My husband surprised me today by mentioning how much he missed my flower arrangements. He complimented me, too, on my efforts to create gardens around the house, which looks as though it’s been plopped in the middle of the road. Tom Magraw, my gardener, has been very helpful, but there’s nothing any of us can do in the winter; Washington is still so uncivilized that no commercial hothouses have been constructed. On the southwestern side of Montpelier I had good luck bringing bulbs along early, and if glass wasn’t so expensive, I’d like to build a small structure for forcing bulbs. Perhaps I could have success with an orange tree, but then I’d really have to be extravagant with glass. Well, it’s a nice dream in the middle of winter. How kind of Jemmy to praise me. He said I was artistic and he envied me that.
I will be ecstatic when my husband’s term of office is over. On top of every other happy consideration, we will see people who want to see us and not people who want something from us.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
Two beribboned heads, pretty heads, were bent over reams of paper covered with a bold, clear handwriting. The room, full of the glories of France—rich satinwoods dripping with ormolu, beautifully bound books, and heavy, exquisite curtains of blue brocade—provided a suitable setting for Madame Serurier and Dolley Madison. Dolley, never out of place regardless of her surroundings, seemed especially at home in these regal chambers.
Madame, through her own web of associates, which is to say a formidable number of men in the service of the Emperor, had acquired copies of many of John Randolph’s letters. Dolley, who recognized Randolph’s handwriting, knew these were not the originals but the style was unmistakably his. Prepared to doubt their authenticity, she now believed they were exact copies.
Madame simply stated that she had heard French John had been purchasing letters. Knowing how thin the presidential budget was, she was happy to share with Dolley the letters she had obtained. Louis Serurier knew nothing about this, and Madame knew that James Madison would know nothing of it either.
Dolley appreciated Madame’s ability to maneuver, just as Madame appreciated Dolley’s. Each thought that the other was the only woman in America willing and able to play politics.
Madame held up the most recent copy and read, her accent soothing the words. “ ‘I have been too long acquainted with the maneuvering of the sex, and especially of the lady in question, to be surprised at what you tell me: for which of my sins it is I know not, that I have sustained this long and heavy persecution (more hot and galling than the dreadful fire which killed nine of General Harrison’s mounted riflemen), but I humbly hope that the penance will reduce the “balance” against me (to speak à la Virginienne) on a final settlement.’ ”
“He claims he can’t stand women, and yet if one passes outside his window, he knocks everyone over to get a look at her,” Dolley said. “He also thinks that every woman is interested in him and when he does not return the warmth, she transforms into an avenging virago.” Dolley picked up another letter. “I know he is physically afflicted, but still …”
“Has anyone ever seen this affliction?” Madame’s voice rose, her eyes danced.
Dolley couldn’t answer, she was laughing too hard, and then Madame joined in her mirth.
Not only had no woman ever seen the much-discussed shrunken genitals of John Randolph, Madame had learned, no man had either. Madame Serurier persisted, knowing how provincial Americans were in such matters. What no one was able to ascertain was whether John Randolph’s genitals were truly minute or merely failed to function. Whatever, his inability to enjoy life’s pleasures and life’s regeneration had soured his brilliance into bitterness. The unhappier he became, the more he resented the happiness of others, most especially conjugal happiness. James Madison’s marriage, which was the envy of everyone, drove Randolph to new excesses of spite.
And yet he shared his resources with shirttail relatives. He was hardly a rich man. His wealth didn’t approach that of the first President or even the diminishing wealth of his bête noire, Jefferson. Yet he took care of the children of a Mrs. Dudley. He cared for Richard Randolph’s sons, Tudor and George, after Richard’s lamented death. Then, when a childhood friend died, he took in his two sons. All told, John Randolph supported six fatherless children. Madame’s first reaction when she heard that was to suspect Randolph of lascivious purposes, but none of her sources ever found anything distasteful on that subject. He was not a pederast but a tender surrogate father by all accounts.
So there was good in the man. There was also danger. Madame noted that in the letters, Randolph had evidenced good knowledge of the struggle in Europe. He knew that Bonaparte had endured a defeat near Frankfurt and he knew that Pampelune had surrendered with forty-five hundred men. Randolph assumed that Lord Wellington had entered Bayonne. Clearly, John Randolph enjoyed excellent lines of communication with his country’s enemy. Either that, or he was uncommonly adept at piecing together information and reading maps of Belgium, France, and Germany. Or both.
Dolley put down the letters. Madame carefully placed them in a folio, and the maid brought tea, much needed despite the fact that the temperature had climbed well into the forties.
After the maid left, Dolley said, “I am in your debt.”
“Not at all.” Madame was sincere. She wanted the United States to win this war, not only because she desired a defeat for their mutual enemy but also because she had learned to love this nation, crudeness and all. And she loved Dolley.
“As you must have surmised, our intelligence from the Continent is as thin as it is at home. If John Randolph has this information, we may assume the Federalists will soon have it, too, if they don’t already. As Mother Madison would say, ‘too little too late.’ ”
“And how is the esteemed Mrs. Madison?”
“She has recovered from a recent bout with good health.”
