The First Ladies

by Feather Schwartz Foster

  Abigail did not attend her husband’s inauguration as president. She was nursing Old Mrs. Adams Senior, who would die within weeks. Abigail at fifty-four was also suffering from one of her frequent agues. Her nonprospering children were now actively failing (with the exception of John Quincy), and she was pulled in many directions at once. But John needed her too, and she never failed him. He needed her counsel; he needed to talk things out with her. She was the perfect sounding board; he called her “his best and wisest advisor.” She was also needed to furnish and manage the president’s house in Philadelphia—an expense that rankled her. But she came often and stayed as long as possible, bringing wagon-loads of supplies, which, the thrifty woman insisted, were much cheaper in Braintree than in Philadelphia. The opulent $25,000 salary (twenty times more in today’s money) barely covered their expenses for the appropriate wining and dining of officialdom. Her letters and diaries are a litany of complaints about how expensive everything was.

  The older Abigail became, the more conservative she became. The ardent revolutionary was now the establishment, and she had the examples of European civility fresh in her mind. She ordered a coat of arms painted on her carriage, but John made her remove it, believing it was too excessive. She was not afraid to disagree with John either.

  During a troubled and unpopular term, when foreign policy seesawed either toward France or Britain, President Adams determined to take and hold a neutral position, which alienated him from every side. (Avoiding war would subsequently be considered one of his finest gifts to the country.) Abigail did not agree. She loathed the rabble-rousing French and much preferred the stolid English. She was also in favor of the Alien and Sedition Act, which was designed to prohibit and punish adverse comments about the administration. John did not like the act, but he was persuaded to hold his nose and sign it. (That canceled out his “neutral” gift to the country.)

  In their old age, cantankerous John mellowed and became downright lovable while Abigail seems to have soured. But never, never did they falter in their mutual devotion and esteem.

  Postscript: ABIGAIL ADAMS WAS THE FIRST FIRST LADY TO OCCUPY THE WHITE HOUSE, ALBEIT FOR ONLY A FEW WEEKS. AMIDST THE MUD, THE WORKMEN, THE DRAFTY ROOMS THAT NEEDED ALL NINE FIRE PLACES TO BE LIT CONSTANTLY, AND THE EAST ROOM FILLED WITH HER HANGING LAUNDRY, SHE MANAGED TO INJECT HER NEWFOUND DIPLOMACY AND WRY HUMOR, WRITING TO HER DAUGHTER (AFTER THE ABOVE LITANY OF COMPLAINTS), “BUT IF ANYBODY ASKS YOU, TELL THEM I SAID IT WAS LOVELY.”

  DOLLEY MADISON

  1768–1849

  FIRST LADY: 1809–17

  The Magnificent

  On the evening of March 4, 1809, there was a great ball in Washington City with over four hundred people in attendance. It was the grandest affair ever given in the country. James Madison had just taken the oath of office as president, and Mrs. Madison was hosting the very first inaugural ball, although she had no idea she would be starting an honored tradition. The French Minister sat on one side of the hostess, and the English Minister on the other. Normally they would not have even been in the same room. Their countries were at war. Only Dolley Madison could have inspired that maneuver.

  Quaker-bred Dolley Payne Todd Madison had had years of experience as diplomatic hostess par excellence. Widowed at twenty-five, she helped run her mother’s boardinghouse in Philadelphia, then the nation’s capital. In residence were several congressmen, one senator, and the secretary of state. Dolley, who presided at the head of the dinner table, imposed two rules: no controversial subjects (bad for the digestion), and everyone, even the most reticent, must be included in conversation (good for politics). No one objected to the rules, and the Payne boardinghouse became a popular social center. Everyone, particularly the Virginia congressman known as Great Little Madison, wanted to meet its lovely hostess.

  Their courtship was brief, and their marriage changed Dolley’s life. The strict Quaker elders expelled her for marrying out of the faith, but Dolley, who was known to remark that she did not believe she had the soul of a Quaker, did not seem to mind. Now she became the “new” Dolley and could participate in the worldly things she so loved: color, music, fun, laughter, jewelry, and dessert. Madison came from a well-to-do Virginia planter family and was delighted to indulge her. Their marriage would be a particularly happy one, starting with his gift of a generations-old necklace (the first she had ever owned) and money for a trousseau of gowns in anything other than Quaker gray.

