiting
the mining-camps; and often the gullies were so deep that when
our horses got into them it was almost impossible to get them
out.
I recall with
special clearness one ride from Hill City to Custer City. It was
only a matter of thirty miles, but it was thoroughly exhausting;
and after our meeting that same night we had to drive forty
miles farther over the mountains to get the early morning train
from Buffalo Gap. The trail from Custer City to Buffalo Gap was
the one the animals had originally made in their journeys over
the pass, and the drive in that wild region, throughout a cold,
piercing October night, was an unforgetable experience. Our host
at Custer City lent Miss Anthony his big buffalo overcoat, and
his wife lent hers to me. They also heated blocks of wood for
our feet, and with these protections we started. A full moon
hung in the sky. The trees were covered with hoar-frost, and the
cold, still air seemed to sparkle in the brilliant light.
Again Miss
Anthony talked to me throughout the night--of the work, always
of the work, and of what it would mean to the women who followed
us; and again she fired my soul with the flame that burned so
steadily in her own.
It was daylight
when we reached the little station at Buffalo Gap where we were
to take the train. This was not due, however, for half an hour,
and even then it did not come. The station was only large enough
to hold the stove, the ticket-office, and the inevitable
cuspidor. There was barely room in which to walk between these
and the wall. Miss Anthony sat down on the floor. I had a few
raisins in my bag, and we divided them for breakfast.
An hour passed,
and another, and still the train did not come. Miss Anthony, her
back braced against the wall, buried her face in her hands and
dropped into a peaceful abyss of slumber, while I walked
restlessly up and down the platform. The train arrived four
hours late, and when eventually we had reached our destination
we learned that the ministers of the town had persuaded the
women to give up the suffrage meeting scheduled for that night,
as it was Sunday.
This
disappointment, following our all-day and all-night drive to
keep our appointment, aroused Miss Anthony's fighting spirit.
She sent me out to rent the theater for the evening, and to have
some hand-bills printed and distributed, announcing that we
would speak. At three o'clock she made the concession to her
seventy years of lying down for an hour's rest. I was young and
vigorous, so I trotted around town to get somebody to preside,
somebody to introduce us, somebody to take up the collection,
and somebody who would provide music--in short, to make all our
preparations for the night meeting.
When evening came
the crowd which had assembled was so great that men and women
sat in the windows and on the stage, and stood in the flies.
Night attractions were rare in that Dakota town, and here was
something new. Nobody went to church, so the churches were
forced to close. We had a glorious meeting. Both Miss Anthony
and I were in excellent fighting trim, and Miss Anthony remarked
that the only thing lacking to make me do my best was a sick
headache. The collection we took up paid all our expenses, the
church singers sang for us, the great audience was interested,
and the whole occasion was an inspiring success. The meeting
ended about half after ten o'clock, and I remember taking Miss
Anthony to our hotel and escorting her to her room. I also
remember that she followed me to the door and made some laughing
remark as I left for my own room; but I recall nothing more
until the next morning when she stood beside me telling me it
was time for breakfast. She had found me lying on the cover of
my bed, fully clothed even to my bonnet and shoes. I had fallen
there, utterly exhausted, when I entered my room the night
before, and I do not think I had even moved from that time until
the moment-- nine hours later--when I heard her voice and felt
her hand on my shoulder.
After all our
work, we did not win Dakota that year, but Miss Anthony bore the
disappointment with the serenity she always showed. To her a
failure was merely another opportunity, and I mention our
experience here only to show of what she was capable in her
gallant seventies. But I should misrepresent her if I did not
show her human and sentimental side as well. With all her
detachment from human needs she had emotional moments, and of
these the most satisfying came when she was listening to music.
She knew nothing whatever about music, but was deeply moved by
it; and I remember vividly one occasion when Nordica sang for
her, at an afternoon reception given by a Chicago
friend in "Aunt Susan's'' honor. As it happened, she had never
heard Nordica sing until that day; and before the music began
the great artiste and the great leader met, and in the moment of
meeting became friends. When Nordica sang, half an hour later,
she sang directly to Miss Anthony, looking into her eyes; and
"Aunt Susan'' listened with her own eyes full of tears. When the
last notes had been sung she went to the singer and put both
arms around her. The music had carried her back to her girlhood
and to the sentiment of sixteen.
"Oh, Nordica,''
she sighed, "I could die listening to such singing!''
Another example
of her unquenchable youth has also a Chicago setting. During the
World's Fair a certain clergyman made an especially violent
stand in favor of closing the Fair grounds on Sunday. Miss
Anthony took issue with him. "If I had charge of a young man in
Chicago at this time,'' she told the clergyman, "I would much
rather have him locked inside the Fair grounds on Sunday or any
other day than have him going about on the outside.''
The clergyman was
horrified. "Would you like to have a son of yours go to Buffalo
Bill's Wild West Show on Sunday?'' he demanded.
