The First Ladies

by Feather Schwartz Foster

  She met Woodrow Wilson by chance, having been invited for tea at the White House by Helen Bones, the president’s cousin who had come to assume social and house-management duties after Ellen’s death. Woodrow’s reaction to the attractive forty-two-year-old widow was instantaneous and fervent. “Cousin Helen’s friend” was invited to lunches, teas, private suppers, and afternoon drives, and it did not take very long for Edith to realize she was being wooed. Daily letters passed between them. The president had a private phone line installed between the White House and her town house only a mile away. He was a passionate and romantic courtier. Edith, whose courtship by Norman Galt did not include passionate wooing, was overwhelmed. The fact that it had been less than a year since his wife had died mattered little to the president. He was in love, and the Widow Galt had become the center of his life. Acutely aware of conventional mourning practice, Edith offered to wait. Woodrow, who could not bear to be thwarted, wouldn’t hear of it. They were married only fifteen months after Ellen’s funeral.

  Far from being outraged or shocked by Wilson’s early remarriage, the country was genuinely happy for him. So were the Wilson daughters and other kin. The president and his ladylove were seen together all the time. Edith, statuesque at five feet nine, presented a formidable picture, usually photographed wearing a big cartwheel hat and a ubiquitous orchid corsage. They would have the one thing that had been lacking in Wilson’s first marriage: the luxury of time and companionship. With no family responsibilities along with secure finances, the newlyweds became inseparable.

  Edith W.’s Legacy

  Edith Wilson, at five feet nine, would only be equaled physically by Lou Hoover, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Michelle Obama. Standing nose-to-nose with most of the political figures of her era, she presented an intimidating sense of COMMAND, and the good manners of that day had men politely deferring to the fair sex whether they liked it or not. Other First Ladies might employ tact or subtlety, but Edith was neither tactful nor subtle. She commanded attention and regard. If she didn’t like you, she never minced words. And if you didn’t like her either, too bad.

  Dr. Cary Grayson had confided Woodrow’s delicate health conditions to the new Mrs. W., stressing the importance of rest and relaxation in the president’s schedule. She took the charge seriously. She watched over his diet, and they began playing nine holes of golf together early every morning. Neither were good golfers, but the fresh air and exercise was exactly what was needed. And they had fun. She was also a shrewd financial manager, and Woodrow was relieved to have her handle the family funds, just as Ellen had done.

  Meanwhile, Woodrow the professor had begun to educate his bride. He had a desk for her moved into his private office, and he began discussing complex issues in serious depth, along with perspicacious analyses of the current politicians. He fully expected she would understand. Edith, like Ellen, was an apt student. She also began reading her way through his library and learned quickly, although several key aides were taken aback by how familiar the new Mrs. Wilson was with political matters, including some that were top secret. They were also miffed at her tendency to insert comments during high-level discussions. At the time, nobody had an inkling that she was being groomed for a subsequent role.

  Her popularity at first was solid, especially when she allowed herself to be photographed in a Red Cross hat and apron, helping with the war effort. That one photo was said to have inspired thousands of women to volunteer. But the Great War, hard fought and hard won, proved much easier than winning the peace.

  Against all political advice, the idealistic Wilson decided to cross the Atlantic to lead the American peace commission personally. His popularity soared abroad, but the wily old European politicians cared little about peace, let alone ideals, and focused only on reparations and grand-scale land grabs. Wilson was no match. He gave way on nearly every issue to save his greatest dream: a League of Nations. The League, he convinced himself, would mean an end to all wars. His popularity began to sour and then decline precipitously at home. The stress of the overseas negotiations plus a balky Congress in Washington led to a massive stroke.

  In fairness to Edith, whose popularity would plummet, it was primarily the medical community that dictated the ensuing events. All Wilson’s doctors (and there were several) agreed a) he would live; b) his chances for substantial recovery were excellent; c) there were no signs of long term mental decline or aphasia; and most importantly, d) it was essential to his recovery that Wilson retain the aura of being in control as president. To relinquish responsibility to the vice president would destroy his will to live. (There was also no real mechanism in place for a transfer of power, which would create a constitutional crisis.) The doctors were correct on all counts. Wilson lived for another five years, and while he would be frail and never walk again without two canes, he did make substantial improvement. What they failed to recognize at the time was his noticeable personality change. Always inclined toward self-righteousness and stubbornness, he now became generally paranoid and intransigent.