Madame laughed. Nell Conway Madison’s hypochondria was well known. “You are fortunate not to need intelligence the way we do in France. I begin to think that every fourth person is a spy either for our government or for the English.”
“The English have the best spy system in the world.”
“Because they are the most suspicious people in the world.” Madame did not laugh when she said that.
Dolley sighed and put her teacup in the saucer. “My darkest fear is that John Randolph works in the service of Great Britain and that he will support the antiwar factions even if they were formerly his bitterest enemies.”
“But they still are” Madame patted Dolley’s hand. “Mrs. Madison—”
“Oh, do call me Dolley. I can’t bear to be formal anymore.” The letters had shaken Dolley. Randolph knew far more than she dreamed.
“Then, Dolley, call me Lisel. It’s my childhood nickname, and I feel as though I have known you since childhood.” Madame again patted Dolley’s hand. “John Randolph is not a British agent. As much as he hates this war, he would not betray his country,” the younger woman said to console Dolley.
“Well, the bankers in New England certainly are betraying it!” Dolley was shocked at her own outburst. A President’s wife had to be cautious.
“Yes, but he is not a traitor. Think of how you know this man. He is insane, no? But surely not a traitor to the nation to which he helped give birth.”
“No, I don’t think he is, but Lisel, he knows so much.” Dolley sighed, only slightly relieved by Lisel’s words.
Madame clapped her hands as Madame de Stahl padded into the room. The cat immediately rushed over and leaped into her mistress’s lap. Very loud purrs accompanied this. “John Randolph is a highly intelligent man. Extraordinaire.”
“He is that. I think of that passage from Genesis 16:12: ‘And he will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man’s hand against him.’ How can he not understand the necessity of this war?”
“Even brilliant men make mistakes.”
Dolley wondered if Madame was
thinking of Napoleon, too. “Do you remember life before the Revolution? In France, I mean.”
“I was so little. I do remember Papa’s telling me that the aristocrats had become so accustomed to privilege that they no longer understood power. As I have grown and observed the world, I know what Papa meant. People in power believe they will always be in power. If their wealth is intact, all they do is buy things and order the servants about, but they’ve lost the ability to distinguish between that and political power. The aristocrats had really lost their power before the Revolution. They danced in a charade. It may happen here, too, someday. I believe it is happening in England.”
Dolley’s eyebrows knitted together. “England under the Regency seems stable enough.”
“Stable, yes, but the great lords frolicking on their huge estates don’t realize that the textile manufacturer or the steel manufacturer they despise will one day take over the government. And commercial men think differently from”—she searched for the right expression—“from those with wealth in land.”
“Power rests with money.” Dolley sighed because she had so little of it.
“Yes and no. Power rests with money and energy. Those who have the energy and the will are those who acquire power. What of 1776? What of today? Your country is changing even as mine is.”
“Change or die, as Mother Amy used to say.” Dolley thought for a moment. “But the changes I see are … frightening. The generations of Washington, Adams, my husband—they thought only of the common good. These new men think only of what’s good for them!” Then she said, “Oh, I think I’m just cross today. Reading those letters, those vicious attacks on Jemmy, has put me at sixes and sevens. Promise me, as soon as we get another warm day, we’ll ride.”
“I promise.”
When she arrived, Dolley had given Madame the necklace she wanted to sell. Madame tactfully did not refer to it again. She wished that Dolley would not sell something so personal, but once Dolley was set on a course of action, nothing could dissuade her. How could a nation expect good leadership when the President and his wife lived from hand to mouth?
19 January 1814, Wednesday
People came out to my levee despite the bad weather. Henry Clay resigned today as Speaker of the House and will soon leave for the peace commission. Langdon Cheves is the new Speaker. He’s a good Republican although not Henry Clay, but then who can match him?
Although he is not yet forty, I marvel at Henry Clay’s ability to wrest concessions from opposing factions. Strong as he may be on any given point of view, he can see the other side, too. His mind is flexible. He will be a great asset at the peace talks even though he will need to bite his tongue and defer to Adams.
John Quincy Adams expects to follow in his father’s footsteps and become President. Despite his contentious personality he displays such high intelligence and lofty purpose, I think he would be a good President even if his politics are different from ours.
I believe Jemmy is sending Henry Clay to Ghent to groom him for the presidency some distant day. If he can return with a signed and honorable peace, he will be lionized throughout our nation. Should we gain a respectable peace, it will help Adams, but Clay will be seen as its champion.
Perhaps I am wrong and my husband isn’t worried about who will be President in twelve or sixteen years. We both worry about these younger men. They are so quick to press for personal advantage. I hope the years season them.
The main reason Jemmy is dispatching Mr. Clay to Europe, however, is that he believes Clay can hasten the peace. Jemmy puts the welfare of this nation before all personal consideration and affection.
I spent a lovely few hours with Lisel Serurier, who asks that I address her by her childhood name. What wasn’t lovely was reading John Randolph’s letters. If Randolph is so admiring of the English, I suggest that he move there.
I encapsulated his arguments as best I could for Cousin Ned and asked him to inform Henry Clay. He is also to alert the Speaker that my husband has not read the letters.
Ned has never failed me, or his President.
