Martha Washington

by Patricia Brady

  After consultation with Adams, Hamilton, Madison, and Jay, the president announced a formal schedule of presidential access, published in the Gazette of the United States. Except for those with government business, he would receive visitors only from two to three on Tuesdays and Fridays. On Tuesdays from three to four, he hosted a presidential levee, or reception, at his house. There he received callers without appointment; any respectable-looking (read: decently dressed) man would be admitted to meet the president. The hour-long levees were very formal: Washington, hair powdered properly white and confined in a queue bag, wearing a black velvet suit and dress sword, nodded to each visitor as he was announced by the aides; everyone remained standing while the rest of the guests gathered; the president then walked around the circle, chatting briefly with each man before they took their leave. These appointed hours and levees were the sum of all visits of compliment—that is, social calls without invitation, just to have a look at the new president. Such calls “on other days, and particularly on Sunday, will not be agreeable to [the president],” the Gazette concluded.

  At least when Washington arrived in New York, he found the house clean, furnished, and comfortable, thanks to the inimitable Tobias Lear. In advance of his chief, Lear had come up on the stagecoach from Virginia about the end of March. He found everything in disarray and busied himself setting it all to rights. Lear’s mission was setting up the household, hiring staff, handling the money, and keeping an itemized account of expenses. He brought Martha’s list of necessary household goods, which their landlady bought, and arranged for the tuning and reconditioning of the family spinet, which had been sent up by ship.

  Land rich and cash poor, Washington was forced to borrow £600 from a neighbor to cover the costs of the journey and the first weeks in New York. That £600 was expended for the household and official entertainments while Congress debated whether or not to fix a salary or to pay expenses, eventually deciding on the former. The steward hired to run the presidential house was Samuel Fraunces, “Black Sam” of Fraunces Tavern fame, and other servants were hired in the city. Fraunces’s cooking was superb: “He tosses up such a number of fine dishes that we are distracted in our choice. . . . Oysters & Lobsters make a very conspicuous figure upon the table.”

  But George missed Martha, even with Tobias Lear and David Humphreys for company: a bachelors’ hall was not his idea of home. He hated for her to be angry with him, and there was no secret about her annoyance at having to leave Mount Vernon again. She had refused to accompany him to Philadelphia for the convention that produced the Constitution. When he left for New York, she tarried at home, volubly regretting his decision to reenter public life. No doubt he wrote asking her to speed up her departure, but none of those letters survive.

  Tobias wrote to George Augustine Washington ten days after the president arrived in the city. He asked his friend to pass along the information about the delicious seafood to “Madam Washington . . . (as she is remarkably fond of these fish) [to] hasten her advancing toward New York.” He ended on a more serious note: “We are extremely desirous of seeing her here.”

  Even when joking, Tobias’s loving affection for Martha shone through. In the same letter to George Augustine, he asked for a report about local opinion of the arrangements made so far and of the government in general, suggesting that discreet inquiries might be made. Lapsing into whimsy, he wrote, “The Ladies are very expert at this business—suppose Mrs Washington should do it? I know of no person better qualified—her very serious & benevolent countenance would not suffer a person to hide a thing from her. . . . Now I would give a great deal to be present when you inform Mrs Washington of this—or read it to her. If she ever put on a frown it would be on this occasion. . . . What does he mean! she will exclaim! Does he wish to make a spy of me?”

  Martha, Nelly and Wash Custis, Bob Lewis, and six slaves, including her maids, Oney Judge and Molly, arrived in New York City on May 27. Billy Lee (now usually called Will), the personal servant and slave who had been with Washington throughout the Revolution, arrived a month later. Will was considerably crippled in both legs; he had been left in Philadelphia for medical treatment before coming on to New York in mid-June. Although he wasn’t able to do much in a house with steep stairs, he wanted to come to the city. As Tobias noted, Washington wished “to gratify him in every reasonable wish.” Among the four other slaves brought to New York—Giles, Austin, Paris, and Christopher Sheels—young Christopher assisted Will, learning the job and taking over when Will retired. There were already fourteen hired white servants at work.

