by Jane Cook
February 3, 1811, began as usual for John. He read a few chapters in the French translation of his Bible and ate breakfast. A messenger from Caulaincourt soon arrived with an inquiry. Was Monsieur Adams at home today? Yes. Could the French ambassador come by for a visit? Of course.
Caulaincourt wasted no time when he arrived. He talked in general terms about trade and then observed that an increased number of US merchants had entered Russian ports the previous trading season.
“I told him that it had been very considerable, greater than any former year,” John stated clearly, noting that they also faced more interruptions along the Baltic than ever before.
“And then, your vessels have done a great deal of business here on English account,” Caulaincourt accused in a fencing-match tone of voice.
“That was a mistake; that the American vessels which came here were directly from America and returned directly to thither,” Adams defended with equal force.
“But how happens it, then,” he said, “that several of them have been sequestered, or a least that their admission has been suspended?”
“Why,” Adams accused, “the credit of that is attributed to you.” It was the most direct accusation he had ever made toward the French ambassador.
“That is to say, that we are supposed to have required that a strict examination should be had,” Caulaincourt said, spinning John’s charge.
Adams was sure his opponent had tried every maneuver to push the czar into excluding all American commerce from the convoy. Though the Russian government promised to admit the US vessels, the paperwork was absent, a sign that Caulaincourt had so far succeeded. He had to make his case, allowing justice to provide the fair wind.
“I had sent to the government here a list of the vessels which I knew to be American, and the cargoes which I had no doubt were American property,” John explained, adding that he personally knew some of the captains and had received reference letters for the others.
“Where [could] the American vessels get such large quantities of sugar as these had brought?” the Frenchman accused, implying that only the British could supply such great amounts.
“Our own country produced sugar, particularly Louisiana and the state of Georgia,” Adams replied, reminding him of the territory that Napoleon had sold to the United States.
“The desire of the French government manifestly was to harmonize,” he assured before abruptly changing the subject and inviting John and Louisa to a children’s ball. With his diplomatic sword withdrawn, Caulaincourt departed. The debate abated, for now.
“Sick as usual after these fatigues which I cannot learn to support à la Rousse—And now I am more delicate than ever,” Louisa wrote on February 8.
The next day was no better: “I still confined to my chamber—I must have been a strong woman or I could not have borne such climates and so much anxiety and suffering.”
While her husband traded jabs with Caulaincourt, Louisa battled the physical stresses of pregnancy against the social demands placed upon her as the only minister plenipotentiary’s wife residing in St. Petersburg. Unlike the previous February when she was ill and could not attend social obligations, she had a new resource. The imperial family’s implicit acceptance of her sister into their court now allowed Kitty to attend dinners in her place. Rest was a commodity she tapped as willingly as chocolate to alleviate her cravings.
By February 11, Louisa decided she was strong enough to go out in public again. She attended a party hosted by a prominent Frenchwoman. The best evidence of her improved health was her Abigail Adams–like propriety, which poured from her pen after she returned home.
“Madame Lesseps is a very sensible woman—Sensible women [are] not always the most agreeable though the most valuable—The maxim of men ‘that pretty is better than good’ is almost universally adopted by them where money does not bias the taste,” she wrote with Jane Austen–like astuteness.
Louisa’s pregnancy seemed to be bringing out a suppressed side of her personality. While her belly expanded, she also grew more outspoken about female virtues and more conscious of social changes.
“The French were a little down,” she detected after one event. Another recent party “was so cold and heartless that it was different altogether from anything that we had seen before.”
“Rumors of war between Russia and France—a new anxiety.”
The winds from Paris to St. Petersburg were blowing a cold gust.
Adams called on Caulaincourt by appointment at noon on February 15. The pair resumed their diplomatic duel. John brought up a crucial point: the French government refused to acknowledge licenses that French consuls legitimately gave to ship captains at US ports before their departure.
“Some of our American vessels, though not of this last list, had met with objections for having been provided with certificates of origin given by the French consuls in America,” he asserted.
“The French consuls in the United States gave no such certificates,” Caulaincourt replied just as sharply, saying that the measure was not mere newspaper speculation. His government had sent him a formal declaration of the change.
“This was certainly a mistake,” John declared, revealing a new weapon—tangible evidence. He handed the ambassador a copy of a certificate signed by the French consul in Boston only a few months earlier on October 31, 1810—long after the announcement by France’s government-run newspaper in July 1810.
Adams prodded him further. The French government “when informed of its mistake” should take measures to correct it and protect the honor of its public officers.
“But, supposing our consuls have given these certificates in disobedience of their orders?” Caulaincourt countered.
“It [was] more probable,” John replied, “. . . that if such orders had been dispatched to them, they had not been received.”
The slowness of ship travel was most likely the cause. Even if the French consuls had directly disobeyed their government, it “became a question between the officer and his government.” The matter certainly should not “affect the rights, reputation or property of persons who had received their certificates.”