"Of course I
would,'' admitted Miss Anthony. "In fact, I think he would learn
more there than from the sermons preached in some churches.''
Later this remark
was repeated to Colonel Cody ("Buffalo Bill''), who, of course,
was delighted with it. He at once wrote to Miss Anthony,
thanking her for the breadth of her views, and offering her a
box for his "Show.'' She had no strong desire to see the
performance, but some of us urged her to accept the invitation
and to take us with her. She was always ready to do anything
that would give us pleasure, so she promised that we should go
the next afternoon. Others heard of the jaunt and begged to go
also, and Miss Anthony blithely took every applicant under her
wing, with the result that when we arrived at the box-office the
next day there were twelve of us in the group. When she
presented her note and asked for a box, the local manager looked
doubtfully at the delegation. "A box only holds six,'' he
objected, logically. Miss Anthony, who had given no thought to
that slight detail, looked us over and smiled her seraphic
smile.
"Why, in that
case,'' she said, cheerfully, "you'll have to give us two boxes,
won't you?''
The amused
manager decided that he would, and handed her the tickets; and
she led her band to their places in triumph. When the
performance began Colonel Cody, as was his custom, entered the
arena from the far end of the building, riding his wonderful
horse and bathed, of course, in the effulgence of his faithful
spot-light. He rode directly to our boxes, reined his horse in
front of Miss Anthony, rose in his stirrups, and with his
characteristic gesture swept his slouch-hat to his saddle-bow in
salutation.
"Aunt Susan''
immediately rose, bowed in her turn and, for the moment as
enthusiastic as a girl, waved her handkerchief at him, while the
big audience, catching the spirit of the scene, wildly
applauded. It was a striking picture this meeting of the pioneer
man and woman; and, poor as I am, I would give a hundred dollars
for a snapshot of it. On many occasions I saw instances of Miss
Anthony's prescience--and one of these was connected with the
death of Frances E. Willard.
"Aunt Susan'' had
called on Miss Willard, and, coming to me from the sick-room,
had walked the floor, beating her hands together as she talked
of the visit.
"Frances Willard
is dying,'' she exclaimed, passionately. "She is dying, and she
doesn't know it, and no one around her realizes it. She is lying
there, seeing into two worlds, and making more plans than a
thousand women could carry out in ten years. Her brain is
wonderful. She has the most extraordinary clearness of vision.
There should be a stenographer in that room, and every word she
utters should be taken down, for every word is golden. But they
don't understand. They can't realize that she is going. I told
Anna Gordon the truth, but she won't believe it.'' Miss Willard
died a few days later, with a suddenness which seemed to be a
terrible shock to those around her.
Of "Aunt
Susan's'' really remarkable lack of self-consciousness we who
worked close to her had a thousand extraordinary examples. Once,
I remember, at the New Orleans Convention, she reached the hall
a little late, and as she entered the great audience already
assembled gave her a tremendous reception. The exercises of the
day had not yet begun, and Miss Anthony stopped short and looked
around for an explanation of the outburst. It never for a moment
occurred to her that the tribute was to her.
"What has
happened, Anna?'' she asked at last.
"You happened,
Aunt Susan,'' I had to explain.
Again, on the
great "College Night'' of the Baltimore Convention, when
President M. Carey Thomas of Bryn Mawr College had finished her
wonderful tribute to Miss Anthony, the audience, carried away by
the speech and also by the presence of the venerable leader on
the platform, broke into a whirlwind of applause. In this "Aunt
Susan'' artlessly joined, clapping her hands as hard as she
could. "This is all for you, Aunt Susan,'' I whispered, "so it
isn't your time to applaud.''
"Aunt Susan''
continued to clap. "Nonsense,'' she said, briskly. "It's not for
me. It's for the Cause--the Cause!''
Miss Anthony told
me in 1904 that she regarded her reception in Berlin, during the
meeting of the International Council of Women that year, as the
climax of her career. She said it after the unexpected and
wonderful ovation she had received from the German people, and
certainly throughout her inspiring life nothing had happened
that moved her more deeply.
For some time
Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt, of whose splendid work for the Cause I
shall later have more to say, had cherished the plan of forming
an International Suffrage Alliance. She believed the time had
come when the suffragists of the entire world could meet to
their common benefit; and Miss Anthony, always Mrs. Catt's
devoted friend and admirer, agreed with her. A committee was
appointed to meet in Berlin in 1904, just before the meeting of
the International Council of Women, and Miss Anthony was
appointed chairman of the committee. At first the plan of the
committee was not welcomed by the International Council; there
was even a suspicion that its purpose was to start a rival
organization. But it met, a constitution was framed, and
officers were elected, Mrs. Catt--the ideal choice for the
place--being made president. As a climax to the organization, a
great public mass-meeting had been arranged by the German
suffragists, but at the special plea of the president of the
International Council Miss Anthony remained away from this
meeting. It was represented to her that the interests of the
Council might suffer if she and other of its leading speakers
were also leaders in the suffrage movement. In the interest of
harmony, there fore, she followed the wishes of the Council's
president--to my great unhappiness and to that of other
suffragists.
