Louisa (2 page)

“
In the entire span
of the Adams dynasty, no figure is more central than the wife of the second Adams statesman, John Quincy Adams,” wrote the first editor of the Adams Papers, Lyman H. Butterfield. “And yet none is less known or more elusive.” She was unknown because, for two centuries, she was seen to exist outside the bounds of history—those great tracts of men, deeds, and laws. She was elusive, too, because she was contradictory, left false trails about her family's background, demurred and denied her merits, and was quick to describe her doubts. Her character was quicksilver, and the roles she held were unofficial. She was also an American who was foreign born, a first lady in a country that was not entirely her own, and a mother who survived all but one of her children. She was torn between cultural and familial ideals and strong instincts that she could not ignore. She was sunk by despair and lifted by laughter.

Her biography cannot be told like her husband's. It is a history of feelings as well as facts, of questions as well as answers, of doubt as well as certainty. It is a record of a life, a narrative of a journey, the adventures of an extraordinary woman. And her story begins where, as a young girl with a romantic imagination, she might have assumed it would happily end: at the moment she met the man whom she would marry.

1

T
HE
FIRST
TIME
Louisa Catherine Johnson saw John Quincy Adams, she thought that he looked ridiculous. When he came to dinner at the Johnsons' house in London, on Wednesday, November 11, 1795, the young American diplomat was dressed in a strange boxy Dutch coat so pale that it appeared, absurdly, almost white. Watching him talk at the table, though, she did like him. He seemed spirited, showing no signs of exhaustion after a long and difficult journey from Holland, where he was the United States' representative. He was handsome, with penetrating, dark round eyes under a pair of peaked eyebrows, and a mouth that was full and strong. He liked a good story and a good glass of wine. Only twenty-eight years old, he was already a high-ranking diplomat—and the son of the vice president of the United States. No one who met him could miss his intense intelligence. Still, after John Quincy had gone, the girls sat in the parlor and joked a little about his unfashionable attire. They were drawn to men who wore well-cut jackets, men who arrived at dinner looking ready for a gallop. John Trumbull, an artist and frequent guest at the Johnsons', who had brought John Quincy to dinner, tried to convince
them that Mr. Adams was “a fine fellow and would make a good husband.” The sisters laughed.

More than a month
passed before John Quincy came back, and Louisa did not miss him. She was twenty years old, clever, and charming, though she could be shy, and she and her sisters were accustomed to being objects of admiration. There were seven daughters in all—beguiling, lively, and lovely—and their mother, Catherine, knew how to exploit their good looks. (An eighth child, a son named Thomas, was at boarding school and then across the Atlantic at Harvard.) Catherine was petite and pretty, with a sparkling wit and a talent for putting guests at ease while keeping them on their toes; she was, Louisa remembered, “what the French call spirituél.” When they were little, Catherine had dressed her children in matching clothes and marched them into church by twos. “We were objects of general curiosity and permit me to say admiration to the publick,” Louisa would remember with a touch of unembarrassed pride. When they were older, the girls had ostrich feathers for their hats, buffons of starched muslin, and hairdressers to curl, sculpt, and powder their hair. They ordered gloves by the dozen. The three oldest—Nancy was twenty-two, two years older than Louisa, and Caroline eighteen, two years younger—had already been introduced to society, and society was happy to be introduced to them.

There were frequent
visitors to entertain them, dinners with dignitaries, merchants, scientists, ministers, British abolitionists, wealthy American plantation owners, young men and old. Their elegant house, No. 8 Cooper's Row on Tower Hill, perched above the Thames and the Tower of London, was known as a welcoming place. Visitors from the United States were treated especially well. Louisa's father, Joshua Johnson, a merchant from Maryland, was the American consul in London, appointed by Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson in 1790. He interpreted his responsibilities liberally. (Perhaps a little self-interestedly, too, which was not uncommon for a consul.) His ships
carried Americans' mail to and from the United States; he found them a doctor when they were sick; he pled their case when they were in trouble; he offered his house as their haven. Americans came to Cooper's Row to collect their letters and stayed for tea. They came to discuss a trading scheme and found themselves at dinner. After dinner they would linger for card games, conversation, and music in the parlor. They came for the comforts of the sofa in the parlor, the oil paintings on the walls, the cook in the kitchen, the harp in the corner, and the eleven servants who would suddenly appear at their elbow to whisk away their finished plates or materialize in the drawing room with a glass of good brandy. They also came, perhaps, for the women.

