“Ours aren’t much better.”
“Well, no.” Dolley thought a moment. “I’ve always wondered why bad news sells papers.”
“You can pick up the news and know that someone is worse off than you are.” Anna heard a yelp in the back room. “Well, there’s the first peep.”
“More like a howl, I’d say.”
The two sisters rose and tiptoed to the boys’ room, where they were greeted by the spectacle of Tommy and Walter tied back-to-back. A handkerchief filled Walter’s mouth, but Tommy must have managed to spit his out because he was the one yelping. James jumped in surprise when his aunt and mother descended on him.
“James, what is this?”
“You told me to keep them quiet.”
7 January 1814, Friday
John Randolph’s pen, dipped in venom, has found its mark. Anna told me today that she heard from Mrs. Thornton that Randolph has begun writing, with monotonous frequency, to his boon companion, the president of the Bank of Virginia. I know Dr. John Brockenbrough, and he is an honorable man even if he is a dear friend of John Randolph’s. I believe he’s the only man that unhappy soul has never turned on.
Dr. Brockenbrough, being a Virginian, would rather win the war than lose, but bankers, fearful creatures that they are, seem to be more Federalist than Republican in hue. If Dr. Brockenbrough shares these letters, which will multiply like rabbits, with his financial compeers, the contents will certainly find their way into the hands of New England’s bankers. If William Thornton has heard of the letters, I can be sure they are well on their way toward wide distribution. Daniel Webster will make good use of them. On the surface, Randolph and Webster never would agree on anything. But loyalties have shifted. Party politics are shifting, too. Randolph’s brilliance feeding Webster’s budding oratory—horrible thought!
We don’t know what is in those letters, but they won’t deal affectionately with my husband.
Oh, Randolph, decrying the pains of pestilential society, how he wants to be free of society. He says he wants to be alone but everyone knows where to find him.
I must get French John to see if he can’t find out more about this.
I received a letter today from my sweet Lucy. She won’t be spending the rest of the winter or the spring in the capital this year. If only she would. When Lucy, Anna, and I are together, we can find the humor in the worst of situations, and this is the worst of them. But with a houseful of little judges, as she calls her children, she thinks she must stay in Lexington this winter. She promises that she is going to make up for this self-denial, though, and visit for the entire season next year. Won’t that be merry?
What good times we’ve had. And when sister Mary was alive—well, as Anna used to say, the more the merrier, and then she’d tweak Mary. Now Mary’s gone and all my brothers, too, except John Coles Payne, trying to do his duty in this war as an assistant quartermaster. John is so much younger than I, we never grew close. And the drinking—well, that’s painful to bear. He stops and sometimes goes without alcohol for months. If he married, perhaps a wife would steady him. Mother used to say that a man without a woman was like a ship without a rudder.
I have observed that drinking seems to pass through generations in families and I find it peculiar that Mother and Father did not drink, yet John does. I still believe that’s what killed my Isaac. Under the influence he offended someone, and he was shot the next day as he left his house. That was January 1795, and my older brother, Temple, died that same month of sickness.
As far as I know, neither of my grandparents drank to excess, although William Coles, Mother’s father, fully appreciated celebrations; but I never knew of his drinking on a regular basis.
I am very grateful that not one of us girls is so afflicted or my darling Payne, either.
So many deaths in January and October, too. Cruel months for me.
On this day in 1790 I married John Todd. He courted me for three years and I didn’t want to get married, but there didn’t seem to be anything else I could do. Once I was married, I was glad he had been so persistent. He was twenty-six years old and I was twenty-two. It’s hard to remember being that young.
How handsome John was and how unconcerned with the follies of this world, as a good Quaker should be. I was never too successful at that, and he would chide me for being pulled in the direction of worldliness. Then he’d laugh out loud and pull out a ribbon for me. He could never refuse me anything.
I thought all marriages were as happy as my own, and then I learned that some of my dearest friends were savaged by their own husbands. They bore these blows in silence, but blackened eyes and bruises are difficult to conceal. I know John would never have taken a hand to me, but if he had, I would have hit him back. A Quaker is never supposed to strike in violence, but there’s enough Irish blood in me to do so. I want to believe that peacefulness creates peacefulness, and yet my experience of the world leads me to other, more sorrowful conclusions.
I never knew how much I loved John until I looked at the husbands of my friends, and I guess I never truly knew how much I loved him until he died. October 1793. We had less than four years together. Our son died then, too. Mother died in October 1805. Mother Amy died in October 1792, which broke Mother’s heart.
Why is it that we don’t realize how much we love others until we lose them? If only I had told John how much I loved him. He told me in a thousand ways and none more convincing than his ride back to Gray’s Ferry, only hours from death, riding all the way from Philadelphia so that he could see my face one last time.
May God forgive me for not knowing what I had in John Todd. May God forgive me for not telling him that he was worth the whole lot of men in Pennsylvania. Instead, I wept on his grave.