  Edith, who had become the only one that Woodrow completely trusted, was now the gatekeeper. She would refer to it as her stewardship. The one time she had the temerity to suggest that he might compromise on a minor point, he said piteously, “Don’t you turn on me too, Little Girl. I couldn’t bear it.” She was devastated. She never did it again.

  Still a newlywed, her only concern was the well-being of Woodrow, her ailing husband. Woodrow the ailing president was far down on the list. He needed rest; she saw that he got it. He could only work an hour or two a day. The doctors suggested that she review all Wilson’s correspondence first, so she read and summarized all communications, determined what was most important, and brought them to his attention. Most importantly, Woodrow needed to avoid stressful, unpleasant, or adversarial confrontation. Edith guarded that door like a ferocious watchdog, keeping the politicians at bay. His advisors, cabinet members, and congressional leaders of both parties unanimously resented the “undue influence” of the second Mrs. Wilson, who obstructed their access to the ailing president. But according to her own memoirs, she made no presidential or policy decisions, doing only and exactly what Woodrow entrusted or instructed her to do. She said he asked thousands of questions, insisted on knowing every detail, and told her which senators to send for and what suggestions he would make to them. She claimed that she made copious notes of everything “to be sure there were no mistakes.” Woodrow Wilson was still running the show, although few realized it.

  Edith Wilson was not a particularly tactful or likable person. She had definite opinions and was never shy about expressing them. She never forgave a slight. Woodrow’s adversaries were her own. He once called her a “good hater.” Her formidable presence, terminating meetings that ran too long, or placing a cautionary finger to her lips if the subject was touchy, angered the politicians who were quick to cry “Petticoat Government!” As Wilson’s intransigence and paranoia increased and his physical strength ebbed, it would be the second Mrs. Wilson who received their undisguised annoyance and resentment for barring the door.

  Edith outlived Woodrow Wilson by more than thirty-five years, devoting herself to perpetuating his memory and accomplishments and accepting bouquets from League of Nations officialdom, which never included American membership. She also outlived and alienated everyone associated with the Wilson era, including his three daughters.

  Postscript: PEOPLE LOVE TO REFER TO EDITH WILSON AS OUR FIRST FEMALE PRESIDENT. SHE NEVER THOUGHT SO OR VIEWED HERSELF AS SUCH, NOR DID SHE APPRECIATE THE ALLUSION. AND, COME TO THINK OF IT, THE STATEMENT IS NEVER MADE IN ADMIRATION—NOT EVEN BY HER ADMIRERS. IT IS ALWAYS A HOSTILE REMARK.

  FLORENCE HARDING

  1860–1924

  FIRST LADY: 1921–23

  Duchess

  Florence Kling was the daughter of the wealthiest—and nastiest—man in Marion, Ohio. He ruled his family with an iron fist, and his headstrong daughter, more like him than she perhaps cared to admit, reb
elled. At eighteen, she took up with Henry DeWolfe, the town bad boy, who even then had a reputation for hard drinking. They eloped once she found herself pregnant. Within three years, he deserted her and their baby, leaving them penniless. She crept back to Marion with her head high, took a cheap room at a cheap boardinghouse, and tried to support herself and the child by giving piano lessons. They barely made ends meet. Her father then made a devil’s bargain with her: he would raise the boy as his own, provided Florence relinquish all parental rights. If she suffered over the decision, it is unrecorded. Her maternal instinct was never that strong, and now she was able to live her own life.

  Not long after she divorced DeWolfe (who subsequently died), she met Warren Harding. Five years her junior, he had purchased a small interest in the Marion Star, a floundering weekly newspaper, and came to town to drum up business. Good looking, good natured with a born “hail fellow well met” personality, Warren quickly made friends in town. He eventually met Florence, who was immediately smitten. She was undeniably the pursuer in the relationship, and for whatever reasons (pregnancy not being one of them), he married her. He was twenty-five, she thirty.

