The First Ladies (9 page)

FIRST LADY: 1913–14

The Steel Magnolia

When Ellen Axson was twenty, her mother died, leaving her to care for her brothers, ages fourteen and four, and the infant sister whose birth contributed to her mother’s early death. Then there was her father, a Presbyterian minister who battled crippling depression all his life and would succumb not long thereafter.

Born in Savannah, Georgia, just as the Civil War commenced, Ellen had known little luxury. Ministers are seldom wealthy, and the decimated South could barely provide for its clergy. After a conventional education, Ellen had hoped to teach art, for which she had a decided talent. Her mother’s
death ended that dream, however. Her only goal became keeping her family together.

When she married Woodrow Wilson after an ardent two-year courtship mostly by correspondence, she was twenty-five. He was a twenty-eight-year-old scholar, just starting his academic career. Agreeing from the beginning to provide a home for Ellen’s brothers, the new couple would never know an empty house. Their three daughters came in rapid succession in the first five years. There was also a revolving door of Woodrows, Wilsons, and Axsons as long-term houseguests. With so many mouths to feed, Professor Wilson, whose academic stature would soar from the start, began augmenting his insufficient salary with extra lectures and seminars and also churned out a book nearly every year. The stress, along with his personal need for constant perfection and emotional reassurance, would take its toll: his always-delicate health suffered, which included two mis- or undiagnosed strokes before he was forty.

It would fall to Ellen to be the earth mother and soother of wounds. She was the adhesive to hold the family, the house, the finances, and Woodrow together. She managed to do it all in her quiet and gentle way, which included becoming an intelligent audience for her brilliant husband. From the beginning of their courtship, Woodrow treated her as an intellectual equal, writing to her as he might write an academic colleague. He never gave a lecture series or submitted a manuscript without her preview and input. Woodrow the professor was a superb teacher. Ellen would always ask pithy and insightful questions. Her comments were always considered.

Ellen also knew intuitively that she lacked the sophistication for the witty dinner table banter that her husband so loved. Instead, whenever his programs took him to other universities, she encouraged him to participate as a single and charm all the worldly wives and daughters of his academic associates. She supported his separate vacations where he could relieve those tensions that always bubbled like simmering magma within. She firmly believed that she had bartered frivolous cosmopolitan pleasures for something far better. She also knew Woodrow’s love for her ran deep and true and had no doubt that she was married to the most wonderful man in the world. They would write each other loving letters every day they were apart—even decades after their marriage.

By the time Wilson was a serious presidential contender, he had spent two decades shepherding Princeton to become one of the most academically prestigious colleges in the country. Considered a safe, conservative Democratic candidate, he was easily elected governor of New Jersey. Meanwhile, Ellen had become a capable hostess, business manager, political confidante, and watchful observer of Woodrow’s precarious health. She also had the innate tact and savvy to run surreptitious interference for the turbulent personal-professional relationships that seemed to be a part of her husband’s personality. Also, by the time Wilson was a serious contender, their daughters were grown. Ellen now had some uncrowded hours to unpack brushes and paints and devote more time to herself and her art. Hers was a serious talent, far more developed than Caroline Harrison’s gift for china painting.
Even before she had First Lady notoriety, she had earned the respect and regard of several important American impressionists of the early twentieth century. She sold. She submitted. She competed. She won prizes.

Two years later, Wilson was elected president. Ellen believed with all her heart that he was the best qualified person to run the country, and whether she wanted it or not (and she said she didn’t), being First Lady was part of the bargain. Her tenure would only last fifteen months, but in that time she made two notable contributions. The first is the Rose Garden that exists to this day. She had noticed the spot the
day of Wilson’s inauguration, and her artist’s eye could see its potential. She worked closely with the White House gardeners to plan it, although she would not live to see its full glory.

