The Wages of Fame by Thomas Fleming

Author:Thomas Fleming
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2012-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

SIX

Dearest Friend,

By now I hope you have received the news from George that I am a mother again—another boy, blasting once and for all, I suspect, my hopes (and I think, yours) for a girl. We have named him Paul, after George’s great-uncle, who died heroically in the American Revolution. He’s a rather frail child, caused, I fear, by the awful humidity of our capital in which I all but expired during the two months prior to his birth. I tended at times to curse Mr. Clay and our late president for calling a special session of Congress on May 31. Of course, Sir Harry of the West thought it would only take a week or two at the most to ram through his bank and tariff and improvement bills and then we could all flee to cooler climes. Instead, the statesmen have been sweating for two months now in the fiery furnace created by Beelzebub Tyler. Believe me that is one of the kinder names the Whigs have invented for our accidental president. By vetoing one Clay bill after another, he has created consternation and the most delicious chaos in their ranks. Never have I seen such fury expressed against a president. Not even the most intemperate Nullifiers and Secessionists of 1833 breathed oaths as ferocious on Andrew Jackson.

Last week, only ten days after my confinement, I accepted an invitation to dinner at the White House. The temperature was 95 degrees. George was sure the excitement would be fatal. I finally convinced him that on the contrary, the boredom of sitting home with a squalling baby would more likely demolish me. He submitted, muttering I was part Indian—I’m sure he really meant “politician” (though he would not have added “ρart” with that word)—and we were soon being received by the mansion’s new hostess, Priscilla Cooper Tyler. The President’s wife remains totally incapacitated by the stroke she suffered some two years ago. The younger Mrs. Tyler is, as I think I told you several letters back, a former actress, married to the president’s eldest son, Robert. Extremely attractive and self-possessed, she gave a superb dinner, replete with fish, venison, the usual desserts, and a number of excellent wines.

Alas, as the desserts were being served, Mrs. Tyler grew deathly pale and slumped in her chair, quite unconscious. (I have since learned she is three or four months pregnant.) She was sitting next to Mr. Webster, our new secretary of state. He leaped up, lifted her from her chair, and began carrying her out of the room. At this point, her husband (who strikes me as a bit of a fool) seized a pitcher of ice water and hurled it all over her and Mr. Webster! I’m sure it totally ruined her beautiful dress, a delicate pink faille, and produced a decided coolness on Mr. Webster’s part. The godlike Daniel had to be dried off by a half dozen waiters while our hostess was carried off to her bedroom.

Mr. Clay has made another attempt to pass a bank bill.

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