Louisa barely noticed
John Quincy's reappearance at the dinner table in December, but he returned and returned again. He could be found on Tower Hill almost every night. He would linger after dinner with the sisters to watch their skits, play their games, and listen to their laughter. He teased them and was teased; they called him “Mr. Quiz.” He sat on the sofa next to Louisa and held the end of a string as Louisa threaded spangles on it for her embroidery. He loved watching them perform—Nancy played the pianoforte, Caroline the harp, and Louisa sang. “Evening at Mr. Johnson's. His daughters pretty and agreeable . . . Late home,” he would record in his small, strict handwriting, logging his visits to the Johnsons' night after night.

He was drawn to them, this warm feminine circle—to the sound of a soprano voice, the mellifluous laughter, the suggestion of a life not of strain and hardship but of modestly easy luxury. It was so different from the atmosphere of expectations in which he'd been raised, so different from what he told himself he wanted. He noted the difference and it disturbed him; yet he could not seem to stay away.

The Johnson sisters could sense the increasing attention from this almost-stranger, serious and somewhat supercilious, though not unable to smile. He was unusual—but then, there were ways in which they were unusual too—and perhaps Louisa most of all.

 • • • 

S
HE
WAS
almost
an outsider by birth. At the time the American Revolution broke out across the Atlantic, when she was only two months old, her father was the buyer for a firm based in Annapolis. He was a proud American patriot unafraid to show his allegiance, which meant that it became neither safe nor profitable for him to live nearly in view of the Tower of London. When Louisa was three, her family moved to Nantes, France, where Joshua worked for a time as an agent for the nascent American government and tried to establish his own business. His house there, on L'Île Feydeau, in the middle of the Loire River, the part of town fashionable among the newly rich, became a frequent meeting point for Americans passing through—Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, John Paul Jones, and dozens of others, including John Adams, perhaps with his middle son in tow. They came for business, and perhaps for pleasure; Joshua Johnson projected a sense of living well. His apartments were in a mansion called “Le Temple du Goût”—the Temple of Taste. Rows of wrought iron balconies curved and curled into delicate tendrils; long windows opened like doors; the fireplaces were made of marble; and the ceilings soared. Later, Louisa blamed Le Temple du Goût for encouraging a certain showiness and ruinous cupidity in her mother, but it molded her own aesthetic as well. Long after she had been to the Hermitage, to the Tuileries, to Peterhof, to Sans Souci, she would remember Le Temple du Goût as a singular marvel, elegant and perfect.

She remembered her
childhood, she would later say, like a dreamscape. She wouldn't remember the revolutionaries who came to tea, though—they meant little to her then, and anyway, she often wasn't home. Her parents sent her to a Roman Catholic boarding school located in Le Temple du Goût, up the mansion's spiral staircase. The Johnsons weren't Catholic, and Joshua probably wasn't too interested in formally educating his tiny children at that point. (Americans in
France sometimes enrolled their children in Roman Catholic schools; Thomas Jefferson—highly skeptical of religion—sent his daughter Patsy to a convent.) But Catherine was frequently pregnant, all the Johnsons often sick, and Joshua prone to feeling overwhelmed. The school left an impression on Louisa, though the only nun she could later recall was the one who brought toys. What she would remember were the trips to convents and cathedrals, where she would stand in the tinctured light and then drop to her knees to pray before the cross. She was imprinted with a certain sacerdotal sensitivity, an openness to awe. She also would remember the French she learned.