Her second contribution is frequently and unjustly pooh-poohed by subsequent historians who measure against the present and demand executive foresight and skills from First Ladies who barely understood that concept. Within walking distance of the 1913 White House was a foul slum of shanties built as temporary housing for former slaves after the Civil War. They were ugly, fetid, unsanitary, and bred disease. Ellen and several congressional wives mounted an intense lobbying campaign to have the eyesore removed. This would mark the first time a First Lady had undertaken a serious non-domestic public role. Others, of course, would follow, but she was the first. With little precedent to guide them since social activism was still in its infancy, little attention if any was given to the consequent problems of the displaced residents. “Mrs. Wilson’s Bill,” as it was called, was doubtlessly naive in a way, but had she lived, it is likely that she would have continued her involvement and advocacy to the next steps.

But Ellen came to the White House with a secret—one she didn’t even know herself. Her health was failing. She blamed her flagging energy on the fact that she was fifty-four years old and had undertaken an enormous social schedule, including planning a grand White House wedding for her daughter. A year into Wilson’s presidency, she had a fall. While it did not cause serious injury, it was a shock to her system and required medical attention. When she did not respond adequately to
the prescribed treatment, Dr. Cary Grayson, their personal physician who had become a close friend to both Wilsons, decided to look further. It did not take long for him to discover the alarming symptoms of Bright’s disease, a kidney ailment, then always fatal. She had had it for years.

Ellen and her doctor decided to withhold that information from the president until such time as it no longer could be concealed. Woodrow had enough stress dealing with accelerating hostilities in Europe. He was only told the inevitable two days before his wife died, just as the guns of August were booming their way into World War I.

FIRST LADY: 1915–21

Dragon Lady

Woodrow Wilson was practically paralyzed with grief when Ellen died, but less than a year later, that grief would be replaced by euphoria.

Edith Bolling was born into an old (dating to Pocahontas), genteel Virginia family (her father was a judge) not long after the Civil War had left everything in ruins. As the seventh of nine children and a girl to boot, there was little left for Edith’s education except the admonition to marry well and provide for herself. She did. At twenty-four, after a four-year tepid courtship, she married Norman Galt, a prestigious
Washington jeweler a dozen years her senior. Their marriage, albeit childless, was pleasant enough. When he died a decade later, Edith was his sole heir. She would never need to worry about money.

She met Woodrow Wilson by chance, having been invited for tea at the White House by Helen Bones, the president’s cousin who had come to assume social and house-management duties after Ellen’s death. Woodrow’s reaction to the attractive forty-two-year-old widow was instantaneous and fervent. “Cousin Helen’s friend” was invited to lunches, teas, private suppers, and afternoon drives, and it did not take very long for Edith to realize she was being wooed. Daily letters passed between them. The president had a private phone line installed between the White House and her town house only a mile away. He was a passionate and romantic courtier. Edith, whose courtship by Norman Galt did not include passionate wooing, was overwhelmed. The fact that it had been less than a year since his wife had died mattered little to the president. He was in love, and the Widow Galt had become the center of his life. Acutely aware of conventional mourning practice, Edith offered to wait. Woodrow, who could not bear to be thwarted, wouldn’t hear of it. They were married only fifteen months after Ellen’s funeral.

Far from being outraged or shocked by Wilson’s early remarriage, the country was genuinely happy for him. So were the Wilson daughters and other kin. The president and his ladylove were seen together all the time. Edith, statuesque at five feet nine, presented a formidable picture, usually
photographed wearing a big cartwheel hat and a ubiquitous orchid corsage. They would have the one thing that had been lacking in Wilson’s first marriage: the luxury of time and companionship. With no family responsibilities along with secure finances, the newlyweds became inseparable.

Dr. Cary Grayson had confided Woodrow’s delicate health conditions to the new Mrs. W., stressing the importance of rest and relaxation in the president’s schedule. She took the charge seriously. She watched over his diet, and they began playing nine holes of golf together early every morning. Neither were good golfers, but the fresh air and exercise was exactly what was needed. And they had fun. She was also a
shrewd financial manager, and Woodrow was relieved to have her handle the family funds, just as Ellen had done.