Caulaincourt listened silently while Adams continued his monologue.
“If they had violated their duty, their government might say so to the world—might recall and punish them—might disavow their acts and discredit them after due notice,” John said with polite but clear force.
“But this was a very different thing from declaring their real signatures to be forgeries. It was merely a question of fact: Did they or did they not give the certificates?” he continued.
Then he used his best logic against the ambassador. “If they did, and you declare they did not, it is precisely the case that an individual should deny his own handwriting to a promissory note.”
Caulaincourt agreed with the comparison.
“The dishonor of such a procedure must fall ultimately upon the officer himself whose government falsified his acts or upon the government which thus gratuitously discredits the officers,” Adams said, adding a forceful blow: “I could not suppose such an intention in the government of France.”
The Frenchman studied the paper. Clearly the son of John Adams knew how to fight honorably—how to accuse a man’s government of dishonesty in a way that did not dishonor the man himself. Though he fenced him into a corner, by suggesting noble motives, Adams also gave the French ambassador a way to retain personal dignity.
“To be sure, there could not be two opinions upon a case so clear, considered as a question of law or of morality,” Caulaincourt responded.
John had not forgotten how much honor mattered to his counterpart. When the Russian nobility questioned his role in the killing of the Duke d’Enghien, whom Napoleon had ordered Caulaincourt to capture, the ambassador had worked tirelessly to clear his name with Alexander. Despite the French government’s recent orders, one value still mattered to Caulaincourt.
“Consider it, Monsieur l�
��Ambassadeur, as a question of honor—as a question between men of honor—what would be the answer then?” John posed with emphasis.
“Precisely the same,” he agreed, as if resting his saber. “By the late measures in France, it appeared that the government was inclined to come upon good terms with the United States.”
Adams raised another crucial point. If the French government knew that one of its officers had falsified a signature, then France would disdain such an act of injustice because it reflected dishonor on the government. Caulaincourt agreed with the theory, but couldn’t say anything further. The French government would willingly avert its eyes away from legitimate licenses if it meant that other governments would confiscate American cargo.
“But, it seems, you are great favorites here. You have found powerful protection, for most of your vessels have been admitted,” the ambassador jabbed.
“They had, but after a delay of three months, and after their papers had been taken from the commission of neutral navigation and had undergone a very strict examination before the imperial council,” John responded, not knowing the final outcome of the US ships belonging to the convoy. He was hopeful Campenhausen would bring him good news soon.
John told Caulaincourt that in his first meeting with the emperor, Alexander had professed a strong desire to trade with the United States while also declaring a strong alliance with France. The two were not mutually exclusive.
Caulaincourt disagreed. From Napoleon’s perspective, Russia could not be an ally to both America and France. “I hope they will be more reconcilable still as France and the United States will come to a better understanding with each other. But, after all, you have had a very advantageous commerce this last year,” Caulaincourt replied. “I am told you have had more than a hundred vessels at Archangel.”
John fired back: “But, you are to consider, that, thanks to you, we have had scarcely any part of the continent of Europe open to us. We have had only the ports of Spain and Portugal, where you are not the masters, and Russia. For you made Denmark and Prussia shut their doors against us, without a shadow of a reason for it.”
“You could not, however, have much commerce with Denmark.”
“It was considerable.”
Cornered, Caulaincourt put down his proverbial sword and ended the conversation. What neither realized at the time was that this would be their last duel of words. Soon everything would change.
36
Recall and Relocation
“IT IS CONFIDENTLY REPORTED THAT MR. ADAMS IS SHORTLY TO BE removed to France,” Louisa wrote on February 14, 1811. While John battled Caulaincourt, Louisa confided in Abigail. “I however put no faith in it and it is far from my wish, as it [is] universally said to be the most unpleasant and expensive residence for a foreign minister in Europe.”
Although she did not want to relocate to Paris, she assured Abigail that she would “cheerfully acquiesce” to plans her husband considered “advantageous.”
What bothered her more than newspaper speculation was Abigail’s silence. They had not heard a word from her since July. Knowing how suddenly a fatal disease can sweep through a town, Louisa trembled in fear of receiving bad news from home.
“Our solicitude and anxiety to hear from you adds terribly to the tediousness of our banishment and renders my residence here almost insupportable.”
Though she thanked Abigail in her letter for caring for George and John and begged her to give them kisses on her behalf, she did not reveal that she was pregnant. The risk of a miscarriage was too great. Why share the news if disappointment could soon follow?
The wife of the American minister knew she could not refuse one social engagement, no matter how tired the event might make her: the examination ceremony of the noble girls’ school. The reason she could not decline? The empress mother had issued the invitations.
“Most of the members of the corps diplomatic attended with their legations and we were obliged to appear in full court dresses—All the ministers of state and the imperial family with the haute noblesse of the empire.”