When the meeting
was opened the first words of the presiding officer were, "Where
is Susan B. Anthony?'' and the demonstration that followed the
question was the most unexpected and overwhelming incident of
the gathering. The entire audience rose, men jumped on their
chairs, and the cheering continued without a break for ten
minutes. Every second of that time I seemed to see Miss Anthony,
alone in her hotel room, longing with all her big heart to be
with us, as we longed to have her.
I prayed that the
loss of a tribute which would have meant so much might be made
up to her, and it was. Afterward, when we burst in upon her and
told her of the great demonstration the mere mention of her name
had caused, her lips quivered and her brave old eyes filled with
tears. As we looked at her I think we all realized anew that
what the world called stoicism in Susan B. Anthony throughout
the years of her long struggle had been, instead, the splendid
courage of an indomitable soul--while all the time the woman's
heart had longed for affection and recognition. The next morning
the leading Berlin newspaper, in reporting the debate and
describing the spontaneous tribute to Miss Anthony, closed with
these sentences:
"The Americans
call her `Aunt Susan.' She is our `Aunt Susan,' too!''
Throughout the
remainder of Miss Anthony's visit she was the most honored
figure at the International Council. Every time she entered the
great convention-hall the entire audience rose and remained
standing until she was seated; each mention of her name was
punctuated by cheers; and the enthusiasm when she appeared on
the platform to say a few words was beyond bounds. When the
Empress of Germany gave her reception to the officers of the
Council, she crowned the hospitality of her people in a
characteristically gracious way. As soon as Miss Anthony was
presented to her the Empress invited her to be seated, and to
remain seated, although every one else, including the august
lady herself, was standing.
A little later,
seeing the intrepid warrior of eighty-four on her feet with the
other delegates, the Empress sent one of her aides across the
room with this message: "Please tell my friend Miss Anthony that
I especially wish her to be seated. We must not let her grow
weary.''
In her turn, Miss
Anthony was fascinated by the Empress. She could not keep her
eyes off that charming royal lady. Probably the thing that most
impressed her was the ability of her Majesty as a linguist.
Receiving women from every civilized country on the globe, the
Empress seemed to address each in her own tongue-slipping from
one language into the next as easily as from one topic to
another.
"And here I am,''
mourned "Aunt Susan,'' "speaking only one language, and that not
very well.''
At this Berlin
quinquennial, by the way, I preached the Council sermon, and the
occasion gained a certain interest from the fact that I was the
first ordained woman to preach in a church in Germany. It then
took on a tinge of humor from the additional fact that,
according to the German law, as suddenly revealed to us by the
police, no clergyman was permitted to preach unless clothed in
clerical robes in the pulpit. It happened that I had not taken
my clerical robes with me--I am constantly forgetting those
clerical robes!--so the pastor of the church kindly offered me
his robes. Now the pastor was six feet tall and broad in
proportion, and I, as I have already confessed, am very short.
His robes transformed me into such an absurd caricature of a
preacher that it was quite impossible for me to wear them. What,
then, were we to do? Lacking clerical robes, the police would
not allow me to utter six words. It was finally decided that the
clergyman should meet the letter of the law by entering the
pulpit in his robes and standing by my side while I delivered my
sermon. The law soberly accepted this solution of the problem,
and we offered the congregation the extraordinary tableau of a
pulpit combining a large and impressive pastor standing silently
beside a small and inwardly convulsed woman who had all she
could do to deliver her sermon with the solemnity the occasion
required.
At this same
conference I made one of the few friendships I enjoy with a
member of a European royal family, for I met the Princess Blank
of Italy, who overwhelmed me with attention during my visit, and
from whom I still receive charming letters. She invited me to
visit her in her castle in Italy, and to accompany her to her
mother's castle in Austria, and she finally insisted on knowing
exactly why I persistently refused both invitations.
"Because, my dear
Princess,'' I explained, "I am a working-woman.''
"Nobody need KNOW
that,'' murmured the Princess, calmly.
"On the
contrary,'' I assured her, "it is the first thing I should
explain.''
"But why?'' the
Princess wanted to know.
I studied her in
silence for a moment. She was a new and interesting type to me,
and I was glad to exchange viewpoints with her. "You are proud
of your family, are you not?'' I asked. "You are proud of your
great line?''
The Princess drew
herself up. "Assuredly,'' she said.
"Very well,'' I
continued. "I am proud, too. What I have done I have done
unaided, and, to be frank with you, I rather approve of it. My
work is my patent of nobility, and I am not willing to associate
with those from whom it would have to be concealed or with those
who would look down upon it.''