Meanwhile, Woodrow the professor had begun to educate his bride. He had a desk for her moved into his private office, and he began discussing complex issues in serious depth, along with perspicacious analyses of the current politicians. He fully expected she would understand. Edith, like Ellen, was an apt student. She also began reading her way through his library and learned quickly, although several key aides were taken aback by how familiar the new Mrs. Wilson was with political matters, including some that were top secret. They were also miffed at her tendency to insert comments during high-level discussions. At the time, nobody had an inkling that she was being groomed for a subsequent role.

Her popularity at first was solid, especially when she allowed herself to be photographed in a Red Cross hat and apron, helping with the war effort. That one photo was said to have inspired thousands of women to volunteer. But the Great War, hard fought and hard won, proved much easier than winning the peace.

Against all political advice, the idealistic Wilson decided to cross the Atlantic to lead the American peace commission personally. His popularity soared abroad, but the wily old European politicians cared little about peace, let alone ideals, and focused only on reparations and grand-scale land grabs. Wilson was no match. He gave way on nearly every issue to save his greatest dream: a League of Nations. The League, he convinced himself, would mean an end to all wars. His
popularity began to sour and then decline precipitously at home. The stress of the overseas negotiations plus a balky Congress in Washington led to a massive stroke.

In fairness to Edith, whose popularity would plummet, it was primarily the medical community that dictated the ensuing events. All Wilson’s doctors (and there were several) agreed a) he would live; b) his chances for substantial recovery were excellent; c) there were no signs of long term mental decline or aphasia; and most importantly, d) it was essential to his recovery that Wilson retain the aura of being in control as president. To relinquish responsibility to the vice president would destroy his will to live. (There was also no real mechanism in place for a transfer of power, which would create a constitutional crisis.) The doctors were correct on all counts. Wilson lived for another five years, and while he would be frail and never walk again without two canes, he did make substantial improvement. What they failed to recognize at the time was his noticeable personality change. Always inclined toward self-righteousness and stubbornness, he now became generally paranoid and intransigent.

Edith, who had become the only one that Woodrow completely trusted, was now the gatekeeper. She would refer to it as her stewardship. The one time she had the temerity to suggest that he might compromise on a minor point, he said piteously, “Don’t you turn on me too, Little Girl. I couldn’t bear it.” She was devastated. She never did it again.

Still a newlywed, her only concern was the well-being of Woodrow, her ailing husband. Woodrow the ailing president
was far down on the list. He needed rest; she saw that he got it. He could only work an hour or two a day. The doctors suggested that she review all Wilson’s correspondence first, so she read and summarized all communications, determined what was most important, and brought them to his attention. Most importantly, Woodrow needed to avoid stressful, unpleasant, or adversarial confrontation. Edith guarded that door like a ferocious watchdog, keeping the politicians at bay. His advisors, cabinet members, and congressional leaders of both parties unanimously resented the “undue influence” of the second Mrs. Wilson, who obstructed their access to the ailing president. But according to her own memoirs, she made no presidential or policy decisions, doing only and exactly what Woodrow entrusted or instructed her to do. She said he asked thousands of questions, insisted on knowing every detail, and told her which senators to send for and what suggestions he would make to them. She claimed that she made copious notes of everything “to be sure there were no mistakes.” Woodrow Wilson was still running the show, although few realized it.

Edith Wilson was not a particularly tactful or likable person. She had definite opinions and was never shy about expressing them. She never forgave a slight. Woodrow’s adversaries were her own. He once called her a “good hater.” Her formidable presence, terminating meetings that ran too long, or placing a cautionary finger to her lips if the subject was touchy, angered the politicians who were quick to cry “Petticoat Government!” As Wilson’s intransigence and paranoia increased and his
physical strength ebbed, it would be the second Mrs. Wilson who received their undisguised annoyance and resentment for barring the door.

Edith outlived Woodrow Wilson by more than thirty-five years, devoting herself to perpetuating his memory and accomplishments and accepting bouquets from League of Nations officialdom, which never included American membership. She also outlived and alienated everyone associated with the Wilson era, including his three daughters.