Part 49 (1/2)

It is not surprising that the theater offered ideal refreshment for a man who regularly employed storytelling to ease tensions. The theater held all the elements of a perfect escape. Enthralled by the live drama, the costumes and scenery, the stagecraft, and the rhetorical extravagances, he was transported into a realm far from the troubling events that filled the rest of his waking hours.

In the mid-nineteenth century, developments with gaslight had vastly improved the experience of theatergoers. Managers had learned ”to dim or brighten illumination” by manipulating the valves that fed the gas to the jets. A setting sun, a full moon, or a misty evening could be achieved by placing ”colored gla.s.s mantles” over the lamps. Technicians stationed above the balcony could illuminate individual actors as they made their entrance onto the stage.

”To envision nineteenth-century theater audiences correctly,” the cultural historian Lawrence Levine suggests, ”one might do well to visit a contemporary sporting event in which the spectators not only are similarly heterogeneous but are also...more than an audience; they are partic.i.p.ants who can enter into the action on the field, who feel a sense of immediacy and at times even of control, who articulate their opinions and feelings vocally and unmistakably.” Though different cla.s.ses occupied different areas of the theater-the wealthy in the first-tier boxes, the working cla.s.s in the orchestra, and the poor in the balcony-the entire audience shared a fairly intimate s.p.a.ce. Indeed, Frances Trollope complained that in American theaters she encountered men without jackets, their sleeves rolled to their elbows, and their breath smelling of ”onions and whiskey.” Though Lincoln was seated in his presidential box, he could still enjoy the communal experience, which allowed him to feel the pulse of the people, much as he had done when he traveled the circuit in his early days.

The years surrounding the Civil War have been called the golden age of American acting. During those years, one historian claims, ”the American theatre was blessed with a galaxy of performers who have never been excelled”-including Edwin Forrest, John McCullough, Edwin Booth, Laura Keene, and Charlotte Cushman. It was said of Miss Cushman, who was lionized in both Europe and America for her role as Lady Macbeth, that ”she was not a great actress merely, but she was a great woman.” She had a magnetic personality and ”when she came upon the stage she filled it with...the brilliant vitality of her presence.” A liberated woman, far ahead of her time, she had lovers but never married. Her work was her chief pa.s.sion.

Seward and Miss Cushman had met in the 1850s and become great friends. Whenever she was in Was.h.i.+ngton, she stayed at the Seward home. The celebrated actress forged a close relations.h.i.+p with young f.a.n.n.y, who idolized her. Miss Cushman offered a glimpse of the vital and independent life f.a.n.n.y hoped to lead someday, if her dream to become a writer came true. ”Imagine me,” f.a.n.n.y wrote her mother after one of Miss Cushman's visits, ”full of the old literary fervor and anxious to be at work, to try hard-& at the same time 'learn to labor, & to wait' I mean, improve in the work which I cannot choose but take...I am full of hope that I may yet make my life worth the living and be of some use in the world.”

In honor of the star guest, Seward organized a series of dinner parties, inviting members of foreign legations and cabinet colleagues. For her part, Miss Cushman regarded Seward as ”the greatest man this country ever produced.” f.a.n.n.y believed that Cushman understood her n.o.ble father better than almost anyone outside their family.

Fred Seward recalled that Lincoln made his way to their house almost every night while Miss Cushman visited. Seward had introduced Cushman to the president in the summer of 1861. She had hoped to ask Lincoln for help in obtaining a West Point appointment for a young friend, but the scintillating conversation distracted her from the purpose of her visit. And Lincoln was undoubtedly riveted by the celebrated actress of his beloved Shakespeare.

Unlike Seward, who had been attending theater since he was a young man, Lincoln had seen very few live performances until he came to Was.h.i.+ngton. So excited was he by his first sight of Falstaff on the stage that he wrote the actor, James Hackett: ”Perhaps the best compliment I can pay is to say, as I truly can, I am very anxious to see it again.” Although he had not read all of Shakespeare's plays, he told Hackett that he had studied some of them ”perhaps as frequently as any unprofessional reader. Among the latter are Lear, Richard Third, Henry Eighth, Hamlet, and especially Macbeth. I think nothing equals Macbeth. It is wonderful. Unlike you gentlemen of the profession, I think the soliloquy in Hamlet commencing 'O, my offence is rank' surpa.s.ses that commencing, 'To be, or not to be.' But pardon this small attempt at criticism.” When Hackett shared the president's letter with friends, it unfortunately made its way into opposition newspapers. Lincoln was promptly ridiculed for his attempt to render dramatic judgments. An embarra.s.sed Hackett apologized to Lincoln, who urged him to have ”no uneasiness on the subject.” He was not ”shocked by the newspaper comments,” for all his life he had ”endured a great deal of ridicule without much malice.”

The histories and tragedies of Shakespeare that Lincoln loved most dealt with themes that would resonate to a president in the midst of civil war: political intrigue, the burdens of power, the nature of ambition, the relations.h.i.+p of leaders to those they governed. The plays illuminated with stark beauty the dire consequences of civil strife, the evils wrought by jealousy and disloyalty, the emotions evoked by the death of a child, the sundering of family ties or love of country.