  Within the first ten years of their marriage, three important events occurred. First, Florence developed a serious and chronic kidney condition that would keep her bedridden for weeks and sometimes months at a time. More than once, her death was expected. Second, and as a direct result of her illness, the marital side of their marriage was curtailed. They would share a room but not a bed, and they would have no children together. Still young, handsome, and virile, Warren would find his pleasures elsewhere. There would be many elsewheres, usually with the “sporting” kind of women who were not averse to publicizing the liaison for their own gain. Florence invariably would find out, and there would be mega-rows. The marriage was far from happy, yet there is no record that either of them ever pressed for a divorce.

  Third, the Marion Star began to thrive. Once when Warren was sick at home, he asked Florence to go to the office and fetch some paperwork. She discovered the place in a shambles and set about putting it in order. Having no children, few friends, a good business head, and time on her hands, she stayed for fourteen years, carving a place for herself in the circulation department. With his wife capably handling much of the newspaper’s business, Harding continued his pleasurable “elsewheres.” He was also free to pursue his growing interest in civic affairs and politics. He became a frequent guest speaker at various organizations and discovered a knack for the florid oratory of the time, “bloviating” as he called it, about the traditional platitudes: mom, apple pie, home, country, and Republican issues. Florence, who he had begun to call “Duchess” for her imperious and bossy manner, gravitated to politics like a cat to cream. She had shrewd instincts and a sensitive finger on the public pulse. The political wannabes who had begun to cling to Harding because “he looked like a man who should be president” put up with the Duchess at first. Then the Ohio Gang, as they were later called, began to respect her opinions. Eventually they realized that she was absolutely essential to any plans they might have for Warren Harding. He had only mild ambition for political advancement. It would always fall to the Duchess to swing for the bleachers.

  In 1914, Warren was elected to the U.S. Senate, where once again he slipped effortlessly into that good old boys club of like-minded congressmen who enjoyed whiskey, cards, and floozies. The Duchess, however, who had hoped to have a fresh start in Washington, was lonelier than ever. Now in her midfifties, she was considered old, dowdy, and socially outré. Her calls went unreturned; she was seldom invited anywhere. On top of everything, she had another severe bout of kidney trouble. Finally she received a great gift. She met Evalyn Walsh McLean, a wealthy, cosmopolitan socialite twenty years her junior who had married a man even wealthier than she. Ned McLean owned the Washington Post and the Hope Diamond. Their friendship was instantaneous and sincere. Under Evalyn’s guidance, Florence bought fashionable clothes, went to fashionable parties, participated in fashionable causes, and had a second home at the McLeans’ opulent and fashionable estate. Since Ned McLean’s personal predilections were as raunchy as Harding’s, the friendship was cemented all the way around. It was Evalyn who introduced the Duchess to Madame Marcia, a fashionable Washington fortune-teller who predicted that Warren Harding would be president but would not survive his term.

  How and why Harding became president in the election of 1920 is a long and complicated story. He was personally ambivalent, content to be reelected to the Senate, and considered a shoo-in. He was also acutely aware of his lack of qualifications. Always superstitious, Florence had faith in Madame Marcia. She pressed hard to keep him in the race. The election of 1920 was the first in which women could vote, and handsome Warren, who truly looked presidential, won in a walk. First Lady Duchess, now past sixty, with years of chronic illness coupled with a genetic disposition to wrinkle despite every effort to remain youthful, looked like his mother.

  Florence’s Legacy

  Florence Harding had the GRIT TO SURVIVE. She survived her despotic father, a failed first marriage to a drunk, a turbulent second marriage to a serial philanderer, a lonely and generally friendless existence, poor health, and the knowledge that their house of cards would crumble. If her health hadn’t failed, she probably would have survived that too. Nothing ever stopped her from holding her head high and pressing onward. The Duchess was one tough cookie.