While Louisa admired the number of girls graduating, eighty-one, and their ability to master a variety of dances, what stood out to her was their ghastly appearance. “None of them are handsome—The performance of their religious duties is strictly attended to and their long fasts reduce them so much that they look like skeletons—Of course their complexions suffer.”
The outing fatigued her so much that all she wanted to do when she came home was crawl into bed, but she couldn’t. Romanzoff was hosting a ball for a Russian prince and princess. The Adamses had already promised to attend. Because the count invited the entire diplomatic corps and she had seen most of them at the examination ceremony earlier in the day, she felt additional pressure. How could she explain attending one event and then declining another or sending Kitty in her place on the same day? She could not risk offending the chancellor.
“At ten o-clock went to a ball at Count Romanzoff’s.” The Adamses dashed away in their coach pulled by four horses. As usual, they threw off their coats and outer boots and handed them to their footman before entering Romanzoff’s home. The count greeted them formally in the receiving line, and they admired the glittering diamonds, embroidery of the women’s silk dresses, and the pristine ribbons decorating the gentlemen’s uniforms.
These upper-class guests very likely wore any strong scent available to them. She had smelled these aromas many times before. However, perfumes and oils can often become repugnant to the nose of a pregnant woman.
After such a long day, she likely was hungry and could hardly wait for dinner, which was usually a meal of six or seven different salty meats. Fish was served with pastries and vegetables. The dancing and festivities droned on for five hours before dinner was served. Whatever she craved or smelled, Louisa soon discovered that her dinner partners were the greatest aversion, not the perfumes or food.
“The invitation was to a supper and I sat between Count Markoff and the Duke of Serra Capriola.”
The count was eighty years old. A pregnant Louisa found herself squeezed between two old men who could no more relate to her condition and cravings than teenage boys.
As was the custom, carafes of red and white wine dotted the table, alternating every two people. Each guest had a wine glass. In between sipping the wine, the men began boasting like boys of their previous lives. Realizing that an American woman sat between them, they decided to talk about what else? The savage United States.
“The conversation turned upon America and Count Markoff mentioned many things that Talleyrand had told him of his travels in the United States.”
Louisa was familiar with Prince Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the Frenchman who had come to the United States years earlier in a temporary exile. He had visited England as an unofficial French diplomat. When the British government issued a warrant for his arrest in 1794, he'd fled to the United States, where he'd lived as a house guest of then US Senator Aaron Burr of New York. For two years the Frenchman worked to rebuild his fortune as a bank agent in commodity trading and real estate investments. Talleyrand’s tales of the United States did not reflect the America that Louisa knew.
In the coarsest terms, Count Markoff relayed what he'd heard about American men and women.
“Particularly of the beauty of the women and the easy morality of the husbands,” Louisa noted.
The dirtier his jokes, the more Louisa’s blood pressure rose. Perhaps the fatigue of such a long day got to her. Maybe the men’s colognes were too strong. Or perhaps she was suddenly in need of sugar and couldn’t wait to pick up her silver dessert spoon and dive into ice cream or liquid jellies, common desserts.
“I was perfectly enragé which was very foolish,” she reflected.
Regardless, she could no longer politely sit silently and listen to insults about American women. The lioness protecting her homeland emerged.
“I told him that it was very well known that Talleyrand
never spoke truth—that therefore everyone would estimate his assertions according to their worth,” she roared, speaking her mind with the greatest clarity.
“My situation was becoming so disagreeable that had not the chancellor [Count Romanzoff] risen to return to the ball room, I was so disgusted that I should certainly have made an esclandre [caused a scene] to the horror of Mr. Adams,” she wrote.
“What on earth is so disgusting as two old men chuckling over their past follies and vices!!!”
The incident and Talleyrand’s influence were hardly calling cards luring her to Paris. More than ever she needed Madison to appoint a different man to represent the United States in France and bring her husband home to Boston.
These insults may have led her to break with pretension and speak her mind, but Louisa was also wrestling with the suffocation she felt as a woman living in European society in 1811. How far she would take her views, she did not know.
An exhausted and insulted Louisa declined the next party. Kitty and William attended the “Masquerade for foreigners—It is the last of the season,” she wrote gratefully.
“Lent begins this day—Now for a little rest.”
“Caulaincourt,” Adams wrote in a letter to his mother on March 19, 1811, “has received his recall.” Acknowledging him as “one of the greatest enoblemen of the Napoleon creation,” Adams regretted the French ambassador’s departure. He admired his “easy unassuming simplicity of manners.” Despite their quarreling, they were now friends. Caulaincourt would remain in St. Petersburg several more weeks until his successor arrived.
Would Adams soon follow the ambassador to France? No, Madison had appointed someone else to replace Armstrong as minister to France, which ended the speculation of the Adamses’ relocating to Paris. Both John and Louisa felt relief.
An even more satisfying piece of news soon arrived. At a diplomatic dinner hosted by the soon-to-depart Caulaincourt, Baron Campenhausen approached John as soon as he saw him.
