Martha Washington

by Patricia Brady

  She had settled on a style of dress that pleased her. Following the general modes of the day, she had her gowns made of very fine fabrics. One of her dresses remains intact at Mount Vernon: the tailored lines of its lustrous brown silk would have flattered her now stocky shape; the bodice’s square neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves would have been accented by a lace fichu and trim. Pieces of fabric cut from her dresses and passed down through the family as mementos are a beautiful assortment of lampas and damask silks—white with red and pink roses, pale ivory with narrow ivory stripes and delicate bouquets, very pale green with dark and pale pink grosgrain-pattern stripes and more pink bouquets. A visiting Frenchman bestowed his approval on her “simple dignity . . . she possesses that amenity, and manifests that attention to strangers, which render hospitality so charming.”

  Among their more illustrious guests was one of Great Britain’s leading literary figures, Catherine Macaulay. Author of the liberal History of England, she had been savaged in England both for her openly pro-American views and her marriage to the very much younger, socially inferior William Graham. Her friend and longtime correspondent Mercy Otis Warren made a classic comment on her marriage at forty-seven to a man of twenty-one: “Doubtless, that lady’s independency of spirit led her to suppose she might associate for the remainder of her life with an inoffensive, obliging youth with the same impunity a gentleman of threescore and ten might marry a damsel of fifteen.”

  Armed with introductory letters from the Warrens, Macaulay, now Macaulay Graham, and her husband arrived for a ten-day visit at Mount Vernon in June 1785. Martha welcomed them warmly, although the author was chiefly interested in looking over George’s military correspondence and discussing republican government. Writing to Mercy in fond remembrance of their wartime friendship, Martha thanked her for “introducing a Lady so well known in the literary world as Mrs. Macaulay Graham, whose agreeable company we have had the pleasure of a few days.”

  But though Washington enjoyed the company of intellectual women, it was his own beloved wife’s conversation he relished. Martha had no pretensions of being intellectual, but she was intelligent, observant, and vitally interested in all the experiences that had come her way in life. Now in her late fifties, she was comfortably plump, gray-haired, and grandmotherly in appearance. Most people were still attracted by the flashing smile, friendly eyes, unwrinkled skin, and interest in everyone she met.

  George had grown only more contented in nearly thirty years of marriage. He revealed his feelings about the joys of a happy marriage in a letter to his old friend from the Revolution, the Marquis de Chastellux, who had finally married after many years of amorous liaisons. George wrote: “I was, as you may well suppose, not less delighted than surprised to come across that plain American word—‘my wife.’ A wife!—Well, my dear Marquis, I can hardly refrain from smiling to find you are caught at last. I saw, by the eulogium you often made on the happiness of domestic life in America, that you had swallowed the bait. . . . Now you are well served for coming to fight in favor of the American Rebels, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, by catching the terrible contagion—domestic felicity—which like the smallpox or the plague, a man can have only once in his life; because it commonly lasts him—(at least with us in America—I don’t know how you manage these matters in France) for his whole lifetime.” He wished for the newlyweds the enjoyment of their “domestic felicity—during the entire course of your mortal existence.”

  There were very few people who truly loved farming as George did. He started to get his acreage back in good heart again, to repair the deterioration of the mansion house, and to complete the additions and improvements that had lagged during the Revolution. The enlarged house gave the extended family much needed space and privacy, particularly his study and his and Martha’s large second-floor bedroom, separated from the main body of the house by private passageways to be entered only by invitation. At the end of the war, the grand dining room on the north end of the house was still incomplete. The embellishment of that great room continued apace; it was nearly two stories high, with its own outside door, grand Palladian window, bright mint green paint, marble mantelpiece, and delicate white plasterwork on ceiling and walls.

  A spacious portico with columns soaring to the second story on the riverside and flagstones underfoot provided the perfect setting to enjoy their dramatic view of the Potomac; it became one of the signature elements of the mansion. The finishing touches were provided on the west front by a pediment, cupola topped by a dove-shaped weather vane, and open arcades tying the mansion to the adjoining outbuildings while allowing glimpses of the river, creating what is essentially today’s Mount Vernon.

  Much as he enjoyed agricultural retirement, Washington hadn’t given up his keen interest in the development of the western frontier or his belief that a strong federal government was needed for the economic and political well-being of the nation he had done so much to form. Beginning in 1784, he and James Madison drew the states of Virginia and Maryland into a series of conventions to work together on issues involving the Potomac River and the Chesapeake Bay; some of the meetings were held at Mount Vernon. Finally, in 1786, Virginia invited all the states to a convention at Annapolis to discuss trade and commercial problems; representatives from the five states present issued a call for a convention of all the states to meet the following May in Philadelphia.