  Dolley had a true talent for friendship. She sincerely liked people and enjoyed their company, and they liked her in return. She never pried or interfered, once claiming that her happiest blessing was a lack of curiosity about other peoples’ business. She never gossiped. She never flirted. And despite her pleasing good looks and an engaging personality, she managed to be on excellent and even intimate terms with both men and women. Every guest invariably received the full measure of her attention. Even her in-laws adored her.

  When Thomas Jefferson became president, he appointed James Madison as secretary of state. The tentative pretensions of a republican court under Washington and Adams dissolved into practically nothing under the widowed Jefferson’s eight years of the gentleman’s “small table.” It was the home of the secretary of state that became the hub of social Washington. Dolley opened their house to guests nearly every night, and once Madison became president, that hub would henceforth and forevermore be in the White House.

  As First Lady, forty-year-old Dolley was ready to initiate the Madison “large table.” It may not have been Madison’s personal choice, since he was a reticent man, but he adored his charming wife and was happy to oblige. He was also immensely proud and cognizant of her social skills, attributes he noticeably lacked. The White House itself was still a rude dwelling. Jefferson’s domestic proclivities had been centered solely on his beloved Monticello, and the Madisons inherited a drab and drafty mansion, not far removed from Abigail Adams’s days as a laundress. Having determined that the seat of government should be properly cushioned, Dolley invited several congressmen for tea and a tour of the place. That they all were members of the appropriations committee attested to her shrewdness. The First Lady gently suggested where improvements might be made, and lo and behold, funds were found for paint, draperies, carpeting, and furnishings more suitable for the home of the president.

  Dolley’s Legacy

  Whether she intended it or not, and whether she even knew it or not, Dolley had LEADERSHIP. Whatever she did or didn’t do was copied and imitated. Even her perceived foibles, like snuff or rouge, would be copied and imitated. Those charismatic attributes of her personality that drew people like a magnet would forever place the center of social Washington firmly in the White House. Other First Ladies might abdicate that social leadership to others, but it would hereafter be the woman of the White House who had first dibs, thanks to Mrs. Madison.

  Once decorated, she opened the White House to the public. Her Wednesday evenings were religiously attended by brows high and low. It was her particular genius to mix all levels: congressmen, diplomats, military officers, clergy, merchants, the rank and file, and any decently attired citizen who was passing through town and had left his card. Women were always included. Her style stood the president in good stead, since she had a gift for remembering names and faces. A genial and delightful conversationalist in small gatherings, the shy Madison was content to let his outgoing wife take center stage.

  Dolley greeted the guests herself. No platforms and no seats. She made sure everyone was introduced to someone else, and since she knew just about everyone, the introductions were always between people with commonalities. She was alert to wallflowers and carried a book with her as a conversation starter if things lagged. If she passed along important information, it was people information: nothing salacious, nasty, discriminatory, gossipy, or even politically controversial. And she never betrayed a confidence. That was the essence of Dolley’s philosophy. Politics by people. She was also exceptionally aware of politics by natio
n. Dolley and several of her lady friends were regular observers in the congressional gallery. But she never interfered.

  In an age before women’s magazines, Dolley Madison was the style setter of a generation. Since she favored turban hats with ostrich feathers and yellow was her color of choice, every milliner in the country created yellow turbans. She also used rouge and took snuff, habits that ordinarily would shock polite society. But if Dolley did it, it couldn’t be that terrible.

  Most famous for rescuing the Gilbert Stuart full-length portrait of George Washington when the British burned the White House during the War of 1812, Dolley did something even more important only a short time later. The executive mansion had been badly burned, water damaged, and uninhabitable, but the Madisons insisted that the government would continue in Washington. They borrowed a nearby house suitable for their needs. The very first day they moved in, Dolley was back in business, hosting one of her receptions. The message was unmistakable: if Mrs. Madison was giving a party, then all must be well with the country. But James and Dolley Madison would never again live in the White House.

