She fixed the committee with a hard gaze, her message clear: “Such a man is fit only to disgrace any office or any trust committed to him.”
She stared across the room at the doctor. McFarland looked much the same as he had when they’d first met: perhaps a little more salt than pepper in his sideburns, perhaps a bald pate that was now a little larger in scale, but he was still the same handsome man who’d long led her on this not-so-merry dance, a dance she was still wearily performing.
But finally, she was done.
“I hate evil,” she announced. “I can no more love evil than I can hate good. In this sense, I now hate Dr. McFarland—that is, I hate his evil, unmanly, brutal acts, while at the same time I pity the poor sinner.
“God knows there is not in my heart one feeling of malice towards Dr. McFarland, even now; [but] I can no [longer] extend fellowship to him.”
She brought her defense, such as it was, to a close. It contained not a hint of regret. The truth was she did not regret writing the letter, even though “no act of my life has caused me so keen suffering as this has.”3 But her relationship with McFarland, broken as it was, had still left “a halo of light and joy in [its] rear”：4 the light of her writing life, because he’d been the one to open the door that led her to it. She could not separate one from the other, so she embraced the pain as well as the pleasure. The only thing she truly regretted was “that circumstances do exist that drive defenceless woman to use such means of self-defense.”5
As soon as she’d finished reading, the chairman of the committee marched up to her, almost before she could draw breath. It was as though Fuller had come to the hearing with his own plan that morning…and had not listened to a word she’d said.
“Do you now, with your present views, regard the offer of marriage with Dr. McFarland, contained in the letter, justifiable?”6 he pressed her.
She replied honestly: “Under the circumstances, I do.” At Fuller’s horrified look—he had clearly expected her to say she didn’t—she continued, “For the reasons set forth in the written explanation, with others.”
“Did you,” he tried again, “at the time of writing the letter, know that Dr. McFarland was a married man?”
“Of course I did,” she responded.
Fuller looked exasperated. He was trying to help her, in his view, but Elizabeth was under oath and would not lie. “Do you consider the letter,” he tried for a third time, “or intend the letter, an offer of marriage to Dr. McFarland?”
“I did,” she confirmed, “with those qualifications or conditions named in the letter.”
His questions were like a “rack of torture.”7 As the stenographer noted her answers, Elizabeth felt increasing dismay, knowing that all of this would eventually be publicly reported. She knew these answers would make things look worse for her, but as always, she would not lie even to save herself.
After she’d stepped down from the stand, she privately confronted Fuller.
“How could you…ask me such questions?”8 she demanded. Hadn’t he known they would make things worse? It had been obvious from her letter that she’d known McFarland was married, and the defense she’d read that morning had set out all her feelings, for which she’d expressed absolutely no regret. She’d given only explanation.
The general hissed back at her. “I intended to make you back down!” he replied. “That was my object!”
“‘Back down!’” she echoed. “General! Do you gain your victories on the battle-field by ‘backing down!’ or, do you face the enemy with the boldness and assurance which the truth and justice of your cause inspire? I never ‘back down’ on the truth, Mr. Fuller, and if you count on that kind of a conquest, I can insure you defeat, so far as one of your witnesses is concerned!”
“Well, I—！” the general stuttered, stunned. He had expected her to respond differently to his questions in order to save her virtue. He looked her up and down. “You have more boldness than any four women that I ever before saw, combined!”
Elizabeth pulled herself up to her full height. “I claim, Mr. Fuller,” she retorted, “that I need a quadruple share of courage to cope with such men as I have had to deal with.”
For better or worse, Elizabeth’s testimony to the committee was complete. Whether they’d accepted her defense, she did not know. Whether they thought her mad or bad or something else entirely, she had no idea. As to what the public might make of the matter, she at least did not have to find that out until the final report was made public—whenever that might be.