by Jane Cook
Adams suddenly spoke boldly. France’s present policy was foolish and highly injurious. America produced good products cultivated in the United States, not the British Isles or Bermuda. The French were missing great opportunities to enrich their fledgling factories and aid their people by rejecting all colonial merchandise because it was English.
“However strong the friendly dispositions toward the United States might be said to be,” Adams said, unleashing his fury, “the course of policy pursued must be injurious to them in the highest degree.”
With his voice boomeranging through that long palace hallway, he spoke more frankly than ever to the French ambassador.
“You will do us immense injury.” Then he made a daring prediction.
“You will oppress the continent of Europe and yourselves with it; but take my word for it, and I pray you three years hence to remember what I say, you will do England more good than harm, you will not cut off her communication with the continent, you will not essentially distress her commerce, but you will lay the world under the most grievous contributions for her benefit and advantage.”
If the halls of that palace had been made of straw, John would have blown them away with the force of his accurate political prophecy. Caulaincourt disagreed. Napoleon’s trade policies were bankrupting England.
“Her [England’s] bank paper money is depreciating, her merchants and great manufacturers are becoming bankrupts, the course of exchange is draining her of metallic specie,” Caulaincourt replied. “And therefore perseverance in this system must eventually compel her to come to terms of peace.”
“Why then did she not snatch at the offer which you have just made her, of giving up the whole system?” John retorted, referring to Napoleon’s recent suggestion through an emissary to repeal the Berlin and Milan decrees if England removed her blockades. “No, she wishes you to adhere to your system because she knows and feels that it turns to her advantage.”
Adams had arrived at the heart of the matter. As much as France wanted to claim that English merchandise was spoiling because of a surplus, the truth was that France’s goods were rotting among wooden crates because of Napoleon’s trade policies. The English blockade and backhanded tactics were circumventing France’s coffers, the opposite of what Napoleon wanted.
“You speak of the accumulation of colonial articles in her warehouses. What is the accumulation of your wines and brandies, and what was the accumulation of your grain upon your hands?” he jousted.
John Quincy Adams may have been the US minister to Russia, but in that moment he exceeded his instructions from President Madison. Instead he represented America’s interests to France in the clearest and most certain terms.
No matter how frank he was with the French ambassador, Adams had another battle to fight. As October began, the American ships that had arrived from Portugal were still bedeviled at Archangel. Nothing had changed except the weather. John received a summons on October 9 to visit Count Romanzoff. Snow had just begun falling. The practical Bostonian responded by ordering double windows to be installed on their house. Winter was fast approaching.
More than anxiety over the ships at Archangel weighed on Adams as he rode over to the count’s house that day. He feared the news he carried would not please Romanzoff. John had recently received instructions from the US government regarding trade with Russia’s Alaska territory. The Russian envoy to America had also raised the matter with the US secretary of state, who sent John a reply.
It was the “sincere and earnest desire of the President of the United States to concur in any measure which might be useful to the Russian dominions and agreeable to His Imperial Majesty,” Adams told the count.
The crux of the matter, however, was territorial limits or jurisdiction. The US government could not restrain its citizens from trading guns with the region’s native people.
“The people of the United States were so extensively engaged in commercial navigation to all parts of the world, that the traffic with the Indians on the northwest coast could not be prevented by special prohibitions of law.”
The problem was also about practicality. America didn’t have customhouses and trading posts established on the northwest coast. Americans were only beginning to explore the West.
“And although nothing could be easier than to draw upon an article of a convention to prohibit the trade, it would indicate a want of frankness and candor in the United States to contract engagements and then find them not executed,” John noted.
Congress could easily pass a law preventing gun trade with tribes in Alaska. Enforcing the law was impossible. Passing such a law would be dishonest without enforcement. He waited for Romanzoff’s response. Was the chancellor angry that the US government had refused the request? Or did he understand?
The count responded cautiously, saying that it was not a matter of great concern and he would pass the news along to the emperor.
Relieved, John then raised another question. Where did Russia draw the boundary between their lands?
“As to the fixing a boundary, it would be most advisable to defer that to some future time,” Romanzoff replied, not wanting to “strike a new spark” of dispute. Given the lack of peace in Europe, the Alaska question would have to wait until another era.
Adams reassured him. His government believed that Russia had never been friendlier toward America. Romanzoff paused, taking in the information before making a careful reply.
“Our attachment to the United States is obstinate—more obstinate than you are aware of,” Romanzoff stated as firmly and emphatically as he possibly could.
While the meaning was a bit vague, the intensity and inflection on the word obstinate were strong. With no elaboration, Romanzoff continued their conversation, drifting into their usual banter about Napoleon.
“I understood the force of the term which he had used,” Adams later recorded in his diary. What did the count mean by “more obstinate than you are aware”?
Adams had not forgotten his first substantial meeting with Romanzoff, who personally wanted America to rival Britain in trade but said at the time that the czar had not yet reached the same conclusion. Did the count’s latest words, “Our attachment to the United States is obstinate,” mean the emperor now agreed? Was he fully embracing free trade with America? If so, what a victory it would be, indeed!