  Martha found the house quite acceptable, thanking God that George and the rest of the household were well: “The House he is in is a very good one and is handsomely furnished all new for the General.” On the corner of Cherry and Dover, the three-story brick house faced St. George’s Square. It had most of the modern conveniences—seven fireplaces and a pump and cistern in the yard. Several alterations had been made: enlarging the drawing room for presidential entertaining and providing a larger stable and a wash house. With the size of their household, they probably also bought water from the water men, who daily delivered huge hogsheads in their carts to customers.

  Only three blocks from the East River, Cherry Street was a noisy main thoroughfare serving the bustling wharves along the river. The sounds and smells of the neighborhood came through the open windows—ships’ bells, rumbling ironclad wheels of wagons on the way to nearby Peck’s market, stray dogs, horses, carriages, street vendors, hogs grunting and rooting in the open gutters, stevedores unloading ships on the riverfront. In the country, noises and voices were familiar, and the arrival of a carriage represented the height of excitement; in New York, everything was new, and strangers thronged the streets. The children were entranced, especially Nelly. Martha wrote home that she “spends her time at the window looking at carriages &c passing by which is new to her and very common for children to do.”

  From the moment Martha arrived, callers swept into the presidential mansion with the force of a spring flood. The ladies and gentlemen of the city were delighted to have the president’s consort as a focal point for the city’s elite social life. She complained to Fanny after two weeks in New York, “I have been so much engaged since I came here . . . but shall soon have time as most of the visits are at an end. I have not had one half hour to myself since the day of my arrival.”

  Martha had discovered the tedium of constant public attention. Contrary to her usual habit at home, her hair had to be set and dressed every day by a visiting hairdresser, and she attended much more to her clothes, putting on white muslin for the summer. As she reported to her niece: “You would I fear think me a good deal in the fashion if you could but see me,” clearly not implying enjoyment.

  The boundaries set for the president’s lady by her husband and his male advisers were not at all to her liking. Being the nation’s hostess has been an onerous task for many First Ladies. As the first president’s wife, however, Martha had no way of knowing how radically her life would be curtailed. President Washington had already announced in the newspapers that he and his wife would not attend or host private gatherings, to avoid any appearance of favoritism. How different from the Revolution, where the informal gatherings of officers and their wives at headquarters had been such a delight. Martha was considerably disgruntled to find herself fettered by political considerations.

  She was expected to be the hostess of two weekly social gatherings, both quite official—a reception and a dinner party. She arrived in New York on Wednesday and found that “her” reception for that Friday had already been publicly announced. Every Friday while Congress was in session, she received both women and men in the drawing room without invitation, as long as they were formally attired. Then there were the Thursday dinner parties. The official guest list was carefully chosen to avoid any appearance of favoritism—usually balanced both geographically and politically. Cabinet members, senators, congressmen, and foreign ministers wer
e invited regularly without much consideration given to friendships or social graces. Her role as the commander’s wife during the Revolution had been a walk in the park compared with that of First Lady.

  One symbol of the new formality was “The President’s March,” composed by a Hessian soldier/musician who had stayed behind after the war. Written in honor of the inauguration, it was usually played whenever Washington entered a theater, concert hall, or ballroom, and it became the presidential anthem. A decade later, the melody was renamed “Hail, Columbia” when lyrics were added.

  Martha had barely begun these entertainments when they came to an abrupt halt. Only three weeks after her arrival, George began complaining of fever and pain. A large carbuncle (a hard, solid mass) had appeared on his left thigh, and it grew larger and more painful every day. His doctors diagnosed anthrax, presumably of the cutaneous variety; no anesthesia was available as the father-and-son team of doctors operated on the mass June 17, the son cutting, the father urging, “Cut deeper, cut deeper.” George’s phenomenal strength brought him through, but afterward he groaned with pain, complaining that any noise hurt his head. Tobias Lear bought fifteen pounds of rope, directing the servants to tie off Cherry Street to keep traffic from passing and to spread the sidewalks with straw to muffle the footsteps of passersby. A week later, he repeated the process after the first rope was stolen.