  In 1787, Fanny Washington gave birth to a boy, who died four days later. For Martha, it must have been like losing a grandson. But Fanny didn’t recover completely from her confinement; instead, she remained weak and started to cough persistently, a worrisome echo of George Augustine. The younger Washingtons went to try the effects of Warm Springs, and Fanny returned in somewhat better health, “but not perfectly recovered” in her aunt’s eyes. She was also five months pregnant and feeling superstitious about the loss of her first baby at Mount Vernon.

  Early the next year, George Augustine took her down to Eltham for her lying-in, stopping to enjoy her brother’s wedding on the way before he returned to take up his duties. Martha lamented her niece’s absence greatly and worried about the survival of the expected child. She wrote wistfully, “She is a child to me, and I am very lonesome when she is absent.” Fanny delivered a healthy girl, named Anna Maria for her grandmother but called Maria instead of Nancy; they returned to Mount Vernon late the following spring.

  That year, the rich and well-connected Powels, wartime acquaintances from Philadelphia, stopped for a while on their way back from a visit to her sister at Westover. The women obviously talked at length about family problems, and Eliza Powel appreciated Martha’s “Civilities & attention to me while I was under your hospitable Roof.” Although the three little Custis girls ranged in age from eight to eleven, Martha was already worried about their posture. At her request, Eliza bought posture collars, disguised with ribbons, so that her granddaughters would hold up their heads, stand erect, and throw back their shoulders. These devices trained young girls to avoid “those ridiculous Distortions of the Face & Eyes which girls, at a certain age, frequently fall into from a foolish Bashfulness.”

  Eliza had talked frankly and tearfully with Martha about the plight of her sister Mary Willing Byrd, left a widow with ten children by the suicide of her monstrously indebted husband. Eliza hoped that Martha’s “own good heart will plead my apology” for pouring out her troubles. Martha responded promptly and kindly: “I do most truly sympathize with you on your sister’s disappointments in life. These [disappointments] now come, in a greater or less degree, are what all of us experience.”

  To Martha’s serious disquiet, 1787 was starting to sound like 1775 at Mount Vernon. Political discussions were roiling about them, and her husband was mentioned constantly as a leader in the new nation, floundering under the weak government set up by the Articles of Confederation. George was happy in retirement, and so was she. Farming, building, gardening, spending time with Tobias Lear and George Augustine Washington, soon t
o be joined by David Humphreys, the general was well amused by his interests and the company of these intelligent, compatible young men so like his military family of aides-de-camp.

  A life spent on housekeeping, decorating, sewing, looking after Fanny and the little children, and enjoying frequent visits from Nelly Stuart and the other grandchildren seemed just right to Martha. Then there were the scores of visitors, assorted nieces and nephews to help on their way in the world, and their own financial interests to look after. The Washingtons looked much richer on paper than they actually were. George had hundreds of acres that went untilled because he could find no tenants—or if he did, they neglected to pay the rent. They also were owed large debts, but since many of the loans had been made to their own siblings and friends, they were largely uncollectible.

  Very much against her will, he agreed to lead Virginia’s representatives at the new convention to be held in Philadelphia in May. He believed not only that the work of the convention was crucial, but that his presence was important. Just before he set off, he was summoned to Fredericksburg to visit his mother, who was dying slowly of breast cancer, and his sister, Betty, who was worn to the bone caring for her. Since he was making a galloping visit, Martha didn’t come with him. Both women were somewhat improved, and he spent three days with them before going back home.

  On May 9, 1787, he left for Philadelphia. This time, Martha didn’t accompany him. At first he hadn’t wanted to take part, but he had been persuaded that it was his duty. Martha wasn’t the only one who realized that he was sacrificing his (their) private interests or that he was putting his hard-won reputation on the line by entering politics. Both James Madison and Henry Knox wrote admiringly of his commitment to the public good. As Knox put it: “Secure as he was in his fame, he has again committed it to the mercy of events.”

  Their old friend Robert Morris had invited the Washingtons to stay with his family throughout the convention. George declined because he thought the sessions might drag on too long and because he was coming alone. As usual, he would have preferred to have his wife’s company. He wrote rather sadly and perhaps a shade defensively: “Mrs. Washington is become too Domestick, and too attentive to two little Grand Children to leave home, and I can assure you, Sir, that it was not until after a long struggle I could obtain my own consent to appear again in a public theatre. My first remaining wish being to glide gently down the stream of life in tranquil retirement.”

  In Philadelphia, the meeting charged with merely revising the Articles of Confederation scrapped the whole document and started over, creating the United States Constitution. George Washington was unanimously elected president of the convention. As such, he acted with studied impartiality as major issues were debated—representation for large states versus small states, free states versus slaveholding states, the slave trade, the form and extent of executive power. Even though he did not join in the official discussions, no one could doubt that he was in favor of a strong government with a strong executive. Long, long days of discussion, speechmaking, and debate and further long evenings of politicking, negotiating, and compromise finally ended on September 17 with the Constitution that today governs the United States.