  In their retirement, the Madisons’ Virginia estate became a popular stopping-off place for friends, family, well-wishers, public officials of all kinds, foreign emissaries, and even strangers. With their customary hospitality, all were made welcome. But the cost of running a large plantation and the infirmities of old age took its toll. Shortly after Madison’s death at eighty-five, Dolley discovered she could no longer support the place. She was nearly seventy herself and lonely. She moved back to Washington, and it is said that the day she moved into a small rented house near the executive mansion, there were more than a hundred calling cards waiting for her. Seriously impoverished, she could only afford to open her house once a month, and the refreshments were limited. But everybody came. Dolley was back where she belonged.

  Postscript: WHEN DOLLEY DIED AT EIGHTY IN 1849, SHE WAS THE COUNTRY’S LAST LINK TO THE FOUNDING FATHERS. SHE HAD KNOWN THEM ALL, AND SHE HAD KNOWN THEM WELL. AND EVERYBODY LOVED DOLLEY.

  LOUISA ADAMS

  1775–1852

  FIRST LADY: 1825–29

  The Shadow Lady

  On paper, Louisa Catherine Johnson Adams was superbly qualified to fill not only the White House but the shoes of the illustrious Mrs. Madison. On paper, she seemed also well qualified to be the consort of the sophisticated John Quincy Adams. She was born in England to a wealthy American merchant and his British wife, educated in Paris, spoke fluent French, knew Latin and Greek, was trained in the classics, played the harp and the harpsichord, and wrote fair poetry. And she was pretty and charming to boot.

  When she married John Quincy Adams in 1797, he was the eminent son of the American vice president and on his way to becoming a well-regarded diplomat in his own right, as minister plenipotentiary to the Netherlands. Theirs had been a two-year courtship mostly by correspondence, and Louisa was given ample evidence of the cold and acerbic nature of the man she agreed to marry. He criticized and cautioned her about nearly everything, and showed little ardor. Reservations or not, the marriage took place. On their wedding day, Louisa’s father confided to the bridegroom that he was bankrupt. There would be no dowry.

  Nevertheless, the couple went to Prussia, a new assignment for the twenty-nine-year-old diplomat and his twenty-two-year-old bride. She was an instant hit with her cosmopolitan grace, good looks, and winsome demeanor. Louisa would be a hit wherever she went—except with her frosty husband. He doubtlessly loved her in his own way, but from the start she was relegated to the outskirts of his life, either as an ornament or as a mother. The ornament part was obvious. The mother part was not so easy. She would have fifteen pregnancies, resulting in numerous miscarriages, stillborns, and only three children who would live to maturity. It took a huge toll on her health.

  After their return to America, an angst-filled appointment to the Senate, and a much-loathed stint practicing law, JQA (as he liked to refer to himself) received the plum appointment of minister plenipotentiary to Russia. (The term ambassador would not be used for nearly another century.) Louisa was torn. In some respects she wanted to return to the courtly diplomatic circles, but she agonized over leaving her two older boys, both under ten, with relatives. The Adamses would take only two-year-old Charles, and nothing would be what Louisa had expected.

  Louisa’s Legacy

  Louisa Catherine Adams did not have the happiest of marriages, but her upbringing prepared her to conduct herself through all her trials and tribulations with unflagging DIGNITY. No matter what ills or unhappiness were to be her lot, she behaved appropriately, with a grace that not even the acidic John Quincy Adams could fail to recognize. There is no finer quality expected from a First Lady than dignity at all times and under all circumstances. There is also no finer example than that of Louisa Adams.

  Court life in St. Petersburg was backwards and dull; she bore and buried her last child. Letters from home were scarce, the cruel and sunless Russian winters played havoc with her increasingly frail health, and the paltry and sporadically received salary of the American minister was an embarrassment compared to their European counterparts with deep pockets. Worst of all, JQA was no more attentive in St. Petersburg than he was anywhere else.