30
American Cinderellas
FRESH EVIDENCE OF THE EMPEROR’S “OBSTINATE” FAVOR TOWARD the United States burst like fireworks the next day.
“Invited to the theatre at the Hermitage,” Louisa wrote excitedly.
They received three tickets to attend the theater followed by fireworks: one with John’s name, one with Louisa’s, and in great surprise, one with Kitty’s name. The invitation came with special instructions from the czar himself. Though not formally introduced to the imperial family, Kitty received an invitation too.
“The emperor has given orders as I am the only lady of the corps diplomatique that my sister should be invited also,” Louisa emphasized in her diary. “And this is considered one of the greatest honors ever conferred upon a foreign young lady; as well as the invitation to minister of the second degree.”
The emperor’s favor—and obstinacy—toward the United States couldn’t have been more obvious.
“This privilege is only assigned to ambassadors, and we owed this distinction to my sister’s dance with His Imperial Majesty as also to the great partiality of the emperor for my husband—It is very kind.”
John noted that the czar himself had written Miss Johnson’s name on the ticket, “a very extraordinary mark of distinction.” The gesture was highly unusual.
Suddenly America was equal to France in social status in the emperor’s eyes.
“In the evening we went to the palace at half past six; at seven we were ushered into the Hermitage Theatre,” Louisa explained.
Their horses led their carriage over the arched stone bridge, the distinctive architectu
ral feature of the theater’s exterior. In 1783 Catherine the Great ordered an Italian architect to design the Hermitage in the Palladian or Greek temple style, a contrast to the baroque-inspired Winter Palace. Shaped in a semicircle, the Hermitage’s theater seated 250 guests on church-style pews in concentric semicircles.
“The emperor and the imperial family came in at eight and took their seats in a row of chairs in front—immediately behind the orchestra,” Louisa noted.
Their seats directly faced the stage.
“The French ambassador in the same line with His Majesty took the seat next the Grand Duke Michael [the emperor’s brother].”
From any seat in the house, guests could enjoy the performances on the stage. They could also marvel at the colored marble pillars, which were topped with white Corinthian-style crowns. White painted niches held statues of Apollo and the Muses. Behind the imperial family sat “all the great officers of the crown and their ladies for there are no boxes.”
John joined the other foreign diplomats. Louisa and Kitty took their special seats. “The corps diplomatique sat on the right hand second row; and the hall was filled up by the noblesse, the men on one side and the women on the other.”
The performance selection could not have been more appropriate. “The piece was Cinderella—The music magnificent, the acting excellent, and the ballets beautiful.”
Following the play, the emperor’s guests crossed to the river side of the palace, where they watched fireworks bursting over the Neva. For the Adams family, the real fireworks came in the form of the emperor’s invitation to Kitty. This was a highly visible sign to the rest of the diplomatic corps that Alexander was showing his preference for the United States. America was not only officially recognized but now highly favored by the largest nation in Europe.
“The distinction to Miss Johnson was a matter of wonder to all the world,” Louisa exclaimed at the success. Indeed. It was a triumph for John Quincy Adams, a sign of his emerging success as a diplomat and the rising status of the United States abroad. With Russia as a true political and commercial ally, the US government might soon be able to pressure Parliament into disbanding its oppressive trade policies against America.
Suddenly the czar’s decision to dance with Louisa and Kitty at the ball at the French ambassador’s party celebrating Napoleon’s marriage made sense. What seemed like a near breach of protocol then was, in fact, the first grand display of power. By dancing with the American women at a ball hosted by the French ambassador, Alexander was sending a signal to Caulaincourt. He used the moment to show his favor, implying that the United States was important to him. Watch out. The United States is a player, an emerging rival to you and England.
The French legation took notice and got the message, which was why Adams almost immediately began receiving invitations to smaller, more intimate French gatherings, such as Laval’s party where he saw the bearded lady, a Plato’s beard.
John realized that much had gone on in Russia behind the scenes on behalf of the United States. The Archangel problem had not been fully resolved. Baron Campenhausen had sent the matter to Archangel’s local port authority, who had not yet cleared the vessels. Nonetheless Campehausen assured Adams that he would soon reorganize the system to overcome the port of Archangel’s inefficiencies.
Had Adams taken the same approach in St. Petersburg as Armstrong had in Paris by refusing to attend court functions, he would have alienated his hosts. Even his embarrassing moment at the monastery showed the count—and the czar—that his efforts to build friendship between the United States and Russia were sincere.
Caulaincourt had noticed, too, which motivated him to convince Adams to transfer to Paris—and get out of his way with the open-minded Alexander.
Years before his reign, the Russian emperor began to favor Western ideas. His childhood Swiss tutor, La Harpe, was a republican who cultivated in Alexander a belief in the rule of law. He encouraged him to hate despotism. The principles of the United States intrigued him as a result.
