Here's a bit about Montreal's Edith Wharton, a suffragist and militant suffragette sympathizer back in 1910-1919 Montreal, who also supported the very undemocratic Wartimes Election Act of 1917 that gave the vote only to women with men at the Front.
Frances Fenwick Williams, a Montreal-based novelist, figures large in my book Service and Disservice about the 1917 Conscription Crisis in Canada - and the iffy involvement of the Canadian suffragist movement.
It's the follow up to Furies Cross the Mersey, about the 1911/12 British Invasion of Suffragettes to Montreal, an invasion Ms. Fenwick Williams helped bring about, I suspect.
I've written about Ms. Williams a lot on this blog. She was clever and nervy - an outlier who was part of the social elite but who made fun of these people in her books.She was the daughter of a Montreal stock market official and from a distinguished Nova Scotia family.
Her second novel, A Soul on Fire, was published in 1915 when she sitting on the Executive of Board of Directors of the Montreal Suffrage Association, although she wasn't a social reformer like her co-members.
Frances Fenwick Williams, about 30 years old, was an 'equal rights' suffragist, not a 'maternal' suffragist.
She married in 1910 but was estranged from her American husband,a well-known city planner. The fact that Frances Fenwick Williams was entered in as a male, Frances, in the 1881 census might explain her short-lived marriage.
But, being married gave FFW the right to be a member of the MSA. Young single women were not invited into the Montreal suffrage movement. They were too 'excitable.'
FFW was a bit like the famed American author Edith Wharton, if you think about it, but she was not nearly as good a novelist. A critique of her 1915 novel, A Soul on Fire, claimed the characters didn't resemble any in real life.
Hmm. Ivy Compton Burnett was a Dame Commander of the British Empire, Post-War novelist and member of the Women's Writers Suffrage League. FFW went to London in 1912 to visit with the suffragettes. And, then, she joined the very 'sane' and 'reasonable' Montreal Suffrage Association, as a kind mole.
FFW liked to give speeches. She was an able debater at the February, 1912 Montreal Suffrage Exhibit. Her speech is in my book Furies Cross the Mersey.
During the 1917 Conscription Crisis, she was there when Borden needed her, giving a speech in Montreal on the first day of December, a day after riots in Sherbrooke, among other Quebec towns.
Borden deliberately pitted English Quebeckers against French Quebeckers during that year's election.
"I am a suffragist, a socialist and half a soldier," she told the 100 ladies assembled at the 1917 rally. She also said she had no political affiliation but was for the Union government because it was the closest thing you can get to a non-partisan government.
She said anyone against the Union Government and Conscription was a "Traitor to the Dead."
(Grace Ritchie England, Montreal born President of the Montreal Council of Women, stumped for Sir Wilfrid Laurier and suffered an impeachment hearing in 1918 for her troubles. Sir Wilfrid, as leader of the Opposition, said he'd give women the federal vote in 1916, probably forcing Premier Borden to do the same. He also cautioned that giving women the vote wasn't going to bring about all the good things people thought; nor was it going to bring about all the bad.)
At least FFW wasn't a hyprocrit like so many of the other suffragists during WWI.
In 1913, she wrote a piece in her column The Feminist, called Women and War stating: "It is generally believed that since women don't take part in military actions that they are opposed to war. It would be a similar thing to say that since men don't take part in Spring Cleaning, that they are opposed to it."
But she also wrote this 1917 war poem that seems to show two enemy soldiers dying together.
By FRANCES FENWICK WILLIAMS
No prayer can help, no agony atone,
As I came into life I go - alone!
Another man is lying by my side,
Another, caught in death's fast-brimming tide.
Mine was the hand that struck his life away,
And his the hand that laid me low today.
Yet now, as nearer draws the dreadful end,
He seems to me a brother and a friend.
What is he thinking as his life ebbs fast?
(How lonely each poor soul is at the last!)
If I could hear him speak before he dies I should not feel so desolate, but he lies,
Silent and spent.
His lips grow slowly white.
I hate to look upon the piteous sight!