Today I made French John laugh. Rainy days provoke me to organizing. I started with the drawing room, and the more I worked and dusted, the more I thought I really must do something. So I called in French John to help me rearrange furniture. I said, “If I can’t change the world, at least I can change this room.” It struck him so funny that he had to put down the chair he was carrying and sit in it. Uncle Willy joined in, which only added to his amusement. He said that for just a moment I reminded him of a fat French priest. My expression must have changed. Every now and then I can get a little plump, but I lose the weight during the summer. Well, he laughed some more and said no, no, he didn’t mean I was fat but that when he was a boy, a ward of the Church of Rome, one of the priests was forever moving furniture about the library or whatever room struck his fancy. One day French John and the acolytes moved a particularly heavy pew, and the priest decided he wanted it returned to its original place. French John, instead, walked over to the priest, picked him up with the help of three other boys, and threw him out the window. The second-story window! He prudently followed this action by running away from the Church.
This was not the first time he had told me the story, but I never tire of it.
Then I asked him to return the chair to its original place, and we both grew so silly that we had to sit on the floor and laugh. I do so love French John. When Payne was little, he’d roll up the sleeves of his shirt and show my little angel his tattoos. Each tattoo had a story. If Payne was a good boy, he’d get to hear a story every day.
We laughed until we ached. Then we repaired to the kitchen and the icehouse, where I cut open a delicious cantaloupe and put vanilla ice cream in the middle. The two of us ate so much we couldn’t move.
French John, my eyes and my ears, never fails me. He informed me that the first panic is over. The people who are staying in Washington seem to have settled back into their routines, and the ones who have left would probably have gone to their country retreats anyway. He’s putting a good face on it, but there’s some merit to his view.
He brought a keg of powder to the back door. When I asked him why, he replied, “Just in case.”
And we talked politics. He said he thinks Webster is a bit of an actor and that his wrath is calculated to appeal to those men who are losing money in this war. What an interesting thought.
French John is proof of Jefferson’s dictum that the common man will make the correct decision if given the information. But then French John is not a common man. Perhaps no one is.
Delighted as I am to see this soft rain, I know the battle against pokeweed and dandelion will be renewed by midweek.
I’m no different from the other residents of Washington, sinking into routine. I go over the food purchases with French John. I inspect my little garden. I plan for my levee. I’ve decided a few small dinner parties for the Cabinet members will be good for morale. The small rituals of daily life offer solace and structure. No, I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but do we ever? Isn’t the future an illusion, a kind of hallucination we call up to drive us forward? The uncertainty about the British, about our very lives, only serves to illustrate how fragile life is.
What is my life? What will I leave behind besides my handsome and gifted son? Will anyone remember the dinner parties when I’m long dead? Would they remember Mother’s little house in Philadelphia where the great men of the day dropped by during the Constitutional Convention? Alexander Hamilton, doomed man; Aaron Burr, doomed too; Benjamin Franklin—oh, the list could go on, those shadows and spirits who founded this government. Perhaps they will be remembered, but I doubt that Dolley Payne will be remembered, except as a notation: wife of James Madison, fourth President of the United States.
Is it vain to want to be remembered? According to the Society of Friends I suppose it is, but to me it seems quite natural. Well, I won’t be remembered. The social aspect of government is much enjoyed and instantly forgotten. I was hostess for Thomas Jefferson when he was President and James was his Secretary of State. I especially enjoyed helping Meriwether Lewis and William Clark prepare for their great expedition. Oh, how I would have loved to make that trek with them. I’ve seen every great man this country has produced and most of the great women, too. Abigail Adams most impressed me, a force truly. I’ve met the ministers from other lands who’ve come here to cajole us, cheat us, or observe us. And how odd to think that it will wash away with our passing. I will wash away.
Time has greater power than any of us can imagine. John Todd has disappeared, as have my mother, Mother Amy, my brother Temple and my son Temple, beautiful sister Mary, my oldest brother, Walter, my brother Isaac, and Father. It’s as if they dissolved in the silver rain outside the window. And when I’m gone, who will remember them?
How curious is this life. How curious memory, at once a caress from the past and a thorn in the heart. I have learned to live with my losses, and my losses have taught me how to cherish life. Surely, there is a kinder way to learn.
I am vain. The ladies at Pine Street Meeting House used to complain to Mother that I was overfond of fripperies. A ribbon was damnation itself.
I do want to be remembered. I was here. I lived. I cried. I laughed. I breathed. I was part of the life of my beloved country.
Well, I won’t be here to know I’m forgotten! So there.
As Senator Brown would say, “Mrs. Madison, it’s all a crapshoot.”