The Princess
sighed. I was a new type to her, too, as new as she was to me;
but I had the advantage of her, for I could understand her point
of view, whereas she apparently could not follow mine. She was
very gracious to me, however, showing me kindness and friendship
in a dozen ways, giving me an immense amount of her time and
taking rather more of my time than I could spare, but never
forgetting for a moment that her blood was among the oldest in
Europe, and that all her traditions were in keeping with its
honorable age.
After the Berlin
meeting Miss Anthony and I were invited to spend a week-end at
the home of Mrs. Jacob Bright, that "Aunt Susan'' might renew
her acquaintance with Annie Besant. This visit is among my most
vivid memories. Originally "Aunt Susan'' had greatly admired
Mrs. Besant, and had openly lamented the latter's concentration
on theosophical interests--when, as Miss Anthony put it, "there
are so many live problems here in this world.'' Now she could
not conceal her disapproval of the "other-worldliness'' of Mrs.
Besant, Mrs. Bright, and her daughter. Some remarkable and, to
me, most amusing discussions took place among the three; but
often, during Mrs. Besant's most sustained oratorical flights,
Miss Anthony's interest would wander, and she would drop a
remark that showed she had not heard a word. She had a great
admiration for Mrs. Besant's intellect; but she disapproved of
her flowing and picturesque white robes, of her bare feet, of
her incessant cigarette-smoking; above all, of her views. At
last, one day.{sic} the climax of the discussions came.
"Annie,''
demanded "Aunt Susan,'' "why don't you make that aura of yours
do its gallivanting in this world, looking up the needs of the
oppressed, and investigating the causes of present wrongs? Then
you could reveal to us workers just what we should do to put
things right, and we could be about it.''
Mrs. Besant
sighed and said that life was short and aeons were long, and
that while every one would be perfected some time, it was
useless to deal with individuals here.
"But, Annie!''
exclaimed Miss Anthony, pathetically. "We ARE here! Our business
is here! It's our duty to do what we can here.''
Mrs. Besant
seemed not to hear her. She was in a trance, gazing into the
aeons.
"I'd rather have
one year of your ability, backed up with common sense, for the
work of making this world better,'' cried the exasperated "Aunt
Susan,'' "than a million aeons in the hereafter!''
Mrs. Besant
sighed again. It was plain that she could not bring herself back
from the other world, so Miss Anthony, perforce, accompanied her
to it. "When your aura goes visiting in the other world,'' she
asked, curiously, "does it ever meet your old friend Charles
Bradlaugh?''
"Oh yes,''
declared Mrs. Besant. "Frequently.''
"Wasn't he very
much surprised,'' demanded Miss Anthony, with growing interest,
"to discover that he
was not dead?''
Mrs. Besant did
not seem to know what emotion Mr. Bradlaugh had experienced when
that revelation came.
"Well,'' mused
"Aunt Susan,'' "I should think he would have been surprised. He
was so certain he was going to be dead that it must have been
astounding to discover he wasn't. What was he doing in the other
world?''
Mrs. Besant
heaved a deeper sigh. "I am very much discouraged over Mr.
Bradlaugh,'' she admitted, wanly. " He is hovering too near this
world. He cannot seem to get away from his mundane interests. He
is as much concerned with parliamentary affairs now as when he
was on this plane.''
"Humph!'' said
Miss Anthony; "that's the most sensible thing I've heard yet
about the other world. It encourages me. I've always felt sure
that if I entered the other life before women were enfranchised
nothing in the glories of heaven would interest me so much as
the work for women's freedom on earth. Now,'' she ended, "I
shall be like Mr. Bradlaugh. I shall hover round and continue my
work here.''
When Mrs. Besant
had left the room Mrs. Bright felt that it was her duty to
admonish "Aunt Susan'' to be more careful in what she said.
"You are making
too light of her creed,'' she expostulated. "You do not realize
the important position Mrs. Besant holds. Why, in India, when
she walks from her home to her school all those she meets
prostrate themselves. Even the learned men prostrate themselves
and put their faces on the ground as she goes by.''
"Aunt Susan's''
voice, when she replied, took on the tones of one who is sorely
tried. "But why in Heaven's name does any sensible Englishwoman
want a lot of heathen to prostrate themselves as she goes up the
street?'' she demanded, wearily. "It's the most foolish thing I
ever heard.''
The effort to win
Miss Anthony over to the theosophical doctrine was abandoned.
That night, after we had gone to our rooms, "Aunt Susan'' summed
up her conclusions on the interview:
"It's a good
thing for the world,'' she declared, "that some of us don't know
so much. And it's a better thing for this world that some of us
think a little earthly common sense is more valuable than too
much heavenly knowledge.'' |
