First Ladies (15 page)

If Sarah regretted missing out on the excitement of the campaign trips, she kept up a good front and refused to crumble in self-pity. Temporarily disheartened by the lack of good news, she wrote James: “Do not think that I am down in the celler [
sic
] for as soon as I am done writing I am going to dress and go out visiting.”
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Only when compelled to play an entirely social role did she find herself completely out of sorts, and when she had to assume the part of the solicitous hostess for his visiting relatives she was really angry.
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In Washington, Sarah cultivated friendships with the city's strongest, most opinionated women, including Marcia Van Ness, the founder of the Orphan Asylum, Floride Calhoun, the outspoken wife of the South Carolina senator, and Josephine Seaton, a writer and wife of a newspaper editor. Even women whose husbands opposed James politically became Sarah's loyal friends. When the Polks announced that they would return to Tennessee in 1839 so that James could run for governor, Josephine Seaton volunteered that she did not mind seeing James go—he was her husband's political rival—but that she would miss Sarah.

In addition to a network of achieving women, Sarah maintained friendships with several important men. Andrew Jackson, who
facilitated her husband's career, Franklin Pierce, who boarded near the Polks, and Supreme Court Justice Joseph Story all became her staunch supporters. In 1839, Justice Story published a farewell poem to Sarah, very unusual recognition for a living woman, particularly a congressman's wife:

For I have listened to thy voice, and watched thy playful mind, Truth in its noblest sense thy choice, Yet gentle, graceful, kind.
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Her roster of friends indicates that Sarah Polk was one of the few nineteenth-century First Ladies to develop her own supporters—people who valued her abilities and judgment apart from her husband's. In that respect, she foreshadows a later development that saw its culmination in the campaign buttons, “Betty's husband for President.”

Sarah claimed to have predicted her husband's winning the presidential election well before it happened in 1844, although historians have frequently singled this out as the first victory of a “dark horse.” She had been exchanging letters with supporters who named James as “the best man” for the job,
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and she appeared eager to see him nominated. State politics had begun to bore her, and she had tired of making do on a governor's meagre $2,000-a-year salary, although she received additional income from her Mississippi plantation.

The prospect of becoming First Lady carried all sorts of new possibilities, and Sarah meant to be more than a hostess. When someone threatened to support the opponent, Henry Clay, because his wife made good butter and knew how to look after a house, Sarah Polk reportedly countered, “If I get to the White House, I expect to live on $25,000 a year and I will neither keep house nor make butter.”
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Such a public disclaimer of domesticity was exceedingly rare in the nineteenth century; even in 1984, when the Democratic candidate for vice president, Geraldine Ferraro, was asked if she could bake a muffin, she replied, “I sure can.”
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Keeping a clean house and making good butter appeared far less important to Sarah Polk than catering to voters. When news first reached the Polks of the 1844 victory, well-wishers flocked to their house and a friend of the family suggested it might be wise to keep them outside rather than let them dirty up the carpets. Sarah insisted they come in and the next day reported with satisfaction that the only marks they had left were those of respect.
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The affability that cloaked Sarah Polk's remarkable political interest satisfied observers who expected women to be merely pretty, social creatures. Had she broken the rules and dressed eccentrically or entertained inappropriately, she might have been criticized, but she
did not. In appearance she reportedly combined the coloring and charm of a Spanish lady with the determination and strength of her frontier ancestors. Although few of her admirers thought her beautiful, most described her as “elegant” and “queenly.” Henry Dilwood Gilpin, a good friend of Martin Van Buren's, reported he had been much impressed “with the good lady who is to preside at the [White House] … really a very superior person. Time has dealt kindly with her personal charms and if she is not handsome she is at least very prepossessing and graceful—dresses with taste—and is extremely affable as well as perfectly self possessed. If I am not mistaken she has both sagacity and decision that will make her a good counsellor in some emergencies.”
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Vice president-elect George Dallas wrote his wife just before the 1845 inauguration that Sarah Polk “dresses rather too showy for my taste … but I go for the new lady all hollow [completely].” Dallas added fuel to rumors that the First Lady had the president under her thumb when he wrote: “She is certainly mistress of herself and I suspect of somebody else also.”
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Sarah's many years of working alongside her husband had increased speculation that she controlled him. While still in her twenties, she had distinguished herself from other congressmen's wives by the forcefulness with which she stated her opinions. Senator Levi Woodbury had written his family in 1828 that only one of his fellow legislators appeared more under his wife's domination than did James Polk. Rudolph Bunner, a representative from upstate New York, reached a similar conclusion.
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In response to comments of this sort, Sarah explained that she was simply assisting her husband in order to protect his health. He had never been strong, and she recalled that she had once reprimanded him for keeping late hours. In reply, he had handed her a stack of papers to read for him.
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Thus began what became standard practice in their relationship—she marked those portions she thought deserving of his attention, folded the papers so that he would not miss the important parts, and passed them back to him.

For two thinking persons to have agreed on everything would have been unusual, and James admitted that he and Sarah sometimes clashed. When the issue of a national bank divided the country, Congressman Polk stood firmly against it. On one of their many trips to Washington, he had asked his wife for money and she had turned first one trunk and then another inside out in the search. “Don't you see how troublesome it is to carry around gold and silver?” she chided him. “This is enough to show you how useful banks are.”
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A strict Presbyterian, Sarah Polk had no use for dancing or the theater. She never attended a horse race, and although she liked music and resumed piano lessons as an adult, she thought music on Sunday inappropriate. James, who held less definite views on such matters, deferred to her. On their victory trip to Washington in early 1845, well-wishers came aboard their boat to play some festive tunes, but since it was a Sunday, Sarah insisted that the music stop. Someone turned to her husband to countermand her but James Polk replied: “She handles all domestic matters and she considers this domestic.”
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At the inaugural balls, dancing ceased when Sarah Polk entered the room, and she forebade such entertainment at the White House. Although some critics thought her rigid, many people admired her sincerity, and friends who did not want to be forced into attending church with her on Sunday morning learned to keep their distance that day.

