First Ladies (4 page)

Other kinds of uncertainty surrounded much of the new government's activity in 1789. The Constitution writers, in their attempts to assign neither too much power to the chief executive nor too little, had debated the method of election of a president, the length of the term of office, the powers to be designated, and whether or not a single individual or a triumvirate might best serve the new nation's needs in the chief executive role. Even after weeks of discussion, however, they had not worked out many of the details and in the end chose to rely on the checks of the other branches and the good will of those who served in the first years to make the limits clear. No easy answers presented themselves. Complaints that presidents, such as “King Andrew” (Jackson), assumed royal prerogatives occurred all through the nineteenth century, giving way to charges that they assumed dictatorial powers in the twentieth. Accusations that their wives took on royal airs persisted even longer—with a 1982 cartoon depicting Nancy Reagan wearing a crown.
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The form of address for the chief executive was one of those details that had not been established in the Constitution, and as soon as George Washington arrived in New York he turned to a committee of Congress for advice.
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The Senate had suggested “His Highness, the President of the United States and Protector of Liberties,” but the more democratic House of Representatives would hear of nothing other than “Mr. President.”
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One newspaper editor argued vehemently for “His Excellency,”
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and John Adams pointed out that a simple “Mr. President” showed too little deference and sounded like the officer of some local, insignificant association.
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Suggestions of titles for the president's wife ranged all the way from “Marquise” and “Lady” down to a simple “Mrs.”
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Titles became the subject of heated debate because of the consensus prevailing in the United States in 1789 that an important experiment in government was underway. The presidential system was quite daring, in that it placed in one individual—the chief executive—duties that would often be separated in other government systems. The president had to juggle the largely ceremonial obligations of a head of state with the more substantive, onerous duties of a head of government who runs the country. His success in the ceremonial role depended not only on how well he comported himself while entertaining foreign dignitaries—indeed, given the distance separating the United States from the great nations of Europe such obligations might be slim at best—but also on how well he expressed the needs and feelings of the people he governed.

Physical accessibility to leaders was no insignificant matter in the infant republic. A genuinely democratic spirit called for the president
to open his doors to any caller anytime, and, initially, George Washington appears to have done just that. But the folly of this arrangement became clear when people arrived at all hours, leaving the president little time for work and permitting his household almost no privacy.

George Washington canvassed widely for advice, going to personal friends, a Supreme Court justice, congressmen, and his own vice president for counsel on how to balance the need for accessibility with the other demands of his job. Alexander Hamilton, an outspoken advocate of a powerful executive, advised his mentor to keep social contacts to a minimum, in order to preserve the dignity of the office. A president might issue invitations, Hamilton suggested, but not more often than once a week, and when he met his guests, he should spend very little time with them. As for visits to other people's homes, Hamilton thought these entirely inappropriate and he warned against them.
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John Adams, who had never gained a reputation for catering to the masses, came out on the more liberal side in this discussion when he ventured that the president might call on close personal friends and hold as many as two parties a week.
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Finally George Washington took space in the local newspaper to announce his general calling hours: persons simply paying their respects should limit themselves to Tuesday and Friday afternoons between two and three o'clock, while those on business could come any time except Sunday, when the president wanted to see no one at all.
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George also resolved that he would host a reception for men only, called a “levée,” each Tuesday afternoon and that Martha would preside on Friday evenings at another party, called a “drawing room” which both men and women could attend.
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To mark this latter occasion as official but slightly less formal than the first, the president would attend but he would carry neither sword nor hat.
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Martha Washington had not even arrived in the capital for these discussions, so she could hardly have been consulted as to her views, but George's wide canvass for advice set the stage for his successors to admit that they included their wives in important presidential matters. Martha's acquiescence in her role is confirmed by the fact that immediately upon her arrival in New York she began performing tasks that had devolved on her simply by virtue of her husband's office. The first morning she awakened to face dozens of curious women who had directed their carriages to her Cherry Street house,
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and that afternoon she sat down to dinner with guests whom George had previously invited. No mere social event, the dinner represented one
of the president's first attempts at political brokerage, because although political parties had not yet developed, George had reasoned that congressmen from different parts of the country needed an opportunity to meet socially and work out possible differences.