  Letters to and from Mount Vernon helped him bear those long months away from home when Martha refused to join him. Just as he had during the war, he wrote weekly letters to his manager, now George Augustine rather than Lund, and to Martha, and they responded just as regularly. To miss the height of the planting season and all his family at home was a cruel deprivation for him. As he wrote to his nephew in early September when adjournment was at last in sight: “God grant I may not be disappointed in this expectation, as I am quite homesick.”

  After George returned home in the fall, the household was enlarged by a new and very welcome semipermanent resident. He had continued to take an interest in the career of one of his favorite wartime aides, David Humphreys, who had a certain literary reputation. Washington had issued a standing invitation: “The only stipulations I shall contend for are, that in all things you shall do as you please.” With his pleasing manners and entertaining conversation, Humphreys was a welcome addition to the family circle.

  The political task before supporters of the new Constitution was to persuade nine out of the thirteen states of the Confederation to ratify the document. Its opponents were many and fierce; they feared a new, strongly centralized government, especially the power that would be put in the hands of the president. Washington actively used his tremendous prestige in a letter-writing campaign to assist his friends James Madison and Alexander Hamilton in support of ratification.

  Martha could clearly see her husband’s involvement wouldn’t end with ratification. As the national debate continued over the next year, the Constitution’s adherents (becoming known as Federalists) defended the creation of a single executive, a president who would be elected every four years, by implying or even stating that George Washington would fill that role. His looming shadow reassured doubters because they knew he had once renounced power and could be trusted to do so again. Not that Martha lacked confidence in George’s ability and integrity, but she thought it was time for someone else to do his share. Her husband had given all the time out of their mutual lives that anyone could expect.

  But his supporters were adamant. He received a barrage of letters, visits, and weekly piles of newspapers that assumed he was the only man for the job. At least one member of the household was a strong advocate. David Humphreys argued that his acceptance was a duty to a nation that might fail without his presence. Martha was so exasperated that she pretended to have no more interest in the national debate, writing to Fanny, “We have not a single article of news but politicks which I do not concern myself about.”

  Washington continued to resist the idea of becoming president, resolving at first to decline the honor if it was offered to him. For one thing, he was very happy tending to Mount Vernon. For another, he dreaded that he might seem to have supported the Constitution just to gain the office for himself, a form of self-interest that he despised. Little by little, though, he came to agree that he would accept election but would in no way seek the office.

  As the ninth state ratified the Constitution in the summer of 1788 (eventually only North Carolina and Rhode Island held out), the states began selecting their electors for the first presidential election in November. After the turn of the year, Mount Vernon began receiving reports of the returns, overwhelmingly in Washington’s favor. But there were still formalities to go through. Although the returns were in, the congressmen weren’t. At last, on April 6, 1789, a quorum was reached and the returns were officially counted. George Washington had been elected the first president of the new nation; John Adams would be his vice president.

  He was officially notified of his election on April 14, 1789, and set off within two days for New York City, the temporary capital of the United States. That day, he noted in his diary, “About ten o’clock I bade adieu to Mount Vernon, to private life, and to domestic felicity.” Alas for Martha, who had dreamed that they would “grow old in solitude and tranquility together.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The President’s Lady

  George Washington was inaugurated first president of the United States on April 30, 1789, in New York City. Knowing that every single move set a precedent made a cautious man even more careful, a man who ruled by consensus even more likely to consult others. The president also found that every detail of the day-to-day business of the new government had to be invented. The Constitution created the general framework for this unique form of government, but the rest of the edifice had to be built brick by brick, decision by decision.

  The departments of the executive branch were set up in separate bills by Congress that summer and fall, and Washington appointed strong patriots, men he knew and trusted, as department heads. Henry Knox was carried over from the earlier government as secretary of war, Edmund Randolph of Virginia was named attorney general (a part-t
ime consultative position), and Alexander Hamilton became secretary of the Treasury. John Jay refused the position of secretary of state, becoming chief justice of the Supreme Court instead. At James Madison’s suggestion, Washington then offered the State Department to Madison’s friend Thomas Jefferson, who was in France representing the nation.

  Initially, the burden of the presidency was made much heavier by two facts of political life. The new federal government would have jobs to bestow, and a large number of Americans at every social level thought they or their relatives or their friends would be just the men for those jobs, the more lucrative the better. Second, staunch republicans believed that they had the right to speak to their president face-to-face whenever they had something to say, whether it concerned those desirable federal jobs, advice on how to run the new government, or anything else that came to mind.

  Especially for the first year of the presidency, Washington was bombarded by letters and visits from job hunters as well as admirers and the merely curious. The brash American propensity for knocking on the door of the rented presidential mansion on Cherry Street and barging in made it almost impossible for Washington to do the actual work of government. In writing to David Stuart, the president explained his dilemma: “I was unable to attend to any business whatsoever; for Gentlemen, consulting their own convenience rather than mine, were calling from the time I rose from breakfast—often before—until I sat down to dinner.”