Congressman William D. Kelley of Pennsylvania recalled bringing the actor John McDonough to the White House on a stormy night. Lincoln had relished McDonough's performance as Edgar in King Lear and was delighted to meet him. For his part, McDonough was ”an intensely partisan Democrat, and had accepted the theory that Mr. Lincoln was a mere buffoon.” His att.i.tude changed after spending four hours discussing Shakespeare with the president. Lincoln was eager to know why certain scenes were left out of productions. He was fascinated by the different ways that cla.s.sic lines could be delivered. He lifted his ”well-thumbed volume” of Shakespeare from the shelf, reading aloud some pa.s.sages, repeating others from memory. When the clock approached midnight, Kelley stood up to go, chagrined to have kept the president so long. Lincoln swiftly a.s.sured his guests that he had ”not enjoyed such a season of literary recreation” in many months. The evening had provided an immensely ”pleasant interval” from his work.

Of all the remarkable stage actors in this golden time, none surpa.s.sed Edwin Booth, son of the celebrated tragedian Junius Booth and elder brother to Lincoln's future a.s.sa.s.sin, John Wilkes Booth. ”Edwin Booth has done more for the stage in America than any other man,” wrote a drama critic in the 1860s. The soulful young actor captivated audiences everywhere with the naturalness of his performances and his conversational tone, which stood in contrast to the bombastic, stylized performances of the older generation.

In late February and early March 1864, Edwin Booth came to Grover's Theatre for a three-week engagement, delivering one masterly performance after another. Lincoln and Seward attended the theater night after night. They saw Booth in the t.i.tle roles of Hamlet and Richard III. They applauded his performance as Brutus in Julius Caesar and as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice.

On Friday evening, March 11, Booth came to dinner at the Sewards'. Twenty-year-old f.a.n.n.y Seward could barely contain her excitement. She had seen every one of his performances and had been transfixed by his ”magnificent dark eyes.” At dinner, Seward presumed to ask Booth if he might advise the thespian how ”his acting might be improved.” According to f.a.n.n.y, Booth ”accepted Father's criticisms very gracefully-often saying he had felt those defects himself.” Seward focused particularly on Booth's performance in Bulwer-Lytton's Richelieu, where he thought he had made the crafty cardinal ”too old and infirm.” Long identified as the power behind the throne himself, Seward perhaps wanted a younger, more vibrant characterization for Richelieu. When Seward told Booth he thought his performance as Shylock was perfect, Booth disagreed, saying he ”had a painful sense of something wanting-could compare it to nothing else but the want of body in wine.”

Detained at the White House, Lincoln missed the enjoyable interchange with Booth. A few days earlier, antic.i.p.ating Booth's Hamlet, Lincoln had talked about the play with Francis Carpenter, the young artist who was at work on his picture depicting the first reading of the Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation. In the course of the conversation, Lincoln recited from memory his favorite pa.s.sage, the king's soliloquy after the murder of Hamlet's father, ”with a feeling and appreciation unsurpa.s.sed by anything I ever witnessed upon the stage.”

What struck Carpenter most forcefully was Lincoln's ability to appreciate tragedy and comedy with equal intensity. He could, in one sitting, bring tears to a visitor's eyes with a sensitive rendering from Richard III and moments later induce riotous laughter with a comic tall tale. His ”laugh,” Carpenter observed, ”stood by itself. The 'neigh' of a wild horse on his native prairie is not more undisguised and hearty.” Lincoln's ability to commingle joy with sorrow seemed to Carpenter a trait the president shared with his favorite playwright. ”It has been well said,” Carpenter noted, ”that 'the spirit which held the woe of ”Lear,” and the tragedy of ”Hamlet,” would have broken, had it not also had the humor of the ”Merry Wives of Windsor,” and the merriment of ”Midsummer Night's Dream.” '”

No other cabinet member went to the theater as regularly as Lincoln and Seward. Chase and Bates considered it a foolish waste of time, perhaps even a ”Satanic diversion,” while Stanton came only once to Grover's playhouse, with the sole intention of b.u.t.tonholing Lincoln about some pressing matter. Seated with Lincoln in his box, Grover had been startled when Stanton arrived a half hour late, sidled up to Lincoln, and engaged him in a long conversation. Lincoln listened attentively but kept his eyes on the stage. Frustrated, Stanton ”grasped Mr. Lincoln by the lapel of his coat, slowly pulled him round face to face, and continued the conversation. Mr. Lincoln responded to this brusque act with all the smiling geniality that one might bestow on a similar act from a favorite child, but soon again turned his eyes to the stage.” Finally, Stanton despaired utterly of conducting his business. He ”arose, said good night, and withdrew.”