The next day, a Friday, Martha held her first “drawing room,”
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described by those who attended as a particularly “thick” party because it brought out New York's curious to evaluate the hostess's efforts to entertain graciously without seeming to carve a superior niche for herself. Whether or not Martha satisfied these competing claims to everyone's satisfaction remains unclear. But she certainly tried. While stewards “handed in” guests, she remained seated in queenly fashion and the president moved among those present, escorting them to the refreshment table and supplying introductions. When guests stood around uncertainly, not knowing how to end the party, Martha took control. Those present had wondered whether they should wait respectfully for the hostess to exit, as they would have done for royalty, or, in good democratic style, leave at whim. Martha's solution could hardly have offended or been interpreted as taking on airs. “The General always retires at nine,” she stood and announced, “and I generally precede him.” Then she walked out.
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While serving as hostess would often turn out to be an onerous, sometimes overwhelming part of the responsibilities assumed by presidents' wives, it is important to note that eighteenth-century America made fewer firm divisions than would the nineteenth century between men's and women's tasks.
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George Washington, not Martha, for instance, had advertised for their housekeepers in Virginia. When he arrived in New York, he continued in his normal pattern, hiring a staff and supervising the renovation of their rented house. Tobias Lear, the Harvard-educated secretary who had worked for the Washingtons at Mt. Vernon, assumed responsibility for many household details, issuing the invitations and keeping the accounts, while Sam Fraunces, the West Indian tavern keeper who had impressed General Washington during the war, managed the fourteen servants.
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Curiosity about the chief executive's house continued to draw many callers to it, and despite the firm limits George set for himself, Martha reasoned that she should do otherwise. Custom dictated that a gracious lady, no matter what her husband's title, returned the calls of all women who had come to her door and left their calling cards, so Martha resolved to return each visit, and to accomplish this within three days of the original call.
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Even the vice president's wife, Abigail Adams, soon got caught up in this activity, noting in a letter that she had “returned 60 visits in
3 or 4 afternoons.”
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Following the Washingtons' lead, the Adamses invited all the congressmen and their wives to dine with them: “Indeed I have been fully employd,” Abigail Adams wrote, “in entertaining company, in the first place all the Senators who had Ladies and families, then the remaining Senators, and this week we have begun with the House, and tho we have a room in which we dine 24 persons at a Time, I shall not get through them all, together with the publick Ministers for a month to come.”
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When the house on Cherry Street failed to accommodate the guest lists that Tobias Lear assembled, the presidential entourage moved to larger quarters on Broadway.
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But before settling completely into their new house, the Washingtons had to prepare to move again—this time to Philadelphia, where the nation's capital was transferred in the fall of 1790. The change pleased Martha in some ways—she thought the Market Street address afforded more privacy than she had found in New York—and by Christmas day, she was ready to open her house to local residents. A week later, many of them returned for her New Year's reception, a repeat performance of the party she had given the year before in New York. Her regular Friday drawing room occurred on January 1 in 1790, and George had postponed his Tuesday levée to coincide, thus beginning a tradition that the president and his wife would open their house on New Year's to all who wanted to come. Except in wartime or periods of mourning, the event was a regular feature of the president's schedule and eventually drew thousands, until it so taxed the energies of the hosts that the Hoovers stopped it in 1933.

By the time George Washington's two terms had been completed, some aspects of the president's role had been settled (although by no means all) and some of his wife's responsibilities had taken shape (although they would change.) In meeting the obligations of the two roles he had assumed—as head of state and head of government—the president would enlist his spouse's help openly in the first job but only covertly, if at all, in the second. Since the ceremonial side of the job required presenting a democratic image but also including enough formality to retain respect, a wife who was willing to do so could help maintain a balance. When her husband appeared pompous, she might stress humility; if he chose to move casually among guests, she could hold court in queenly fashion. Her calls at people's homes substituted for contacts that her husband's schedule did not permit.

George and Martha Washington thus set some precedents that would continue relatively undisturbed for more than a century, until gradually the job of president's wife changed to involve her more
openly in the substantive part of the office. Martha gave no evidence of playing anything other than the hostess role—and George gave no evidence of ever requesting that she do more—but the role she filled should not be dismissed lightly. When he was too ill to attend church services, her presence was duly recorded, as though people in a pretelevision age needed a glimpse of their leader for reassurance. When she made an appearance at the circus, she received the welcome of a special person.
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She even helped her husband circumvent the prohibition against a president accepting gifts. When Pennsylvania offered her a costly carriage, George decided she could keep it since it had not actually been bestowed on him.
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Had Martha Washington been less meek, and involved herself openly in the political debates of the day, or had she been more elitist and refused to call on everyone who called on her, she might have set a different tone for future presidents' wives.

But the next in line, Abigail Smith Adams, brought very different ideas to marriage and women's role in it—opinions that could not help but make themselves felt in how she handled the role of president's wife. Speaking out had always come naturally to her, and John's first admiring mention of her in his diary, when she was only fourteen, was as “a wit.”
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By the time she reached maturity, her sharp tongue and strong views had become more obviously part of her personality. When her husband ascended to the country's highest office in 1797, rumors multiplied concerning her influence. Rather than Lady Adams, she was dubbed “Mrs. President.”

From very early in her husband's administration, Abigail Adams was accused of playing politics. When she spoke out on the split developing between Jeffersonian Republicans and Federalists, she had, in the opinion of many political figures, stepped beyond the proper bounds for her sex. Albert Gallatin, an Adams opponent, described in a letter to his wife that a friend had been at “the court” [the Adams house] and had “heard her majesty [Abigail Adams] as she was asking the names of different members of Congress and then pointing out which were ‘our people'.” Such partisanship in a woman offended Gallatin: “She is Mrs. President not of the United States but of a faction…. It is not right.” More to his liking was his own apolitical spouse whom he saw as a model for all women as he assured her when he wrote: “Indeed my beloved, you are infinitely more lovely than politics.”
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Abigail's two thousand extant letters leave no doubt that she held strong opinions on many matters and several leading political figures. In Alexander Hamilton's eyes she saw “ … the very devil … lasciviousness itself.”
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She judged a Massachusetts congressman uninformed;
Albert Gallatin was dangerous, “sly, artfull … insidious … [leading a party of men who had so openly favored France that] the French have boasted of having more influence in the United States than our own government.”
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Against her husband's critics, she fought back, defending him against various charges, including that of giving preferential treatment to their son.