American Follies. Norman Lock
sense of martyrdom. The infant would be nourished, loved, and endued with sympathy for the disadvantaged, whose lot I did not wish to share as I waited for Franklin to send for me.
I began to sob. They leaned forward, not with the pity that conceals self-righteousness or spitefulness, but with genuine compassion.
Elizabeth sat beside me on the sofa and, putting her arm around my shoulder, intoned, “There, there,” as if those two words had the power to resolve the disharmonies of the world. I let my head rest against her bosom and sneezed when particles of her violet sachet entered my nostrils.
“Tell us what’s troubling you, child,” encouraged Susan from across the room.
“I have no husband!” I cried, but the words were muffled by a snowy expanse of muslin.
“What’s that you said, Ellen?” asked Susan, whose withered breasts had never felt the greedy mouths of infants or of men.
I turned my head toward her. “I’m not married!”
“Ah, I thought as much!” she gasped.
“Wonderful!” The word had escaped Elizabeth’s lips before she could purse them.
“Please don’t send me to the Home for Magdalens!”
“We would sooner send you to the Tombs!” vowed Susan.
“Or to the river, along with a stone to tie around your waist!” cried Elizabeth, the more theatrical of the two.
“You’re a skillful Sholes and Glidden operator, not a laundress,” said Susan, alluding to the fate of unwed Magdalens who did not throw themselves into the river.
“I have no idea how I’ll manage,” I said ruefully. Oh, I was shameless!
“You will manage perfectly well with us!” replied Elizabeth, and in her resoluteness, I glimpsed the young firebrand who had omitted the words and obey from her marriage vow and affirmed our sex’s equality in the Declaration of Sentiments proclaimed at the Seneca Falls convention: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men and women are created equal …”
“When your time comes, you won’t find us wanting in either compassion or skill,” she said, or maybe it was Susan who did. I’d begun to weep in earnest, picturing myself left to face poverty and shame on my own. On the other side of the continent, Franklin seemed a figment of a dream.
“Elizabeth brought seven children into the world and can be trusted to know what to do!” said Susan as confidently as if she herself had suffered a woman’s agony and, according to men, her purpose.
“An excellent midwife in sympathy with our movement lives nearby,” said Elizabeth, who at that moment resembled a flour-faced mammy. “Her swine of a husband beats her when he has ‘a brick in his hat,’ as she calls his sprees. By now, he ought to have enough bricks to build a house of ill repute.”
“‘A man can’t close his eyes to pray without falling into a rum-hole!’” declared Susan, quoting from The Lily. “I’m waiting for someone to take a hatchet to the taprooms, bucket shops, spirit vaults, and doggeries that turn men’s fuggled brains to mash!”
“You beat that horse to death!” complained Elizabeth.
“Better that I should beat the horse than a drunkard his wife!”
“Ellen, we are happy that you’re unmarried and with child,” said Elizabeth pleasantly. “We can point to you as an example of the necessity for statutory protection of unwed mothers. Their welfare and that of their children cannot be left to the whim of churches and the discretion of private charities. Bastardy—odious word!—must be expunged from the law books, from the minds of those who set themselves up to judge women, and from the hearts of mankind.”
“Which are seldom kind,” said Susan. “That New York’s married women have a legal right to their wages and to their children is due, in part, to our campaigning.” As if having read my thoughts, she went on to say, “I could not give up my life to become a man’s serving woman. When I was young, if a girl made a poor marriage, she became a housekeeper and drudge; if she made a rich one, a pet and a doll.”
I couldn’t imagine her as a young woman, much less a man’s pet or doll. Her figure was gaunt like an old stick, her face drawn over bone and framed by two taut drapes of gray hair that appeared to have been screwed into place for eternity by her bun. Yet in her girlhood, she was accounted pretty and had been courted. But no man could inspire in her the passion she felt for her mind’s pursuits, which must be kept unencumbered. She refused to be anybody’s property. She agreed with Elizabeth, whom I once heard say, “To be wedded to an idea may be, after all, the holiest and happiest of marriages.”
“Wait and see, Ellen; all will be well,” promised a broadly smiling Elizabeth.
“You will be happy here with us—”
“And a great help to our cause!”
I thought then that I would be helpful and happy.
Sholes & Glidden
THE REMINGTON MODEL NUMBER 2 was the latest thing in typewriters, but I preferred my old Sholes & Glidden machine, whose operation I had learned at the Young Women’s Christian Association on Lexington Avenue.
“Does it bother you that my machine can make only capital letters?” I asked the ladies at the conclusion of the first day’s dictation and transcription. The Remington keyboard had both the upper- and lowercase alphabets in its chassis.
“Not at all!” replied Elizabeth. “It will remind Susan to speak emphatically.”
I guessed that she needed no reminder.
“Elizabeth forges the thunderbolts, and I fire them!” she said.
“Women should be grateful to Mr. Sholes for having chosen his daughter instead of a man to demonstrate his machine,” said Elizabeth. “As a result, the typewriter is considered a woman’s tool, and for the first time in the history of our sex, women work as clerk copyists in offices where previously only men had been employed.”
“A man would never choose to operate a machine so prettily decorated,” observed Susan, tapping, with a gnarled finger, a wreath of painted gillyflowers emblazoned on mine.
“Naturally, Mr. Sholes was not motivated by altruism or sympathy for our cause,” said Elizabeth, who gave every appearance of being omniscient. “He saw women as an opportunity to sell his machine to a boodle of new customers. But we would compact with the Devil in aid of woman’s rights.”
“Speak for yourself, Lizzie!” growled Susan, who wore no stays except those fashioned of an elastic piety. “I will not give the Devil his due, though he gives women charge over the whole world in exchange.”
“I would trade my immortal soul for the vote!” replied Elizabeth theatrically.
“Will you never outgrow the need to be thought of as naughty? Heaven knows why you should find preening in blasphemy and provocation so much fun!”
“Oh, fudge! Heaven only knows how I’ve stood you all these years!”
“Primp!”
“Prude!”
“Poseur!”
“Prig!”
“Humbug!”
“Stickleback!”
“Egotist!” shouted Susan. “Must you always be the biggest toad in the puddle?”
I crossed my arms on top of the machine and, with a pitiable moan, rested my head on them.
“Ellen, what’s the matter?” they asked, competing for my recognition of their sympathies.
“I feel faint.”
“Is