The following Monday found me sitting at my desk, perusing the latest batch of letters addressed to “Nellie Bly.” There were fewer of late, and they were much more approving. Women with fine handwriting praised me, and men said they much preferred my new choice of topics.
It was utterly damning. Bessie Bramble was right. I was making people comfortable. As far as society was concerned, I had found my proper “sphere.”
I marched right into Madden's office. “I'm done with flowers. I want to write about the Economites.”
“Who? Those nuts who live in Warren County?”
“Is it nutty to live frugally?” A piece about thrifty living might lead back to talking about working women, who were so often forced to pinch their pennies.
“It's nutty to bury seventy-five thousand dollars in silver coins for fifty years.” The hoard of rare coins had been put up for auction earlier in the year, bringing the Harmony Society, as they called themselves, into the news, where I'd first heard of them. “But go ahead.”
It was not a long journey to Economy, Pennsylvania, but as it was an overnight trip, Mother accompanied me. Upon our arrival, I met members of the Harmony Society, who seemed perfectly nice, even if their ways were strange. They held all things in common. Any money they earned went into a general fund. There was only a single store, where things were taken by necessity, at no cost. And every member of the community was required to remain celibate. Even married couples were forced to live separately.
“I don't see them lasting very long,” quipped Mother, a remark that had us both laughing behind our hands.
During the train ride home, Mother asked what I desired for my birthday. “You will be twenty-one. And we are in funds, thanks to this new career of yours. You deserve to treat yourself. What would you like? A new hat? Shoes?”
I knew exactly what I wanted. “A lawsuit.”
Mother started, then closed her eyes. I bit my lip for a moment, wondering if I was in the wrong. But no. I was not insulting her. I was seeking justice.
When my father had died, I'd been left an inheritance, but the money had run out just six months into my education. For seven long years I had been itching to sue my former guardian, Colonel Samuel Jackson, for frittering away my money. He had been too generous to the children of my father's first marriage—all adults—and had neglected to preserve any of the money due to me, Kate, and Harry.
Whenever I brought it up, Mother would refuse to file suit against him on her children's behalf. “I have had my fill of the courts,” she would say.
The moment I turned twenty-one, I would have standing to file the papers against the Colonel myself. And I intended to do just that.
But that didn't mean I needed to involve Mother—at least, not until a date for the hearing was set. Seeing her injured spirit, I sighed. “What about a new traveling bag?”
♦ ◊ ♦
The Economites article wasn't a sensation, but I'd thought it would be enough to lead to another piece about either money or chastity. That wasn't the case.
“You're going to interview an opera producer,” Madden told me.
“An opera producer,” I repeated dully.
“E.H. Ober of the Boston Ideal Opera Company. You'll like her. She's a businesswoman. She's made a fortune on the stage, and now she's retiring.”
“That should go to Bessie. She handles the arts.”
Madden loosed a wry chuckle. “Miss Ober would never let Bessie through the door. Five years of scathing reviews, with some spiteful personal remarks thrown in for good measure.” He felt my skeptical gaze on him and opened his hands. “What, you only want to write about destitute women in business?”
He had me there. Recalling Bessie's advice to take the assignments Madden gave me and make them my own, the piece I turned in was a paean to women who dared to work:
It is shameful to state, yet the fact remains, that in this enlightened age there are many who think all labor, except housework, belittles a woman, and who look with holy horror on one who has courage enough to elevate the regular routine laid down for the fairer sex and enter the manlier domain. Plenty of women will eke out a miserable existence at some so-called “light work,” while the world is full of good, comfortable places that require only energy and pluck to assume. Some few women can be named who have bravely struck out according to their own pleasure, and have succeeded. Honor to them. If there were more the world would be better.
Madden was right: I did like Miss Ober. I especially enjoyed some of the quotes she gave me. When talking about her pioneering work as a female opera producer, I asked her, “Were you not afraid of failing?”
“Afraid of failing?” she repeated with a smile. “No, I was not afraid. I knew people who had started out before and failed; and also knew many had started out and succeeded. So I had just the same chance as any man.”
“What is your opinion on women entering public life?”
“I think if they are fitted for it, all right. Women are just like men—some may be fitted for a position that another could not fill; but I say, what they can do, let them. If they have energy and pluck to start out and take care of themselves, they should be praised for doing so.”
“What treatment do you receive in dealing with the men with whom you are thrown in contact?”
“The best, the very best from managers, landlords and all. I cannot complain of one thing. My sister always travels with me as an assistant.”
I received complimentary tickets to that evening's performance and took Mother, who was beginning to enjoy being privy to my excursions. I wondered if it reminded her of when she had been married to the most important man in Apollo.
Next, Madden asked me to interview a chorus girl, and then a young piano prodigy. Gritting my teeth, I did as he asked.
I was nervous about meeting the chorus girl, but the moment I did I was ashamed of myself. “Mention a chorus girl,” I later wrote, “and one thinks of a big, loud-voiced, flashily dressed, ill-bred woman who would rather be dressed in pink tights than petticoats—a woman devoid of all principle.” My intimation was clear: a woman willing to fall for any man on any night.
However, I was met by a girl my own age, clad in a light blue housedress with a plain white linen collar. Her golden hair was dressed in two simple braids.