Reading had been a habit of Sarah's since youth and in Washington she continued to order many books.
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An Englishwoman visiting the White House found Sarah busy with several volumes, including one whose author was coming to dinner that evening. “I could not be so unkind,” Sarah explained, “as to appear wholly ignorant and unmindful of [the author's] gift.”
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Sarah's intellectuality complemented the Polk administration's emphasis on hard work. James and Sarah had stayed at Coleman's Hotel in Washington five days before making a courtesy call at the White House, and when the Tylers gave a big final party (for which the candles reportedly cost $350), the Polks stayed away.
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President Polk boasted that in his first year in office he rarely took an afternoon or evening off; and when he greeted guests every Tuesday and Friday, he did so as part of his job.
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All strong-minded people earn some enemies, and Sarah Polk was no exception. Anyone who criticized her husband raised Sarah's wrath, and she did not always conceal her displeasure. When Martin Van Buren's son, who held many unorthodox views, took issue with President Polk, Sarah banished him from the guest lists. When James had his secretary issue an invitation anyway, she burned it. “I was amused,” James Polk noted in his diary, but he gave no hint of overruling her.
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But Sarah rarely offended or took issue with anyone. Jessie Benton Frémont, then the young wife of the explorer John Frémont who later ran for president, pronounced Sarah a perfect model: “[an] admirable … erect, attentive, quietly gracious [woman who] … really did her part well.”
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Charles Sumner, the Massachusetts senator, wrote a
friend: “Her sweetness of manner won me entirely.”
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One White House dinner guest startled Sarah by saying he had heard she had been “woed in the Bible.” When called on to explain, he continued: “Doesn't it say in the Bible, ‘woe unto him who has no enemies.'”
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Such apparently winning charm evidently excused Sarah from excessive attention to household management. Her old promise that if she got to the White House she would neither keep house nor make butter held true. An able staff took care of most of the domestic arrangements while she concentrated on more important matters. Food held little interest for her and she sometimes became so intent on discussions with her guests that she neglected to eat.
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Rather than spending much energy on redecorating the mansion, she announced that whatever was good enough for the Tylers would do very well for her. She did install gas lights but in her very practical way insisted on retaining a chandelier of candles, and when the gas system failed during a dinner party, she earned her guests' applause by calling for the candles.
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James Polk is sometimes singled out as a particularly strong president because he accomplished in one term all four goals he had set for himself. Introductory history books find his administration very easy to describe. Before taking office, he promised that he would reduce the tariff, restore the independent Treasury, acquire California, and settle the boundary dispute in Oregon.
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Four years later, he had accomplished all four of these goals, although not to universal approval of his methods. As part of the Southwest territorial question, the war with Mexico aroused great misgivings among people who saw the United States as bullying its smaller southern neighbor into acquiescence.

The Polk administration raises questions about how the forcefulness or success of the chief executive influences the public's judgment of the spouse. Will Americans more likely tolerate strong women if they move alongside decisive men? Can a wife stave off criticism by keeping a less prominent role for herself if her husband is viewed as a relatively ineffectual president? Does a weak president appear even less strong if he has an outspoken wife? Could Eleanor Roosevelt have broken so many precedents if Franklin had accomplished less? Did Rosalynn Carter's determination make Jimmy look less decisive?

Sarah Polk's record suggests no simple connection exists between a wife's public image and that of her husband. The most outspoken and politically involved wife since Abigail Adams, Sarah received a universally good press from both sides of the fence. Capital social arbiters who sized up her “feminine charms” could hardly fault her, and
the more intellectually inclined, who wanted a thinking woman in the White House, apparently approved of her, too. Because she had the self-confidence to relegate much of her job as hostess to an insignificant chore—but not neglect it—she achieved remarkable success. The most prominent student of the Polk administration, Charles Sellers, pronounced Sarah “increasingly indispensable” to her husband as “secretary, political counselor, nurse and emotional resource.”
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It was, Sellers wrote, the combination of her “long experience in official circles and her social grace” that qualified her “superbly” to be an outstanding First Lady.

On the issue of feminism it is difficult to know what Sarah Polk thought, although she was living in the White House during the famous Seneca Falls convention in July 1848. Led by the pious Quaker from Philadelphia, Lucretia Mott, and the younger, more outspoken Elizabeth Cady Stanton, women gathered in that small upstate New York town to outline their hopes for better access to jobs, and the right to vote. Only on the franchise did the assembly split, with Lucretia Mott warning her friend, Stanton, that persevering on this matter would render the entire movement ridiculous.

Sarah Polk did not attend the Seneca Falls meeting, although one student of the Polk administration concluded that she encouraged James to address the group.
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Perhaps she feared being included in the ridicule heaped on feminists at the time. Some newspapers called them “mannish women like hens that crow” and others implied that their unhappiness resulted from their inability to attract men.
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Sarah doubtless had heard the opinion of some of her contemporaries who felt that childless women, like herself, with little to occupy their time, busied themselves with matters beyond their abilities. A fellow Tennessean may have had her in mind when he wrote to Martin Van Buren: “These women you know who do not breed must always be busy either in making matches or making and unmaking statesmen or some such things.”
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