VIII HAIL AND FAREWELL

TO INEZ MILHOLLAND BOISSEVAIN
“For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime;
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.”
—Milton.
Inez, vibrant, courageous, symbolic,
How can death claim you?
Many he leads down the long halls of silence
Burdened with years,
Those who have known sorrow
And are weary with forgetting,
The young who have tasted only gladness
And who go with wistful eyes,
Never to see the sharp breaking of illusion.
For these—
We who remain and are lonely
Find consolation, saying
“They have won the white vistas of quietness.”
But for you—
The words of my grief will not form
In a pattern of resignation.
The syllables of rebellion
Are quivering upon my lips!
You belonged to life—
To the struggling actuality of earth;
You were our Hortensia and flung
Her challenge to the world—
Our world still strangely Roman—
“Does justice scorn a woman?”
Oh! Between her words and yours the centuries seem
Like little pauses in an ancient song,
For in the hour of war’s discordant triumph
You both demanded “Peace”!
184And I, remembering how the faces of many women
Turned toward you with passionate expectation,
How can I find consolation?
Inez, vibrant, courageous, symbolic,
Can death still claim you?
When in the whitening winter of our grief
Your smile with all the radiance of spring,
When from the long halls of silence
The memory of your voice comes joyously back
To the ears of our desolation—
Your voice that held a challenge and a caress.
You have gone—
Yet you are ours eternally!
Your gallant youth,
Your glorious self-sacrifice—all ours!
Inez, vibrant, courageous, symbolic,
Death cannot claim you!
Ruth Fitch.
The Suffragist, December 30, 1916.

The most poignant event—and perhaps the most beautiful in all the history of the Congressional union—took place on Christmas Day of this year, the memorial service in memory of Inez Milholland.

Inez Milholland was one of the human sacrifices offered on the altar of woman’s liberty. She died that other women might be free.

In the recent campaign, she had spoken in Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, Montana, Utah, Nevada, and California. In her memorial address, Maud Younger said:

The trip was fraught with hardship. Speaking day and night, she would take a train at two in the morning, to arrive at eight; and then a train at midnight, to arrive at five in the morning. She would come away from audiences and droop as a flower. The hours between were hours of exhaustion and suffering. She would ride in the trains gazing from the windows, listless, almost lifeless, until one spoke; then again the sweet smile, the sudden interest, the quick sympathy. The courage of her was marvelous.

Inez Milholland.
In the Washington Parade, March 3, 1913.

Photo Copr. Harris and Ewing.

185At a great mass-meeting at Los Angeles, in October, she was saying—in answer to the President’s words, “The tide is rising to meet the moon; you will not have long to wait,”—“How long must women wait for liberty?” On the word liberty, she fell fainting to the floor. Within a month, she was dead.

That Christmas Day, Statuary Hall in the Capitol of the United States was transformed. The air was full of the smells of the forest. Greens made a background—partially concealing the semi-circle of statues—at the rear; laurel and cedar banked the dais in front; somber velvet curtains fell about its sides. Every one of the chairs which filled the big central space supported a flag of purple, white, and gold. Between the pillars of the balcony hung a continuous frieze; pennants of purple, white, and gold—the tri-color of these feminist crusaders.

The audience assembled in the solemn quiet proper to such an occasion, noiselessly took their seats in the semi-circle below and the gallery above. The organ played Ave Maria. Then again, a solemn silence fell.

Suddenly the stillness was invaded by a sound—music, very faint and far-away. It grew louder and louder. It was the sound of singing. It came nearer and nearer. It was the voices of boys. Presently the beginning of a long line of boy choristers, who had wound through the marble hallway, appeared in the doorway. They marched into the hall chanting:
“Forward, out of error,
Leave behind the night,
Forward through the darkness,
Forward into light.”

Behind came Mary Morgan in white, carrying a golden banner with the above words inscribed on it. This was a duplicate of the banner that Inez Milholland bore in the first Suffrage parade in New York. Behind the golden banner came a great procession of young women wearing 186straight surplices; the first division in purple, the next in white, the last in gold, carrying high standards which bore the tri-color. Before each division came another young girl in white, carrying a golden banner—lettered.