The school was only
upstairs from her parents' family, but to judge from how much she liked to come home—even if it meant falling sick—it felt far away. With her mother, the lessons were of a different order. Louisa learned to dance on top of a table. Catherine dressed her children in the latest French fashions, in silks and tiny hoops, and took them to children's balls, where they were exhibited, admired, and “perfectly ruined by adulation and flattery.” One of Louisa's earliest childhood memories, a kaleidoscope of colors and textures, was of a party—in fact, a wedding. Late in her life, she could still picture the bride of her father's coachman: the flowers on her dress, the flowers in her hands, the flowering flush upon her cheeks. The bride opened the ball, Louisa wrote in 1825, “with all the gaiety of French sprightliness.”

In 1781, Joshua rejoined his old partner Charles Wallace and another Annapolis merchant, John Muir, to form Wallace, Johnson & Muir, focusing on commission trade with Europe. Two years later, when Louisa was eight, with the end of the Revolution imminent,
the Johnsons returned
to London. They moved into the graceful mansion on Tower Hill, a short walk from the fortress and the long artery to the sea below it. Louisa and her sisters were sent to a boarding school in Shacklewell, near Hackney, about four miles north of Tower Hill. The school aimed at preparing middle-class English girls to become marriageable young women; it was run by a headmistress named Elizabeth
Carter, who was well read, somewhat narrow minded, and very fat. Students were taught drawing, needlepoint, how to play the harp, and sloppy French—all considered necessary adornments for a wife.

Louisa was young and shy, which at times could make her seem haughty; the other girls called her “Miss Proud.” Later in her life, she would remember a persistent feeling that she did not fit in. She had arrived at school wearing a stiff silk dress, as was the style in France, and chattering with her sisters in French only to find her schoolmates wearing high-waisted frocks with pretty sashes and flowing chemise skirts, speaking in proper English idioms coded with signals of birth and bearing. Louisa and her sisters, she wrote in “Record of a Life,” “became objects of ridicule to the whole school.” But Louisa
was
also proud. Being different might mean being something more than ordinary. There was power in that. She had an innate flair for the dramatic. A story about
the first time
she went to a church service with her schoolmates in Hackney is telling: when a teacher told her to kneel to pray, she “fell as it were dead upon the floor.” Echoing what she'd heard from the nuns at the Catholic school she had attended at Le Temple du Goût, she declared that she was surrounded by “
hereticks.
” Likely, her fear of heresy and hell was real and overwhelming; young and impressionable, she had been influenced by what the nuns had told her. But her response was assertive and perhaps a little strange, since her own parents went to an Anglican church (and, when she was home, she likely went with them), and since her sisters seem to have had no similar trouble. She was sensitive, and she had a sense that those around her believed and behaved unlike her.

What happened next
, after the fainting, was also characteristic: Louisa fell so “ill” she had to be removed from school. This time she did not go home. Instead, her parents, distracted by the demands of their growing family, their own frequent illnesses, and the vagaries of a merchant's business, sent her to stay with family friends, John and Elizabeth Hewlett. Parents could be remote, if not seemingly indifferent, in the eighteenth century; nonetheless, sending Louisa to friends seems harsh.
Yet Louisa came to see it as a blessing. It shaped her independence and intellect at a very early age. Elizabeth Hewlett was the widow of another American merchant who had remarried a young, bold-minded Anglican minister named John. Louisa's father, Joshua, deferred to John Hewlett in religious and educational matters—not so much, it seems, because he admired Hewlett's renowned scholarship as because he admired his connections. Anglicanism made sense for a socially ambitious family in England, and Joshua did not care what dogma his daughters actually believed. He had been raised on a Chesapeake plantation, where women were worshipped but not for their independent minds. What mattered was that his daughter not make a fuss. A lady was not supposed to disagree with the minister's creed, much less faint upon the floor. Joshua asked John Hewlett to coax Louisa into line. “As in regard to women he always said there was little danger in believing,” Louisa later wrote of her father, but “there was destruction in doubt.”