Martha Washington (26 page)

She was expected to be the hostess of two weekly social gatherings, both quite official—a reception and a dinner party. She arrived in New York on Wednesday and found that “her” reception for that Friday had already been publicly announced. Every Friday while Congress was in session, she received both women and men in the drawing room without invitation, as long as they were formally attired. Then there were the Thursday dinner parties. The official guest list was carefully chosen to avoid any appearance of favoritism—usually balanced both geographically and politically. Cabinet members, senators, congressmen, and foreign ministers were invited regularly without much consideration given to friendships or social graces. Her role as the commander's wife during the Revolution had been a walk in the park compared with that of First Lady.

One symbol of the new formality was “The President's March,” composed by a Hessian soldier/musician who had stayed behind after the war. Written in honor of the inauguration, it was usually played whenever Washington entered a theater, concert hall, or ballroom, and it became the presidential anthem. A decade later, the melody was renamed “Hail, Columbia” when lyrics were added.

Martha had barely begun these entertainments when they came to an abrupt halt. Only three weeks after her arrival, George began complaining of fever and pain. A large carbuncle (a hard, solid mass) had appeared on his left thigh, and it grew larger and more painful every day. His doctors diagnosed anthrax, presumably of the cutaneous variety; no anesthesia was available as the father-and-son team of doctors operated on the mass June 17, the son cutting, the father urging, “Cut deeper, cut deeper.” George's phenomenal strength brought him through, but afterward he groaned with pain, complaining that any noise hurt his head. Tobias Lear bought fifteen pounds of rope, directing the servants to tie off Cherry Street to keep traffic from passing and to spread the sidewalks with straw to muffle the footsteps of passersby. A week later, he repeated the process after the first rope was stolen.

Martha was terribly shaken by her husband's condition. The doctors thought he might die, and his convalescence took the rest of the summer. He spent six weeks “being confined to a lying posture on one side.” Although George returned to work, the incision was still draining in September, as “the wound given by the incision is not yet closed.” Acquaintances continued to call on Martha regularly that summer to inquire after the president's health. Without his leadership, it was feared that the nation might splinter into small, weak confederations.

One of the callers became an unexpected new friend, given the differences in their personal styles—the tartly outspoken New Englander Abigail Adams. She had been at home in Massachusetts but returned to the capital in June. The Adamses had rented a large manor house out in the countryside along the Greenwich Road. With beautiful views in all directions, Richmond Hill was about a mile and a half from the city—a pleasant ride or drive for guests to drop in for breakfast or tea. The morning after her arrival, David Humphreys called to pay his respects and take breakfast with the vice president's wife.

Later that morning, Abigail rode in her carriage to Cherry Street, accompanied by her married daughter Nabby Smith. They were greeted by Humphreys and Lear, witnesses to the first meeting between these formidable women. Generally more inclined to critical observation than admiration, the vice president's wife described Martha as easy and polite, plain in her dress—“but that plainness is the best of every article. . . . Her hair is white, beautifull teeth, rather shorter than otherways.” She went on, “Her manners are modest and unassuming, dignified and feminine, not the Tincture of ha'ture about her.
His Majesty
was ill & confined to his Room. I had not the pleasure of a presentation to him, but the satisfaction of hearing that he regreted it equally with myself.”

On a second visit to the presidential mansion in July, Abigail was invited upstairs to Washington's chamber, where he lay on a sofa. She found him both dignified and affable—“a singular example of modesty and diffidence.” Her positive impression of Martha was only increased by this call: “Mrs. Washington is one of those unassuming characters which create Love & Esteem. A most becoming pleasantness sits upon her countenance & an unaffected deportment which renders her the object of veneration and Respect.” Both the Washingtons struck her as just right for a republican government: “With all these feelings and Sensations I found myself much more deeply impressd than I ever did before their Majesties of Britain.”