One banner said:
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS THAT HELAY DOWN HIS LIFE FOR A FRIEND

Another banner said:
WITHOUT EXTINCTION IS LIBERTY, WITHOUT RETROGRADE IS EQUALITY

The last banner said:
AS HE DIED TO MAKE MEN HOLY LET US DIE TO MAKE MEN FREE

These white-clad girls stood in groups on both sides of the laurel-covered dais against the shadowy background of the curtains. The standard-bearers in the purple, the white, the gold, formed a semi-circle of brilliant color which lined the hall and merged with the purple, white, and gold frieze above them. They stood during the service, their tri-colored banners at rest.

There followed music. The choristers sang: Forward Be Our Watchword. The Mendelssohn Quartet sang: Love Divine and Thou Whose Almighty Word. Elizabeth Howry sang first All Through the Night and, immediately after, Henchel’s ringing triumphant Morning Song. It is an acoustic effect of Statuary Hall that the music seems to come from above. That effect added immeasurably to the solemnity of this occasion.

Tribute speeches followed, Anne Martin introducing the speakers. Mrs. William Kent read two resolutions: one prepared under the direction of Zona Gale, the other by Florence Brewer Boeckel. Maud Younger delivered a beautiful memorial address.

187“And so ever through the West, she went,” Miss Younger said in part, “through the West that drew her, the West that loved her, until she came to the end of the West. There where the sun goes down in glory in the vast Pacific, her life went out in glory in the shining cause of freedom.... They will tell of her in the West, tell of the vision of loveliness as she flashed through her last burning mission, flashed through to her death, a falling star in the western heavens.... With new devotion we go forth, inspired by her sacrifice to the end that this sacrifice be not in vain, but that dying she shall bring to pass that which living she could not achieve, full freedom for women, full democracy for the nation....”

At the end the quartet sang, Before the Heavens Were Spread Abroad. Then the procession re-formed, and marched out again as it had come, a slow-moving band of color which gradually disappeared; a river of music which gradually died to a thread, to a sigh ... to nothing.... As before the white-surpliced choristers headed the procession, chanting the recessional, For All the Saints. Their banners lowered, the girl standard-bearers—first those in floating gold, then those in drifting white, then those in heavy purple—followed. From the far-away reaches of the winding marble halls sounded the boyish voices. Faintly came:

O, may Thy Soldiers, faithful, true and bold, Fight as the Saints who nobly fought of old, And win with them the victor’s crown of gold. Alleluia!

And fainter still:

But, lo, there breaks a yet more glorious day, The Saints triumphant rise in bright array.

The voices lost themselves in the distance, merged with silence. The audience still sat moveless, spellbound by all this beauty and grief. Suddenly the Marseillaise burst from the organ like a call to the new battle. Instantly, it was echoed by the strings.

188On January 9, the President received a deputation of three hundred women. This deputation brought to him the resolutions passed at memorials held in commemoration of Inez Milholland from California to New York.

Sara Bard Field said in part:

Since that day (a year ago) when we came to you, Mr. President, one of our most beautiful and beloved comrades, Inez Milholland, has paid the price of her life for a cause. The untimely death of a young woman like this—a woman for whom the world has such bitter need—has focussed the attention of men and women of this nation on the fearful waste of women which this fight for the ballot is entailing. The same maternal instinct for the preservation of life—whether it be the physical life of a child, or the spiritual life of a cause—is sending women into this battle for liberty with an urge that gives them no rest night or day. Every advance of liberty has demanded its quota of human sacrifice, and, if I had time, I could show you that we have paid in a measure that is running over. In the light of Inez Milholland’s death, as we look over the long backward trail through which we have sought our political liberty, we are asking, how long, how long, must this struggle go on?

Mr. President, to the nation more than to women themselves is this waste of maternal force significant. In industry, such a waste of money and strength would not be permitted. The modern trend is all towards efficiency. Why is such waste permitted in the making of a nation?