I discreetly asked Matilda Lee Love, who came by this evening, if she had heard much sentiment against my husband on the Virginia side of the Potomac. She said, in so many words, “No more than usual.”
But then I always believe that people gossip less in the winter because they have fewer opportunities to socialize. This is one of my pet ideas. Jemmy’s answer to it is that winter and our own Commodore Joshua Barney have prevented Rear Admiral Cockburn from committing his usual acts of violence in the Chesapeake, hence the lessening of criticism against him from those close to home—excluding Congress, of course.
I find myself becoming angry when I hear a New England accent. I’m being silly but I can’t help it. I hope my feelings don’t betray me.
My husband bears the burden of two centuries. The young people are different from us. They read different books. They have different ambitions and they expect much more than we ever did. They have heard of the Stamp Act, the Boston Tea Party, and the guns blazing at Lexington, but they didn’t live through any of it and I believe they are getting tired of those of us who did. The past must seem like a play to them, more fanciful, more robust than life. But it was life. Our lives as well as our deaths. How many of us died? I don’t think we’ll ever know. Mother used to tell me to pray for the souls of the English and the Hessian soldiers; even though they were our enemies, God loved them. I didn’t. I never did pray for the souls of those Redcoats who fell in battle. Wicked of me.
I don’t remember the war as Jemmy does, but having been born in 1768, I can remember the excitement; Jemmy remembers the issues and the personalities. In 1776 he was a young man at the hub of the wheel, and now, thirty-eight years later, he is an old man, but still at the hub. The wheel spins faster. I thought life would slow down as we aged together, but exactly the opposite is true.
Is that why the young are so belligerent and so cavalier about our past? Do they believe time began with them and that it will never run out?
Time is an imp scampering through the waist of an hourglass. I used to laugh when Mother would flip over the hourglass and say, “The sands of time are running out.” The imp is running away with my life, and I never knew I was a victim of theft.
I have tried to tell Payne how valuable even the minutes are, but to no avail. Payne exhibits the Coles bull-headedness that used to infuriate my father about my mother. He’s so charming though, one always forgives him. He’ll learn to respect time when he’s ready. We all do. My husband was forty-three when I married him and I thought he was somewhat old. Now I’m forty-five!
When I was quite small, Mother Amy was about the age I am now, and I thought she was the oldest person on earth. Now I know that the oldest person on earth is really Mother Madison, bless her. Mother Amy would smile, her teeth stained from chewing tobacco, her earrings dangling, and she would say she was the Ancient of Days. Then she’d tell me some great truth. Upon reflection I realize that Mother Amy never really looked old, but I thought she was because that’s what she told me.
Shocked as I am at my own age, I perceive that it has its advantages. In growing old you are torn from vanity and set free. People speak of the weight of the years, but I believe I am becoming lighter. True, the burdens of life have never been heavier, but I feel myself to be lighter. I can’t explain it.
French John understands. I see it in him. He becomes more jolly and outspoken with each passing year. By now both French John and I have seen enough to know what’s worth worrying about and what isn’t. Truthfully, there’s not much worth fretting over. Except this war.
I don’t want to think about the war tonight.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
The children played outside while Dolley and Anna planned for Little Dickey’s fourth birthday the following day, January 21. The heavy aroma of a roast filled the house, mingling with the rich odor of burning oak from the main fireplace.
“I don’t think Jemmy can come tomorrow afternoon, but he’s bought a wonderful miniature ship for Dickey and I’ve found him a sailor’s hat. Actually, I prevailed upon William Jones. I told him if there wasn’t one at the Navy Yard, to snatch one off a sailor’s head.”
“Dolley, you are always so thoughtful of my children—”
“I love your children.”
“I know, but these presents are”—Anna groped for words—“warlike.”
“No, they aren’t. The sailing ship doesn’t have any guns on it and a sailor’s hat, well, don’t be so strict.”
“I’m not strict, but I don’t want the children growing up thinking war is an acceptable Christian pursuit.”
“Acceptable or not, both our husbands are in it.”
“I know that, and mine is losing money hand over fist!”
“Well”—Dolley, having examined the bills that morning, was in no mood to hear her sister poor-mouth—“you know, James and I will be lucky to get out of Washington with the clothes on our backs. We don’t have enough money to be suitably dressed, set a fine table, or entertain as the President should. And what about those lots Jemmy purchased? The market here never climbed as high as we had hoped it would and now it’s plummeting. We are all suffering, and I know I owe you money, as well. I am endeavoring to secure some funds to discharge my debt.”
“Jemmy is a rich man,” Anna argued.
“You know better than that. Why, there are years when he hardly makes a penny.”
“He has a lot more than Richard.”
“He’s a lot older than Richard, Anna. He’s had more time to accumulate things and to invest. Richard will come along.” She sighed. “And I hope to have your money soon. Really.”
“I know that,” Anna snapped. “We always pay each other back and our husbands are none the wiser. But I look around and I see no end in sight. Every day a dollar buys less. Every day whatever I need—milk, pins, a bolt of cloth—costs more. I can’t keep the children in clothes. I don’t want to wind up like Father. I couldn’t go through the shame again.”
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