During George's convalescence, the carriage was altered by putting in some sort of bed so that he could lie on his side and be driven about the city. It took four attendants to get him comfortably arranged in the coach. Martha rode with him on these expeditions, doubtless entertaining him with conversation.

As he regained his strength, they went back to fashioning the presidential lifestyle. Although choreographed, Martha's Friday evenings were relaxed and enjoyable compared with the president's levees. Starting at eight o'clock, guests were directed by servants up to the large second-floor drawing room, blazing with candles in the chandelier and candelabra, supplemented by spermaceti-oil lamps; Humphreys or Lear escorted them to the sofa where Martha was seated. After curtseying or bowing to her and being greeted by the president, they moved about the room, chatting with other callers. Even in his diary, George maintained the fiction that he was merely another guest at his wife's entertainment, noting the size and quality of the crowd. Refreshments were light, varying with the seasons—wine, tea, lemonade, cake, fruits (sometimes including delicacies like pineapple and coconut), ice cream. The table was decorated with gilt ornaments. As the guests left, they were escorted to their carriages by Bob Lewis.

Abigail enjoyed her position as second lady of the land. She wrote to her sister, “My station is always at the right hand of Mrs. W.; through want of knowing what is right I find it sometimes occupied, but on such an occasion the President never fails of seeing that it is relinquished for me, and having removed Ladies several times, they have now learnt to rise & give it me, but this between our selves, as
all distinction
you know is unpopular.”

Dinner parties were more of an uphill slog. Lear had cards printed for the dinners; once the guest's name and the date were filled in by hand, they were delivered personally by one of the aides. At first, many of the guests were strangers, both to the Washingtons and to one another. Men predominated at most of these dinners when Congress was in session. In fact, sometimes no women were invited at all, since most congressmen had left their wives back home while they lived in lodging houses. Of the twenty-four senators (Rhode Island didn't join the Union until the following year), only six had brought their wives to New York.

Martha was perfectly comfortable with groups of men unleavened by female company. Her years of experience entertaining the male guests who stayed for dinner at White House or Mount Vernon after completing their business (on average outnumbering female guests four or five to one) and the fifteen, twenty, or thirty men at the commander's table during winter encampments paid off in the new world of presidential dinner parties.

Beginning promptly at four on Thursdays (Washington never held back dinner for a tardy guest, no matter his rank), government officials, members of Congress, and foreign dignitaries were invited in rotation, assembling in the large first-floor dining room. The guests didn't necessarily know or like one another, agree on general principles, or have any idea of pleasant table conversation. Some scorned all social graces as demeaning to honest men and held back on principle (and shyness) from chatting amiably on general topics, bantering, or returning complimentary toasts. Even Martha found conversation trying under the circumstances.

She sat at the head of the table, George halfway down on her left, when all the guests were men. With ladies present, she sat across the table from her husband. The secretaries served as deputy hosts at a table elegantly decorated with china ornaments and artificial flowers. Sam Fraunces, formally attired down to wig and gloves, directed the servants. Dinner was the usual two courses. At one dinner, a guest noted that the first course included soup, fish roasted and boiled, meats, gammon, fowls, “etc.” (the “etc.” probably including fresh and pickled vegetables). For the second course, there were apple pies and puddings, iced creams, jellies, and more “etc.”; and the meal ended with watermelons, muskmelons, apples, peaches, and nuts.

Beer, cider, and wine were offered with dinner, and toasts were drunk in Madeira at the end. After a while spent conversing, Martha took the ladies, if any, upstairs for coffee. George usually joined them as soon as possible. He heartily enjoyed the company and conversation of women. Although some of the ruder men departed without going upstairs, most of them joined their host and hostess in the drawing room. One senator from North Carolina enjoyed dinner with the other senators at the Washingtons' and added, “After it, I had the honour of drinking coffee with his lady, a most amiable woman. If I live much longer I believe that I shall at last be reconciled to the company of old women [she was fifty-nine; he was fifty-six] for her sake, a circumstance I once thought impossible.”