The tickets to the theater combined with Romanzoff’s assurances of the emperor’s obstinate intentions toward America underscored what Adams now concluded. He perhaps expressed it best in a letter he wrote to a former Senate colleague, William Plumer of New Hampshire. As in Adams’s case, Plumer’s support of Jefferson’s embargo had cost him his Senate seat. Adams had recently received a letter from Plumer, who told him that the newspapers continued to abuse both of their names over the embargo.
“You tell me, that I am often much reviled in certain newspapers, and that the clumsy animals who still earn their sop by howling at me have not yet instinct enough to forbear coupling your name with mine in their yell of slander,” Adams fumed in his reply to Plumer.
Then he shared his good news: “The object of my mission has, I believe, hitherto been completely accomplished.”
He could not contain his joy: “If you will compare the conduct of Russia toward American commerce with that of all her neighbors, not even excepting Sweden, you will easily perceive the object of my mission, and thus far its success.”
Such sentiment from her husband naturally cemented in Louisa another conclusion: no matter that her husband’s salary had not arrived. With the mission a success, it was time to go home.
In contrast, to Adams, wasn’t his obstinate opportunity just beginning?
31
Christening
“I HAVE FREQUENTLY PRESSED MY DESIRE TO RETURN HOME, BUT HE says unless the government recalls him, he will not return for three years,” a heartbroken Louisa reported to her mother-in-law in a letter dated October 23, 1810.
Snow was falling daily, a sure sign that St. Petersburg’s sea would soon be sealed. Both John and Louisa knew they did not have many—if any—more opportunities to send letters home or receive them through US merchant vessels. Once the Neva River froze, they would have to depend on haphazard chances via the czar’s land courier or hire their own—another burdensome expense.
As she reminded Abigail, Louisa had agreed to accompany her husband to Russia because he had lived in such a “state of cruel anxiety and uneasiness” in Boston after resigning the Senate in 1808. She saw firsthand the angst he felt when most of his friends deserted him back then. Only William Plumer, Ezekiel Bacon, William Gray, and a few other colleagues seemed to understand his principled but unpopular stand on the embargo.
Now Louisa, not her husband, was the one living in cruel anxiety. That autumn she realized she would be separated from her sons longer than her original fears. This along with St. Petersburg’s diplomatic demands of dissipation and the upcoming isolating winter left her depressed. No wonder bitterness flowed from her pen faster than the ink.
“I did not need my second trip to a splendid court to convince me of the incompetence of such a life to afford happiness or real pleasure and had never been so weak as to have admired it,” she told Abigail.
Rank and splendor were insufficient substitutes for cuddling close to George and John by the fireplace or watching them smile triumphantly after learning how to bridle a horse for the first time. No matter how clean the champagne tasted at the czar’s Cinderella balls or how enchanting the palace’s theater performances, nothing could compensate for the loss of her children.
“Rely on it dear mother that no station, however high, can ever atone for the sacrifices I have made.”
John’s renewed resolution to stay in Russia crushed his wife’s latest hopes for reunion. She mistakenly thought “one year would have been the extent of my stay.” Had she known she would not see George and John for years, not merely a few months, she would not have left them. John had already concluded that his mission was a success. Why, then, didn’t they board the last vessel departing for Boston in the fall of 1810? The answer was complicated.
Adams had recently received a letter from his mother, who enclosed a critique of his newly published Harvard lectures. Overall the reviewer praised his work. However, the critic also ranted against
John’s politics.
“The author may say what he will about his political antipathy to me, I take him to have had, even while he was disclaiming my friendship, a SNEAKING kindness for me,” John replied with emphasis in a letter to Abigail.
The scorching review reminded him of the turncoats he left behind: “I had great numbers of these secret friends among my dear fellow townsmen of Boston, who in defiance of their own consciences were joining in the hue and cry, and making themselves the tools of my real enemies.”
Human nature was weak. Men were fickle. “That a man should be deserted by his friends in the time of trial is so uniform an experience in the history of mankind, that I never had the folly to suppose that my case would prove an exception to it.”
With the topic fresh on his mind, he confided in the like-minded William Plumer. “By adhering to my principles I had been deserted and sacrificed by my friends."
The criticism was only getting worse. Detractors back home were now complaining about the high financial cost of sending him to Russia. They considered his mission a waste of time and money. At the same time he wrote Abigail, he expressed his angst over these recent newspaper reports in an emotional letter to his brother Thomas. “There is no escaping one’s destiny, and I have been abused in the newspapers, both for putting the nation to the enormous expense of a frigate to transport my precious carcass across the ocean,” he wrote bitterly and emphatically, “and for landing at Kronstadt from a merchant vessel loaded with sugar and coffee.”
Adams described these snakelike sentiments “as venomous.” Then he said, “Perhaps one half the ministers of the United States, who have come to Europe since the Declaration of Independence, have come in frigates, and never a syllable was lisped at the expense.”