May God forgive me now. I hope in remembering my first husband I am not in some way taking from my second. But I learned, and I tell Jemmy every day that I love him. In the beginning of our marriage he used to blush. I believe now that it fortifies him. I tell him each night before falling asleep, and if he works late, then I leave a note on his pillow or notes on his desk since sometimes he will awake in the middle of the night and go to work.
If there is another world beyond this world—I fear I do not have the easy assurance of other Christians—if there is, I long to meet my John Todd again to thank him from the bottom of my heart for teaching me how to love and be loved.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
A rare sunny day pushed the temperature up into the mid-fifties. Dolley, Madame Serurier, and Anna seized the opportunity and rode to the outskirts of town in Madame’s carriage, accompanied by French John astride one of the sorrels. Madame Serurier’s driver, in clothes so exotic that he was the envy of all, carried on a lively conversation with Jean Pierre Sioussat.
Both men had been promised to the Church and had endured the spartan rigor of a Roman Catholic education. French John escaped the fate planned for him when he pushed a corpulent priest out of a church window and followed this rash act by running away to sea.
The driver laughed at French John’s account and said his own exit from Mother Church, barren of such drama, occurred because he cried so piteously when his mother came to visit him that she freed him from his bondage.
French John asked him if he had seen the execution of Louis XVI, and the driver, glum for a moment, replied that yes, he had seen it and could perfectly recall the sight of the King’s head held high before the bloodthirsty mob. The blood still gushed from the severed neck and the eyes, wide open, bulged as if in horror at the spectacle to which it contributed. Remember it? He would never forget it.
French John nodded. In January 1793 his own father had held him up high so that he could see. That October he had also seen the Queen beheaded. He didn’t care what the crowd screamed; he pitied her.
Delicacy forbade French John from accurately describing how he had become an American. He was serving on a French frigate bound for Baltimore to fetch the un
happy Jerome Bonaparte back to his brother, Napoleon. Jerome had married Elizabeth Patterson, reputed to be the most beautiful woman in the New World, and saw no need to hasten back to the cauldron of European troubles.
When Baltimore hove into view, French John decided without a moment’s reflection that this was where he belonged. When the night watchman lit his pipe, French John slid down a rope and swam to shore. That was in 1805 and he had no regrets.
As for the British pigs, let them come. He would smack them on the snout.
The Seruriers’ driver agreed. To be French meant to despise the British.
Dolley poked her head out the window. “I do wish you’d speak in English, French John; you know how my French wobbles.”
“Mrs. Madison, you would be bored to hear this tale in English.”
“You’ve never bored me for an instant.”
“Because to be in your presence brings out the best in every man.” He swept his cap in a grand gesture.
The driver laughed. French John’s importance grew in his eyes.
Dolley’s majordomo smiled. As the ladies chatted, he asked the driver if he had heard anything of European news. He especially wanted to know about the Emperor, whom he pretended to admire. Truthfully, French John preferred that Napoleon should conquer rather than be conquered, but as an American he wished most of all that Americans would profit from whatever happened across the ocean.
“Ah, well, you know,” the driver said, “in the beginning the Emperor swept all before him, but his enemies have studied his tactics. He has taught them how to fight him.”
“Napoleon is a military genius.”
“Oui.” The driver agreed. “No man will ever equal Napoleon but …”—he glanced around to see if Madame Serurier was listening and she was not—“France has been fighting for years now. How many more men can we lose? How much more money can we spend? Men do not fight for free, even in the service of freedom.”
French John wondered what would happen to the minister and his wife if Napoleon was defeated. The forces of reaction would reinstate fat, idiotic Louis XVIII. Would the Seruriers be recalled, imprisoned, killed? Far better for them to stay here. He kept these thoughts to himself.
He had seen much of the world. America lacked polish, and the Westerners were little better than savages, but he had made a good life for himself in this country, a life he could not have duplicated in France.
No matter how sophisticated the country of his birth, neither France nor any other European nation could stay out of war with its neighbors. He hated the British. He hated this war and he prayed to Great God Almighty that America would win and then have the sense never to become embroiled in a European conflict. A thousand years of culture. Two thousand years of culture. Great Rome and Paris and Vienna and London. Yet all they could do was drag one another into rivers of blood. America was so big. Whole sections were just waiting for bold people to settle them. Why, this nation didn’t need other countries. Europe could go to hell.
“French John.”
“Oui, Mrs. Madison.”
“How come you’re so quiet now?”
“I want to hear what you ladies are saying.” He leaned back toward the passengers. “You know, women used to rule the world until they got men to do it for them. I am hoping I’ll learn something.”
This was met with peals of laughter, an antidote to the tensions building in the city.
8 January 1814, Saturday
Rode into the country with Madame Serurier and Anna today. Anna eats everything in sight. This sounds familiar.
Madame delighted me as usual.
French John, who rode along, told me the driver is losing his enthusiasm for war and by inference we can assume that the French people are, too.
He also told me that Henry Carroll delivered a letter to him informing him that the House of Representatives might prove high entertainment in the next week. The maneuvering for votes has begun in earnest now. We must have more troops. I gave him permission to attend if he wishes.