  Martha was terribly shaken by her husband’s condition. The doctors thought he might die, and his convalescence took the rest of the summer. He spent six weeks “being confined to a lying posture on one side.” Although George returned to work, the incision was still draining in September, as “the wound given by the incision is not yet closed.” Acquaintances continued to call on Martha regularly that summer to inquire after the president’s health. Without his leadership, it was feared that the nation might splinter into small, weak confederations.

  One of the callers became an unexpected new friend, given the differences in their personal styles—the tartly outspoken New Englander Abigail Adams. She had been at home in Massachusetts but returned to the capital in June. The Adamses had rented a large manor house out in the countryside along the Greenwich Road. With beautiful views in all directions, Richmond Hill was about a mile and a half from the city—a pleasant ride or drive for guests to drop in for breakfast or tea. The morning after her arrival, David Humphreys called to pay his respects and take breakfast with the vice president’s wife.

  Later that morning, Abigail rode in her carriage to Cherry Street, accompanied by her married daughter Nabby Smith. They were greeted by Humphreys and Lear, witnesses to the first meeting between these formidable women. Generally more inclined to critical observation than admiration, the vice president’s wife described Martha as easy and polite, plain in her dress—“but that plainness is the best of every article. . . . Her hair is white, beautifull teeth, rather shorter than otherways.” She went on, “Her manners are modest and unassuming, dignified and feminine, not the Tincture of ha’ture about her. His Majesty was ill & confined to his Room. I had not the pleasure of a presentation to him, but the satisfaction of hearing that he regreted it equally with myself.”

  On a second visit to the presidential mansion in July, Abigail was invited upstairs to Washington’s chamber, where he lay on a sofa. She found him both dignified and affable—“a singular example of modesty and diffidence.” Her positive impression of Martha was only increased by this call: “Mrs. Washington is one of those unassuming characters which create Love & Esteem. A most becoming pleasantness sits upon her countenance & an unaffected deportment which renders her the object of veneration and Respect.” Both the Washingtons struck her as just right for a republican government: “With all these feelings and Sensations I found myself much more deeply impressd than I ever did before their Majesties of Britain.”

  During George’s convalescence, the carriage was altered by putting in some sort of bed so that he could lie on his side and be driven about the city. It took four attendants to get him comfortably arranged in the coach. Martha rode with him on these expeditions, doubtless entertaining him with conversation.

  As he regained his strength, they went back to fashioning the presidential lifestyle. Although choreographed, Martha’s Friday evenings were relaxed and enjoyable compared with the president’s levees. Starting at eight o’clock, guests were directed by servants up to the large second-floor drawing room, blazing with candles in the chandelier and candelabra, supplemented by spermaceti-oil lamps; Humphreys or Lear escorted them to the sofa where Martha was seated. After curtseying or bowing to her and being greeted by the president, they moved about the room, chatting with other callers. Even in his diary, George maintained the fiction that he was merely another guest at his wife’s entertainment, noting the size and quality of the crowd. Refreshments were light, varying with the seasons—wine, tea, lemonade, cake, fruits (sometimes including delicacies like pineapple and coconut), ice cream. The table was decorated with gilt ornaments. As the guests left, they were escorted to their carriages by Bob Lewis.

  Abigail enjoyed her position as second lady of the land. She wrote to her sister, “My station is always at the right hand of Mrs. W.; through want of knowing what is right I find it sometimes occupied, but on such an occasion the President never fails of seeing that it is relinquished for me, and having removed Ladies several times, they have now learnt to rise & give it me, but this between our selves, as all distinction you know is unpopular.”