The moment we were seated, I blurted out, “Do men ever make love to you?”
Her eyes went wide. “You're a girl. How can you ask such a question? Of course they do! Members of the company are forever making love to one another. Showmances, we call them. Then in every new town the girls are hounded by mashers who wait at the door to take us out to supper. Some of the girls ask the fellows for presents, and they always get them—jewelry, flowers, and candy, those always lead in the gift line. And the love letters! If you saw them you would be mortified. Men get mashed at first sight, and compose long letters declaring their undying love and such rubbish. We girls get lots of proposals.”
While I enjoyed her honesty, I was angered at her circumstance. She had a profession she was good at, one that took skill and training and physical perfection. Yet was forced to endure endless unwelcome attention. Many would have said it was attention she was after—she was a performer, after all. But should she dance in private and starve, instead?
My second artistic interview that day was with a Miss Clara Oehmler, who could play the piano perfectly without being able to read a note of music—which, truth be told, made me quite envious. But she was unassuming about her skill, and when I wrote of her, I offered my best definition of a young woman: “innocent, unaffected, and frank.”
My next assignment was to investigate a new malady that was being called “hay fever.” I did so, and wrote vibrant passages about the lack of fresh and wholesome air in the city, as well as the unhealthy eating and overwork that drove both men and women to die “as the dog dieth.”
Thus began a war that would last all spring and summer. Madden would hand me an assignment fit for the Women's Pages, and I would dutifully turn it into a piece that reflected Nellie Bly's worldview.
I covered rude clerks, warning them, “In this age of wonders, one can entertain an angel unawares; they may be poor today, tomorrow they may strike oil or work out a patent. Then they will remember who treated them well.”
I covered the Schenley mansion, making much of its thirty rooms being continually uninhabited as the Schenleys preferred to live in England. In lieu of the absent well-to-dos, I interviewed their servants, and struck reporting gold when one of them turned out to have once been undermaid to Queen Victoria herself.
I turned every assignment into a stealthy attack on common wisdom, the wealthy, and those who looked down on women. And I felt a sneaky pride in doing so.
By this time, my weekly meetings with Wilson were less focused on my writing structure—not because it had improved, but because he had thrown up his hands in despair. Instead, our conversations were more often about the newspaper business itself. With twenty years of experience behind him, there were things unknown to me that he took for granted.
Now basking in summer weather, we were no longer confined to ice cream parlors or saloons. With its hills and the river flowing through it, Pittsburgh was a city made for walking—so long as one could endure the gusts of burning sulphur or the sudden cloud of soot. But even with the polluted air, sunshine occasionally crept in enough to provide a pleasant day. Wilson and I often strolled along the river, or else met near the Observatory for an amble across its grounds.
One day at the Observatory, I lamented my latest assignment. “Does Madden think that I, of all women, have advice about the styling of hair? Honestly, Wilson, look at me. Does it appear to you that I spend time thinking about my appearance? Me, the factory girl?”
It was shabby of me, fishing for compliments. Wilson did not swallow my hook, instead squinting as if in pain. “Miss Bly.”
His formality did not bode well. “Mr. Wilson?”
“I must tell you something. I feel it would be wrong not to. But you must promise not to pucker.”
I raised my gloved right hand. “I vow not to lose my temper.”
He eyed me with suspicion, then in he plunged. “About that factory series. At the end of March, Madden had visits. And letters.”
“From grateful women, I'm certain.”
“And not-so-grateful men,” observed Wilson. “In particular, men who own factories.”
My spine straightened. “I never said a word against the factories.”
“You didn't have to. Just by describing the lives of those girls in such detail, you made people see them with fresh eyes. And the drawings did the same thing. It's one thing to consider a handful of unseen fallen women toiling away with needles or glue. It's quite another to see those pretty faces juxtaposed against the drudgery of their lives. The factories could be the most airy, pleasant places on earth, and it would still not make up for the lives these women lead.”
“So you feel for them?” I asked.
Wilson nodded. “I do. I truly do.”
“So you've changed your mind about working women?”
“On the contrary,” said Wilson, his good cheer unperforated, “your fine work has only made me feel my point more strongly. Women should not be forced to work. As a man, I abhor the idea of any woman living as you describe.”
I shook my head. “Same old Wilson.”
For a moment we were both smiling: me at him, him at me and also at himself. He never smiled at me as other men did, all teeth and leering. His lips, pressed together beneath his moustache, were friendly and yet restrained. And handsome…
Suddenly blushing, I quickly returned to the point. “What about those visits?”
“Ah. Yes.” Wilson's smile vanished. “They wanted the factory girl stories to stop, and threatened to pull their advertisements. Imagine the shoe and cigar ads gone from the paper. And not just them. All the factory owners threatened to pull out. They were each afraid you would tackle them next.” I opened my mouth, and he held up a hand. “You promised!”
“I'm not—!” I took a breath, then with forced calm I said, “I am not puckering.”
“Good. And don't blame Madden. Remember, he is in the newspaper business, and that consists of doing just two things: informing the public and selling papers. Always aim for the first, never forget the second.”
It was excellent advice. And once I had left him and given into my rage by stomping around the city for a good two hours, I was able to consider it, and absorb it.
Inform, and sell. Nellie Bly would always do both.