Sukey and Elizabeth Monroe’s servant, Toffey, exchanged harsh words, and Sukey won’t tell me the cause except to say that Toffey is dim-witted. According to Elizabeth, Toffey accuses Sukey of using her position to boss the other servants, and she hinted darkly that Sukey is a creature of unbridled passion.
There’s a war on, and the wife of the President and the wife of the Secretary of State waste their time mollifying their servants. I know what Mother Amy would do but I haven’t the heart. I don’t believe in taking the strap to anyone—I wonder sometimes, if I had, would my Payne be more disciplined?
I don’t want James to get wind of Sukey’s behavior. He takes these things to heart and he’ll go over to the Monroes’ and try to put things right.
Slavery, the worm in the apple! When my father freed our slaves, I thought that would be the end of this issue for me. James feels the same as I do, but he won’t free his slaves as long as his mother is alive. Mother Madison can’t manage a five-thousand-acre estate alone, and James can’t afford to hire enough help. We can’t manage the estate either. I put it to my husband that we may have to sell some of our land—indeed, a great deal of our land.
He said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” That made me laugh because Jemmy rarely uses the little clichés that make communication so much easier for the rest of us.
Mother Madison mentioned in her letter the other day that she had heard the British were threatening to march inland. For spite they intend to pay her a visit. So much the worse for the British. Mother Madison does not shine on trespassers.
In a housecleaning fit today—Uncle Willy waddled along at my feet—I uncovered a book on rabies sent to me some years ago by its author, James Thacher, a physician from Massachusetts. I remember that I wrote and thanked him, but I wondered if Dr. Thacher was making a sly comment on my temperament. Uncle Willy has chewed the corners and made a few deposits on the cover. The bird is becoming a literary critic.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
10 January 1814, Monday
The cook performed miracles tonight. We gave a dinner honoring Mr. and Mrs. Monroe. Forty attended. It’s impossible to find anything now other than fresh meat, but jams, jellies, and the ever-serviceable potato, in a variety of guises, made up for the lack of green. I had to borrow money from Anna because the butcher refused to extend my account. Anna has so little money I hated to do it, but I’ll rummage through my things. Surely I can find something to sell. Naturally, I’ll pay my debt to Anna first.
Mother Amy used to say you can’t sit down to eat if there isn’t something green on the plate, but then Mother Amy could consume a gallon of collards steeped in pork fat. She was one of the healthiest women I’ve ever seen.
I made Sukey stay out of sight because of her recent troubles with Toffey.
Madame Serurier commented that she thought my practice of having small dinner parties to honor various people a splendid idea, but that she couldn’t understand why the President sat in the middle of the table while Ned Coles and I sat at the ends. I told her that Jemmy, not the most comfortable man in large groups of people, enjoys himself much more if he doesn’t have to be in charge of passing the food about. She also confided that the first time she sat at our table, she was amazed to find all the courses on the table at once. I told her frankly that it cut down on the number of outside waiters I must hire. When I told her my operating budget, she nearly swooned.
I explained to her that Ned Coles is my cousin and as the President’s secretary, he is delighted to perform the duties of the head of the table. The Federalists attacked Ned, too, saying he got the job because of family connections. Is there anyone in Washington who doesn’t have employment because of family connections? Last year, with Ned desperately ill, I discovered how good a secretary he really is. Naturally I didn’t inform Madame Serurier of that.
Ned is so deeply opposed to slavery that he has told both Jemmy and
me that as soon as this war is over, he will be moving to one of the Western Territories, probably Illinois. He intends to free all his slaves and start anew. Freeing the slaves will leave him close to destitute, but he says he doesn’t care about the money. He cares more about his soul.
Jemmy has asked James Monroe to act informally as a liaison between himself and the House of Representatives. Albert Gallatin performed this service and with his absence on the peace commission (he has still not been approved!), James’s relations with the House are languishing. Tactfully, I suggested to Mr. Monroe that he enlist John Calhoun to help him perform this duty. I did this privately, of course. And since I, and everyone else, believe that James Monroe will be the Republican candidate for President in 1816, this will send Floride Calhoun to her husband’s side as soon as she gives birth and is able to travel. She now awaits this happy event in Bath, South Carolina.
Calhoun, who really is a handsome man, needs the softening influence of his wife. He is even worse at small talk than Jemmy is. And what is so curious is that among family and dear friends, my husband is a lively conversationalist and truly funny. Once at Thomas Jefferson’s house, Jemmy made a witty remark and Jefferson, not the most easily humored of men, began laughing. Well, the sight of Thomas Jefferson laughing made Jemmy laugh even harder, and he tipped back in his chair and fell out the window. Beautiful as Monticello is, I have never thought those three sash windows practical. What a pity that the public will never see Jemmy’s humorous side.
The Federalists began a campaign in the House today. They’re howling against the war and most especially the embargo. I don’t believe they’ll stop until each and every Federalist speaks. In this city, the wolves gather at noon.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
A driving rain illustrated the flaws remaining in the unfinished Capitol. The north wing, completed seven years ago in 1807, leaked like a sieve. An unpainted, long wooden shed connected the two wings of the building. It, too, leaked.
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