No one who attended Martha's receptions or the presidential dinners could have detected her dissatisfaction. Although Washington was sometimes criticized for stiff ceremoniousness, his lady was always praised for her easy friendliness. The president was a man of natural dignity and aloofness, never one for back-slapping camaraderie. As his national stature increased, so did his reserve. Both from inclination and policy, he had created a commanding public presence. But his wife's first thought was for her guests. In putting them at their ease, she softened and humanized her overpowering husband, allowing him to relax a bit and show something of the private family man.

When Martha went out shopping or paying calls, Bob Lewis usually went in the carriage with her. A dozen and a half kid gloves, leather galoshes to fit over her shoes (ordered from Philadelphia), an umbrella, a large Bible weighing in at a whopping nine pounds, seed pearl pins and earrings, fur cloaks for herself and her husband—shopping in a city could provide some interesting finds. As for the formal calls or calls of ceremony, callers often hoped the hostess wouldn't be at home; merely leaving a card sufficed for most social obligations. But Martha wasn't satisfied with that cold comfort; when she really wanted a good visit, she sent a note in the morning to inquire if her friends would be available that day.

Thank goodness for the wives of Washington's closest advisers in the social desert of that year. Besides Abigail Adams, both Betsy Hamilton and Lucy Knox were old friends and companions from the Revolution. The women had formed unbreakable bonds during those years and loved spending time together. Martha had also been on friendly terms with Sarah Jay for years.

These friendships among the women helped smooth the working relationship among the men. Washington and Adams didn't care for each other, but they became more tolerant and accustomed to each other's personalities and styles through the social activities they shared with their wives. Hamilton sought power and influence under Washington's sponsorship, and the president respected the younger man's national vision and financial acumen. But they hadn't been personally close for nearly a decade. The friendship between Martha and Betsy made their political and professional relationship easier.

Nelly and Washington Custis, ten and eight years old, respectively, were always their grandmother's concern and delight. When she arrived in New York, her “first care” had been to arrange for their education, even though they didn't begin lessons until later in the summer. Lear would be much too busy about the president's business to continue their tutelage. Nelly loved school for the opportunity to learn and make friends with the other little girls. Wash, however, didn't like to study and was very easily distracted. For the first few months, he worked with a private tutor, a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, who was assistant to a Columbia University professor. In addition to their school friends, Nelly and Wash played with the children of members of government. Part of the attic was given over to the children as a play area, where they sometimes put on theatrical performances.

Certain purchases marked the differences in age and interests between Nelly and Wash. Nelly received books, music books, a palette, and a fancy hat, while Wash got a ball and marbles, a small cannon, and a set of watercolors. The old spinet was traded in for a fashionable new instrument. Nelly studied with Alexander Reinagle, a first-rate Austrian composer and performer. Even after he went to Philadelphia in the fall, he continued to send bundles of sheet music for her to play. She also learned painting with William Dunlap, the young man who had painted Washington at the end of the Revolution. At ten, Nelly was beginning what would be a lifetime avocation with her carefully rendered vases of flowers. Forcing Wash to study the basics was a full-time occupation; there were no extra lessons for him.

Late in the fall, Martha made new school arrangements. Wash had failed to learn much from his tutor, so he was transferred to a small school with seven other boys. Nelly also was moved to a fashionable new boarding school, just opened in September, where she was a day student. Among the subjects covered at Mrs. Graham's on Maiden's Lane and then on Broadway were spelling and grammar, arithmetic, geography, embroidery, dancing, and French.

The city offered far more amusements than the sights from their windows or formal elite entertainments. Americans were fascinated with the new, the strange, the bizarre. And New York was full of the new, the strange, the bizarre—frequently on public display at the cost of a few shillings for admission. Such exhibits were considered to fall under the broad rubric of education or natural history, although some of them were closer to freak or raree shows, zoos or carnivals. Martha and George were interested in seeing anything unusual; hardly a thing was displayed that year that they didn't see.