  More than anything, Harding wanted to be a beloved president. He assumed that if he appointed good men to key positions, he could successfully be the face of the presidency, greeting, glad-handing, and exuding official charm, all of which he did splendidly. For her part, the Duchess wanted to be accessible, privately scorning the pretentious and supercilious manners of the last two decades of her predecessors. One of her first acts was to host an enormous garden party for wounded veterans. VA hospitals around the capital were emptied, and hundreds of soldiers came for sandwiches, cake, and lemonade. It was a beautiful spring day, perhaps the happiest day she would ever know. She also continued to be politically active behind the scenes, reading every speech before her husband made them and putting her two cents in. Warren usually listened. His wife was a shrewd woman.

  Harding’s appointments turned out to be a mixed bag. Some were very, very good, but like the little girl with a curl, some were horrid. It would take more than two years before there were undercurrents that all was not right in his official family. While Harding was inadequate in many ways, he was basically an honest man, but he was a dreadful judge of character when it came to his buddies. For all her political savvy, Florence had the same naiveté. Both Hardings were loyal by nature, and it was a crushing blow for them to learn, gradually at first, and then in an avalanche, that their dear friends were no more than common criminals, into the public till up to their elbows—all on Harding’s watch.

  His nerves shot, his stomach tormented, unable to sleep, with a heart condition that had been misdiagnosed for years, Harding had a massive coronary that killed him instantly. The Duchess would burn most of his papers and survive him by only a year.

  Postscript: AS AN AGING AND AILING WIDOW, THE DUCHESS RECEIVED A FINAL HUMILIATION. IT SEEMS THAT HER PHILANDERING HUSBAND HAD FATHERED AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD SHORTLY BEFORE HIS NOMINATION IN 1920. THE NEW MOTHER, LIKE SO MANY OF HIS PREVIOUS CHIPPIES, WANTED MONEY. FLORENCE ADAMANTLY REFUSED. SHE WENT TO HER GRAVE DISBELIEVING THAT LATEST EPISODE. BUT LIKE ALL THE OTHERS, THAT ONE WAS TRUE TOO.

  GRACE COOLIDGE

  1879–1957

  FIRST LADY: 1923–29

  Bountiful Graces

  When Calvin Coolidge introduced Grace Goodhue to his family, they called her a likely gal and advised him to marry her. It was a different story for the Goodhues. The middle-class New Englanders loved their only daughter and wanted her to be happy. She was pretty, educated at the University of Vermont, and a teacher of the deaf. She was also outgoing and winsome. She could have had her pick. What could she pos
sibly see in the mediocre, pasty cold clam who never said more than six words at a time?

  But marry they did, and they were surprisingly happy. She was twenty-six, he thirty-three. Calvin was indisputably the breadwinner and, in today’s world, undeniably sexist. Grace was the bread baker, undeniably domestic. Both would be ordinary, but they were content in their respective spheres. Grace was happy being Mrs. Coolidge, housewife. She raised two sons, cooked, cleaned, knitted and crocheted, joined the Red Cross, volunteered at their church, took long morning constitutionals for exercise, and socialized with dozens of friends. Most of the time, she was unaware of the middling political activities of her other half. In fact, when Coolidge became lieutenant governor of Massachusetts, Grace didn’t even know he had been running.

  What she did know, however, was that Calvin loved her dearly in his own undemonstrative and understated way. His Yankee sense of thrift was legendary. They would live in half of a rented two-family house until after he retired from the presidency. Their silverware had a monogrammed N on it, bought when the Norwood Hotel closed. Since knives and forks don’t wear out, they never saw fit to buy others. His only extravagance was reserved for Grace. He insisted that his wife have a stylish and expensive wardrobe, and he personally chose most of her hats. They both had a sense of humor that complemented each other. Hers, overt and mimicking; his, wry and deadpanned. And they were both incorrigible teases.

  By the mid-nineteen-teens, social politics were beginning to emerge from stag-only affairs. Wives frequently were included. Coolidge had a pretty, stylish, personable wife with a wall-to-wall smile. She mixed easily into society, offsetting her obviously uncomfortable and uncommunicative husband. She could chat happily about the latest vaudeville acts or movies or novels—and baseball, which she loved. Everybody remembered the delightful Mrs. Coolidge. Former President Taft commented that marrying Grace was the best political decision Coolidge ever made.