Ever Victoria!

Part 26

Henry Beecher sighs with relief. But not for long, as Tilton answers the committee’s finding with a lawsuit against Beecher. The trial takes place in a Brooklyn courtroom and fills six months in early 1875. Gawkers pour in from greater New York, reporters from all around the country. “Nothing since the outbreak of the Civil War has excited such intense interest all over the United States,” Charles Dana of the Sun remarks. “All the papers, from Brooklyn to the smallest hamlet in Oregon, are talking about it, and the whole American people are anxious to know the truth.” Samuel Clemens employs his celebrity status to get a good seat; some in the audience remark a physical resemblance between the author and Frank Moulton, who serves as a key witness for the plaintiff.

Tilton’s attorneys charge Beecher with adultery, defamation of Tilton’s character and theft of his livelihood; Beecher’s lawyers counter with allegations of slander, blackmail and delusion. Public opinion leans one way and then the other as the witnesses come and go. Tilton spends two weeks on the stand, telling his sorry tale, convincing many in the court of its truth, but inspiring little personal sympathy. Beecher wins the hearts of many with an emotional performance, even as his evasions leave serious questions as to his truthfulness. Auxiliary witnesses afford occasional comic relief. Frank Moulton is asked: “Didn’t you say that Mr. Beecher was a damned perjurer and libertine?” He responds: “I don’t know whether I said he was a damned perjurer and libertine. I may have said he was a perjurer and libertine, as he is.” 

Victoria’s presence hovers over the courtroom from the beginning. She, of course, is the person who set the whole scandal in motion. Her name is mentioned frequently as Tilton, Moulton and others are asked what they told her and when. But neither side wants to call her as witness. Beecher’s lawyers won’t give her the chance to repeat what she has said so damagingly in print; Tilton’s team fears that she will spout something about free love and ruin the plaintiff’s chance for sympathy from the jury. 

But she appears nonetheless. Beecher’s lawyers demand that she turn over certain letters Tilton has written to her; they hope the letters will reveal Tilton’s adultery with her and thereby undermine his character. Yet they want the letters only; they insist that she not be allowed to speak. 

She consents to provide the letters, but only if she can deliver them in person. The Beecher side reluctantly accedes, though still insisting that she not testify. On arrival at the courthouse she attracts the attention of all present. She is attired in her typical fashion: understated but stylish. She wears a black suit and black straw hat and carries a black leather bag. A veil covers her face, but everyone knows who she is, and the courtroom comes alive with anticipation as she enters. 

When she is called to present her letters from Tilton, she comes forward and addresses the judge. “I have a very few unimportant letters, Judge, in my possession,” she says. “I feel that in bringing me into this suit at this stage of the proceedings, an explanation is due me.” Beecher’s lawyers object; Tilton’s lawyers frown. But the judge lets her proceed. “They are letters which are entirely creditable to myself as well as to the gentleman who wrote them. I have no disposition to keep them from a court of justice. Perhaps you are aware, or perhaps you do not remember, that I have been imprisoned several times for the publication of this scandal. During that time my office was ransacked and all my private letters and papers were taken away from me. Therefore I have reason to believe that some of my private letters are in the hands of the defense as well as of the prosecution—they may not be; that is simply my private opinion. The very few unimportant letters left in my possession of course cannot result in their disadvantage to myself, and I don’t wish to have any thought of that nature.” 

At this point she opens her bag and produces a sheaf of letters. “I am perfectly willing to give them with this explanation,” she says, handing them to the judge. 

The letters turn out to be as innocuous as Victoria has described them. In the letters Tilton addresses her affectionately but without conspicuous passion. There is no telling from these letters whether they were merely friends or something more. She isn’t asked to elaborate, and she does not. 

Tilton’s attorneys are relieved; Beecher’s are annoyed. The courtroom audience, having hoped for the kind of fireworks Victoria has often produced, watches with disappointment as she departs. 

The trial grinds on. The concluding arguments alone take three weeks. Finally the judge charges the jury, which spends eight days debating, voting, debating again, revoting and ultimately despairing of reaching a verdict. The judge concurs that more time should not be devoted to a mere civil trial, and he sends them home. 

The equivocal outcome suits Henry Beecher, who can continue to assert his innocence uncontradicted by board or jury. It suits the elders and most members of Plymouth Church, who greet their pastor as a conquering hero. The elders vote $100,000 to defray the costs of Beecher’s legal defense, and the church pays to publish and disseminate the arguments of his lawyers in his defense. Tilton can’t afford to publish his side of the story, which gradually goes quiet.