  Dinner parties were more of an uphill slog. Lear had cards printed for the dinners; once the guest’s name and the date were filled in by hand, they were delivered personally by one of the aides. At first, many of the guests were strangers, both to the Washingtons and to one another. Men predominated at most of these dinners when Congress was in session. In fact, sometimes no women were invited at all, since most congressmen had left their wives back home while they lived in lodging houses. Of the twenty-four senators (Rhode Island didn’t join the Union until the following year), only six had brought their wives to New York.

  Martha was perfectly comfortable with groups of men unleavened by female company. Her years of experience entertaining the male guests who stayed for dinner at White House or Mount Vernon after completing their business (on average outnumbering female guests four or five to one) and the fifteen, twenty, or thirty men at the commander’s table during winter encampments paid off in the new world of presidential dinner parties.

  Beginning promptly at four on Thursdays (Washington never held back dinner for a tardy guest, no matter his rank), government officials, members of Congress, and foreign dignitaries were invited in rotation, assembling in the large first-floor dining room. The guests didn’t necessarily know or like one another, agree on general principles, or have any idea of pleasant table conversation. Some scorned all social graces as demeaning to honest men and held back on principle (and shyness) from chatting amiably on general topics, bantering, or returning complimentary toasts. Even Martha found conversation trying under the circumstances.

  She sat at the head of the table, George halfway down on her left, when all the guests were men. With ladies present, she sat across the table from her husband. The secretaries served as deputy hosts at a table elegantly decorated with china ornaments and artificial flowers. Sam Fraunces, formally attired down to wig and gloves, directed the servants. Dinner was the usual two courses. At one dinner, a guest noted that the first course included soup, fish roasted and boiled, meats, gammon, fowls, “etc.” (the “etc.” probably including fresh and pickled vegetables). For the second course, there were apple pies and puddings, iced creams, jellies, and more “etc.”; and the meal ended with watermelons, muskmelons, apples, peaches, and nuts.

  Beer, cider, and wine were offered with dinner, and toasts were drunk in Madeira at the end. After a while spent conversing, Martha took the ladies, if any, upstairs for coffee. George usually joined them as soon as possible. He heartily enjoyed the company and conversation of
women. Although some of the ruder men departed without going upstairs, most of them joined their host and hostess in the drawing room. One senator from North Carolina enjoyed dinner with the other senators at the Washingtons’ and added, “After it, I had the honour of drinking coffee with his lady, a most amiable woman. If I live much longer I believe that I shall at last be reconciled to the company of old women [she was fifty-nine; he was fifty-six] for her sake, a circumstance I once thought impossible.”

  No one who attended Martha’s receptions or the presidential dinners could have detected her dissatisfaction. Although Washington was sometimes criticized for stiff ceremoniousness, his lady was always praised for her easy friendliness. The president was a man of natural dignity and aloofness, never one for back-slapping camaraderie. As his national stature increased, so did his reserve. Both from inclination and policy, he had created a commanding public presence. But his wife’s first thought was for her guests. In putting them at their ease, she softened and humanized her overpowering husband, allowing him to relax a bit and show something of the private family man.

  When Martha went out shopping or paying calls, Bob Lewis usually went in the carriage with her. A dozen and a half kid gloves, leather galoshes to fit over her shoes (ordered from Philadelphia), an umbrella, a large Bible weighing in at a whopping nine pounds, seed pearl pins and earrings, fur cloaks for herself and her husband—shopping in a city could provide some interesting finds. As for the formal calls or calls of ceremony, callers often hoped the hostess wouldn’t be at home; merely leaving a card sufficed for most social obligations. But Martha wasn’t satisfied with that cold comfort; when she really wanted a good visit, she sent a note in the morning to inquire if her friends would be available that day.

  Thank goodness for the wives of Washington’s closest advisers in the social desert of that year. Besides Abigail Adams, both Betsy Hamilton and Lucy Knox were old friends and companions from the Revolution. The women had formed unbreakable bonds during those years and loved spending time together. Martha had also been on friendly terms with Sarah Jay for years.