Sometimes I think it must be very hard to be a President, in respect to his contacts with people, as well as in the grave business he must perform. The exclusiveness necessary to a great dignitary holds him away from the democracy of communion necessary to full understanding of what the people are really thinking and desiring. I feel that this deputation today fails in its mission if, because of the dignity of your office and the formality of such an occasion, we fail to bring to you the throb of woman’s desire for freedom and her eagerness to ally herself with all those activities to which you yourself have dedicated your life. When once the ballot is in her hand, those tasks which this nation has set itself to do are her tasks as well as man’s. We women who are here today are close to this desire of woman. We cannot believe that you are our enemy, or are indifferent to the fundamental righteousness of our demand.

We have come here to you in your powerful office as our helper. We have come in the name of justice, in the name of democracy, 189in the name of all women who have fought and died for this cause, and in a peculiar way, with our hearts bowed in sorrow, in the name of this gallant girl who died with the word “Liberty” on her lips. We have come asking you this day to speak some favorable word to us, that we may know that you will use your good and great office to end this wasteful struggle of women.

Joy Young at the Inez Milholland Memorial Service.

The President replied:

Ladies, I had not been apprised that you were coming here to make any representation that would issue an appeal to me. I had been told that you were coming to present memorial resolutions with regard to the very remarkable woman whom your cause has lost. I therefore am not prepared to say anything further than I have said on previous occasions of this sort.

I do not need to tell you where my own convictions and my own personal purpose lie, and I need not tell you by what circumscriptions I am bound as leader of a Party. As the leader of a Party, my commands come from that Party, and not from private personal convictions.

My personal action as a citizen, of course, comes from no source, but my own conviction, and there my position has been so frequently defined, and I hope so candidly defined, and it is so impossible for me until the orders of my Party are changed, to do anything other than I am doing as a Party leader that I think nothing more is necessary to be said.

I do want to say this: I do not see how anybody can fail to observe from the utterance of the last campaign that the Democratic Party is more inclined than the opposition Party to assist in this great cause, and it has been a matter of surprise to me, and a matter of very great regret, that so many of those who are heart and soul for this cause seem so greatly to misunderstand and misinterpret the attitudes of Parties. In this country, as in every other self-governing country, it is really through the instrumentality of Parties that things can be accomplished. They are not accomplished by the individual voice, but by concentrated action, and that action must come only so fast as you can concert it. I have done my best, and shall continue to do my best to concert it in the interest of a cause in which I personally believe.

In Maud Younger’s delightful Revelations of a Woman Lobbyist, in McCall’s Magazine, she thus describes that scene:

190The doors opened, and, surrounded by Secret Service men, President Wilson entered. He came quickly forward, smiling as he shook my hand. Contrary to the general impression, President Wilson has a very human, sympathetic personality. He is not the aloof, academic type one expects of a man who, avoiding people, gets much of his knowledge from books and reports. Though he appears to the general public as in a mist on a mountain top, like the gods of old, he is really a man of decided emotional reactions.

I answered his greeting briefly, giving him the resolutions I held, and presented Mrs. John Winters Brannan, who handed him the New York memorial without speaking at all. We were saving time for his declaration. Then came Sara—small, delicate Sara Bard Field, a woman of rare spirituality and humor—whom we had chosen to speak for us.

She began to talk very nobly and beautifully, while the President listened cordially. But suddenly a cold wave passed over him. Sara had quoted Mr. Hughes. At that name, the President’s manner chilled. The look in his eyes became so cold that, as Sara says, the words almost froze on her lips. She finished in an icy stillness, and after a moment the President spoke.

Instead of the assurances we had expected, we heard words to the effect that he could not dictate to his Party. We must first concert public opinion. It was his last gleam, for, looking about him and seeing amazement, disappointment, indignation, he grew still colder. With a last defiant glance at us all he abruptly left the room. Secret Service men, newspaper men, and secretaries followed him. Where the President of the United States had been was now a closed door.

Stunned, talking in low, indignant tones, we moved slowly out of the East Room and returned to our Headquarters. There we discussed the situation. We saw that the President would do nothing for some time, perhaps not until the eve of the Presidential election in 1920. He said we must concert public opinion. But how? For half a century women had been walking the hard way of the lobbyist. We had had speeches, meetings, parades, campaigns, organization. What new method could we devise?