I rolled my dice. Nine. I rolled nine in six tries and I didn’t lose. I should have made a wish on it. A wish that if I got my number before double sixes or snake eyes, I would be remembered. Too late now. That would be cheating. Still, I rolled my number.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
7 August 1814, Sunday
Do I use rouge? Apparently this has become a question of paramount importance to certain ladies of the town. The slander of my supposed extramarital escapades has dimmed. They seek new sins. When Madame Serurier told me today, I didn’t know whether to laugh or strike some wellborn names off my guest list. Of course, I would never do that. Jemmy needs their husbands’ support. The utter pettiness of this to-do in the midst of a war astonishes me. Madame Serurier shrugged and counseled that women, denied a share in the exercise of true citizenship, sink into social superiority. Emotions become their province, social control their destiny. Not for us the voice that commands thousands on the battlefield or raises the roof of Congress. No, it is our place to sit around worrying about whether someone wears rouge, a sure sign of the tart or of fading charms.
To tell the truth, I never thought I had much in the way of physical charms, with the exception of my skin. Men pay attention to me, but that’s because I love life. Such energy attracts and men will ever be pulled to a warm, lively soul over a cold and perfect beauty.
The rouge drama, argued hotly by my female detractors and defenders, rages. My detractors offer as proof the fact that I turned forty-six on May twentieth. How good of them to remember my birthday. No woman of my doddering years could possibly have color in her cheeks. My Grandmother Coles kept hers. My defenders trumpet as proof of my virtue that when I was given the Macedonian flag at a naval ball by a handsome officer, the color rushed and then fled from my cheeks.
Dear God, save me from my defenders!
I think I preferred the rumors of my various affairs with men to this twaddle.
Oh yes, another rumor is that I wear turbans because I’m going bald.
I think the gossip that did offend me was that I have no close friends. They say I am close only to members of my family.
If I cultivate many friends outside my family, then they say I am not paying attention to my first duty. If I cultivate male friends, well, it’s obvious what they say. If I cultivate female friends, I’ll be scourged as a frivolous gossip.
There are moments when the human race looks rather less than dogs or cats. At least they mind their own business.
Well, Madame and I, overlooking the Potomac
on this sticky day, spoke of many things loftier than these absurd rumors.
I said, in reply to the drivel, that it is in the nature of men and women to prattle in the face of crisis.
She asked, “If so, then how can you believe in democracy, people being the idiots we know them to be?”
I replied that our discussion about the state of women answered her question. Removed from the stage, they fiddle backstage, lose interest, and make trouble.
“Men gossip worse than women do,” Lisel observed.
“Supposedly their gossip is in the service of the state. It’s disguised as information.”
This made her laugh and we chattered on about political systems, men, and Nature. She said something that struck me. She is quite wise for one so young, and so infused with dark beauty. Lisel commented, “You can’t use Nature to justify a political system. Nature is amoral and ordered. Politics is immoral and chaotic.”
The French Revolution has left a bloody mark on Lisel, like the mark on the forehead of a Roman Catholic on Ash Wednesday. She has no faith in the perfectibility of man. All systems of government rest on the threat of force, and I am hard-pressed to deny her that outlook.
It’s a curious thing that people can’t work together in harmony naturally. A form of coercion is necessary. Why, if working together is for the common good? Some get more good out of it than others do; the Boston bankers perhaps are a case in point.
Lisel spread out a delicate handkerchief of Belgian lace. She placed it in my hands. The lace felt so cool against my skin.
“Women toil for days to make this lace, a small handkerchief; yet they can barely feed their children. If I tear this or grow tired of it, I’ll buy another. I don’t think I am a wasteful or an extravagant woman, by French standards anyway, but what must that Belgian lace maker think of me, if she thinks of me at all? Hatred.”
I thought about that. “Someone of your own class could hate you equally, but Lisel, no one who knows you could hate you at all.” True enough, for Madame Serurier shimmers with goodness.
“Knowing me might provoke a moment of communion with a lace maker but only for a moment. I’m near the top of the heap and she’s near the bottom.”
“Your efforts, given your station, are as diligent as the lace maker’s labors are for hers. Surely, an intelligent lace maker could see that?”
“Oh, Dolley, you are so American.” She laughed. “You people brim over with optimism. In Europe we trip over the corpses of hundreds of thousands of dead—not just those of the Napoleonic Wars but those countrymen we killed ourselves. And how did that happen? One day the peasants had had quite enough of the crass disregard the aristocrats showed them. Or maybe the sight of a lace handkerchief to a woman in rags was too much. I don’t know. Everyone has a theory, of course, but I have yet to be convinced of facts. What is a fact is that we slaughtered one another. For liberty, equality, and fraternity.” She leveled her gaze on mine.
“Surely, what your country experienced will produce some good. Suffering teaches many lessons.”
“Mostly that you no longer want to suffer.” She inhaled the heavy air. “Your New England citizens have suffered very little compared with those of France, very little, and yet for dollars they would abandon the rest of this country. What will happen if enormous suffering should befall this abundant nation?”
“Don’t be misled by Federalist leaders. The Yankee farmer knows well enough why we fight.”
“What’s the Yankee farmer against the might of the wealthy?”
“What was the peasant against the might of the aristocracy?”
“Touché.” Lisel smiled. “But consider the result.”
“Touché, in turn.”
In the quiet of the evening—even Uncle Willy is resting—I am drawn to wonder if it is possible to create a nation that reflects the teachings of Christ. If that is not possible, can we create a nation where simple justice is the rule and where persons can rise according to the level of their ability?