  When word came that the War of 1812 had ended, JQA was senior diplomat on the Continent and as such was dispatched to lead the peace treaty negotiations in Ghent. He left immediately, instructing his wife to sell any unneeded possessions, pack what was left, and meet him in Paris. It was a daunting challenge for the forty-year-old woman, but she managed to do it in six grueling weeks, traveling more than eighteen hundred miles through mud-mired roads scarred by years of Napoleonic wars and accompanied by dissolute, unreliable, and often dishonest servants and drivers. It was capped off by the drama of Bonaparte’s escape from Elba and his march to Paris with an increasing army of motley but enthusiastic recruits. It was arguably the most important few weeks in Louisa’s life. She was, for once, completely in charge of her own adventure. When she related her tale to JQA, he barely batted an eye.

  John Quincy Adams was recalled home in 1817 to serve for eight years as secretary of state under James Monroe, whose wife, Elizabeth, was a haughty woman disliked and avoided by Washington society. Seemingly content with her own pretensions, First Lady Monroe pleaded the customary ill health and mostly kept to herself. Sociopolitical leadership once again fell to the secretary of state. With his eyes firmly fixed on the presidency in 1824, JQA was shrewdly aware of the importance of parlor diplomacy. He was also cognizant of his own social shortcomings and trotted Louisa out like a champion thoroughbred. She was his best asset, and he directed her to see and be seen throughout official Washington. Her eyes and ears, well tuned by years of high-level societal experience, were keen to the nuances and innuendos of casual conversation. Each day, after her calls and card leavings, Adams demanded a meticulous account of who was where and who said what. Their own house was regularly filled with the movers and shakers of officialdom. His years as secretary of state culminated in a lavish party for more than five hundred guests. One newspaper account quipped, “Belles and matrons, maids and madams, all are gone to Mrs. Adams.” John Quincy Adams won the presidency, but he could not have done it without his gracious wife.

  Despite Louisa’s grace and charm and JQA’s intellect and vision, their White House years were arguably their worst together and separately. Two venomous political campaigns left Adams with few followers and fewer friends. None of his programs, however meritorious, found sponsors. At fifty, Louisa’s poor health, exacerbated by depression, female troubles, and anxiety over her older sons’ dissipations, made her reclusive. Instead of the glittering social scene chez the former secretary of state, their White House parties were dull, and it is said that JQA was known to doze off at dessert. By the time they left Washington, they were barely on speaking terms. The death of their oldest son, JQA’s thwarted ambitions, and the thought of returning to a detested New England law p
ractice was a bitter pill for both.

  The good people of Boston, however, had other plans for the former president. They elected him to Congress, where he would spend eighteen years and make his most important contributions. These would also be Louisa’s happiest years. They both loved Washington, where she at least had many friends. As age began to claim his eyesight (probably cataracts), JQA recruited his wife to help sort through the hundreds of letters he was receiving as the lone and wily champion of the right to petition—a forerunner of the violent antislavery feelings that would soon engulf the country. Louisa also became involved in her own correspondence with noted antislavery proponents, amazed that they actually sought her opinion. JQA finally achieved the admiration he lusted for all his life. Louisa finally gained his respect.

  Postscript: LATE IN LOUISA’S LIFE, HER SON CHARLES FRANCIS RECRUITED HER ASSISTANCE IN EDITING THE LETTERS OF HIS GRANDMOTHER ABIGAIL. LOUISA AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW HAD NEVER ENJOYED MORE THAN A LUKEWARM RELATIONSHIP. BUT THROUGH ABIGAIL’S LETTERS, LOUISA LEARNED TO VIEW THE FORMIDABLE WOMAN WITH NEW REGARD, COMMENTING, “I WISH I HAD KNOWN HER BETTER.”

  RACHEL JACKSON

  1767–1828

  Her Sacred Name

  In March 1829, Andrew Jackson came to his inauguration wearing a mourning band. His voice was so low he could barely be heard. His beloved wife of more than thirty-five years had died only weeks before. They said it was her heart, which had been failing for a long time. Jackson, however, was convinced beyond doubt that she was murdered by the poisoned arrow of slander, and he would go to his grave two decades later believing nothing less.