If we believe that, then we must destroy, once and forever, slavery.
The first American Revolution was against the tyranny of King George III. The second American Revolution must be against the tyranny of selfishness.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
9 August 1814, Tuesday
Today we learned that the British, under General Drummond, have captured Fort Erie. Their ability to hold on to their prize is questionable, and the fate of Fort Erie will be played out until the ice and snow return, I fear.
We receive no good news from the war or from the peace. I wonder if the British peace commission under Lord Gambier has finally arrived in Ghent. I do wish Henry Clay would write me another letter. How will the British open the negotiations? Clay, before he left in January, said they are so cynical, they will use anything to confuse us.
Today I wrote Lucy a long letter. No doubt she’s sweltering in Lexington. It contained my usual chitchat about family and friends and thoughts on the war, and I signed it “love” as I always do.
Can you send love through the mail? I think you can. I think you can send it if you sit quietly and pray, too. Over the years I’ve sat side by side with Death. I know his ways. Even in his kindness, the relief of intolerable suffering, he leaves behind others, dumbfounded with grief. I’ve felt his shadow at noon, and oddly, I have learned not to fear him. He’s taught me a great deal. All the getting and pushing and winning are but surface activity. Love, in its myriad forms, is the true force of life, and sometimes Love cheats even Death of his gruesome finality. And so I sign my letters “love.”
Lisel, fascinated by Bonaparte’s conquests, told me that when the French were in Egypt, they found a chant for the dead. It sings of a goddess, and I forget her name, but the chant says, “And she will recognize the way. She will come and go around those who love her for millions of days.”
Love leading the dead toward what? Forgetfulness of life or perhaps rapture. But I was struck by Love giving those she cherishes millions of days. Isn’t that what each of us has to give, time? Our days?
I observe people at my levees. Most work. A few are no-counts. Would that I had the time those no-counts squander. The hours and days and years. Would that I had that time to go around those I love for millions of days.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
10 August 1814, Wednesday
Uncle Willy proved to be the most exciting creature at my levee. The chatter was dim, the smiles were forced, and most of the women were missing. They must slip away in the dead of night, leaving their husbands to make excuses. Their health, the oppressive humidity of Washington, and so on. I can’t blame them. If the worst comes, they want to make sure their families are spared.
John Armstrong still has not produced a staff for General Winder. Jemmy read him a list of duties that must be performed, including the defense of Washington. Other than a handful of militiamen and Commodore Joshua Barney’s sailors and marines, about four hundred of them, to guard the river, there’s little between us and the British.
In the early spring Jemmy invited Commodore Barney to Washington and asked his advice on how to defend the city. The Commodore replied, “There’s no way to defend it as long as you have fools and incompetents in command.” Well, at least one man spoke the truth!
Armstrong promised to execute each of Jemmy’s demands. It’s not my place to criticize my husband, but his virtues are sometimes his faults. Jemmy undergoes the tortures of the damned if he must censure anybody. The time he had to punish Sukey for her indiscretion, it was harder on Jemmy than it was on her. When something disturbs him, he becomes quieter. Armstrong lacks any sensitivity, much less a grain of sense. Most men would have understood by now how deeply concerned the President is. For Jemmy to be driven to read off a list of demands—you’d think Armstrong would have the grace to resign! Actually, my poor, burdened husband should have relieved him of his Cabinet post, but Jemmy
believes that would be worse than keeping him. I bit my tongue when he told me of the Cabinet meeting. I could do a better job than John Armstrong!
Anna attended the levee. The night air, often cooling, kept so still tonight that we sweated as though in a steam bath. Quite hard on Anna, who should deliver next month. She wanted to be useful. I told her to sit by the table and hand me cups while I poured tea.
James Blake did tell me an amusing story. At the recent battle of Chippewa, in July, the Americans wore militia-gray since not a shred of blue cloth could be found for their uniforms. When the British general saw the Americans and their commander, Winfield Scott, he said to his men that they were only militia and not to worry about them. But our boys kept coming and they didn’t flinch under fire. Finally the British yelled, “They’re Regulars, by God!” We beat back the British.
This Winfield Scott impresses me. He led our troops at the battle of Lundy’s Lane later in July, and Jemmy said it was the hardest-fought battle of the war to date. They fought throughout the day, without rest, up until midnight. Neither side claimed victory or defeat.
Would that we had Winfield Scott here in Washington.
Wonderful news! Louis XVIII continued Louis Serurier’s diplomatic mission to our nation. Lisel and I were so happy we prattled like schoolgirls this evening. The Seruriers and the Daschkovs gave the evening whatever luster it possessed.
I had feared for Lisel. Apparently the King and his counselors aren’t lopping off heads, which is heartening, and Talleyrand remains as powerful and wily as ever. Some day I must ask Lisel to tell me everything about him.
Sukey petted Paul today like a favorite puppy. She coos at him and then cuffs him. Mother Amy would have had her hide by now, but I’m not Mother Amy. There’s no one like her nor will there ever be. Sukey, unusually cheerful, pressed my dress and petticoats without being asked. To what do I owe this sudden improvement in her behavior?
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