According to Grover, Tad loved the theater as much as his father. John Hay noted that Tad would laugh ”enormously whenever he saw his father's eye twinkle, though not seeing clearly why.” Often escorted to Grover's by his tutor, Tad ”felt at home and frequently came alone to the rehearsals, which he watched with rapt interest. He made the acquaintance of the stage attaches, who liked him and gave him complete liberty of action.” Tad would help them move scenery, and on one occasion, he actually appeared in a play. For the lonely boy, who broke down in tears when the appearance of Julia Taft at a White House reception recalled his happier days with Willie and the Taft boys, the camaraderie of the playhouse must have been immensely comforting.

ULYSSES S. GRANT, the hero of Vicksburg and Chattanooga, arrived in the nation's capital on March 8, 1864, to take command of all the Union armies. A grateful Congress had revived the grade of lieutenant general, not held since George Was.h.i.+ngton, and Lincoln had nominated Grant to receive the honored rank. With Grant's promotion, Halleck became chief of staff, and Sherman a.s.sumed Grant's old command of the Western armies.

Grant's entrance into Was.h.i.+ngton was consistent with his image as an unpretentious man of action, the polar opposite of McClellan. He walked into the Willard Hotel at dusk, accompanied only by his teenage son, Fred. Unrecognized by the desk clerk, he was told that nothing was available except a small room on the top floor. The situation was remedied only when the embarra.s.sed clerk looked at the signature in the register-U. S. Grant and son, Galena, Illinois-and immediately switched the accommodations. After freshening up, Grant took his son to the dining room at the lobby level. His slim build, ”stooping shoulders, mild blue eyes, and light brown hair and whiskers” attracted little notice until someone began pointing at his table. Suddenly, ”there was a shout of welcome from all present, an immense cheer going up from the crowd,” who banged their fists on the tops of the tables until he finally stood up and took a bow.

After readying his son for bed, Grant walked over to the White House, where a large crowd had gathered for the president's weekly reception. Horace Porter, a young colonel who would later become Grant's aide-de-camp, was standing near Lincoln in the Blue Room when ”a sudden commotion near the entrance to the room attracted general attention.” The cause was the appearance of General Grant, ”walking along modestly with the rest of the crowd toward Mr. Lincoln.” Meeting Grant for the first time, Lincoln's face lit up with a broad smile. Not waiting for his visitor to reach him, the president ”advanced rapidly two or three steps,” taking Grant by the hand. ”Why, here is General Grant! Well, this is a great pleasure.”

Porter was struck by the physical contrast between the two men. From his uncommon height, the president ”looked down with beaming countenance” upon Grant, who stood eight inches shorter. The collar on Lincoln's evening dress was ”a size too large,” his necktie ”awkwardly tied.” He seemed to Porter ”more of a Hercules than an Adonis.” Yet Porter noted the ”merry twinkle” in his gray eyes and ”a tone of familiarity” that instantly set people at ease. Watching the two men together, Welles, who was also present, was slightly disconcerted by Grant's demeanor, remarking on his lack of soldierly presence, ”a degree of awkwardness.”

After talking with Grant, Lincoln referred him to Seward, knowing that his gregarious secretary could best help the general navigate the crowds of admirers shouting his name and rapidly descending upon him. So frantic was the cheering throng to draw near the conquering hero that ”laces were torn, crinoline mashed, and things were generally much mixed.” Seward rapidly maneuvered Grant into the East Room, where he persuaded the general to stand on a sofa so that everyone could see his face. ”He blushed like a girl,” the New York Herald correspondent noted. ”The handshaking brought streams of perspiration down his forehead and over his face.” Grant later remarked that the reception was ”his warmest campaign during the war.”

The president was delighted by the crowd's embrace of Grant. He willingly ceded to the una.s.suming general his own customary place of honor, fully aware that the path to victory was wide enough, as Porter phrased it, for the two of them to ”walk it abreast.” Lincoln's reception of Grant might have been more calculated if he had thought the general intended to compete for the presidency, but he had ascertained from a trustworthy source that Grant wanted nothing more than to successfully complete his mission to end the war. ”My son, you will never know how gratifying that is to me,” Lincoln had told J. Russell Jones, the emissary who carried a letter from Grant affirming that not only did he have no desire for the presidency but he fully supported ”keeping Mr. Lincoln in the presidential chair.”

After mingling with the excited crowd for an hour, the indefatigable Seward and the exhausted general made their way back to Lincoln, who was waiting with Stanton in the drawing room. They talked over the details of the ceremony the next day, when Grant would be given his commission. To help him prepare his response, Lincoln handed the general a copy of the remarks he would deliver before Grant was expected to speak. Returning to his room at the Willard, Grant wrote out his statement in pencil on a half sheet of paper. When the time came the following afternoon to speak, he seemed, according to Nicolay, ”quite embarra.s.sed by the occasion, and finding his own writing so very difficult to read,” he stumbled through his speech.

After the ceremony, Lincoln and Grant went upstairs to talk in private. Lincoln explained that while ”procrastination on the part of commanders” had led him in the past to issue military orders from the White House, ”all he wanted or had ever wanted was some one who would take the responsibility and act,” leaving to him the task of mobilizing ”all the power of the government” to provide whatever a.s.sistance was needed.

On Thursday, Grant journeyed by rail to the headquarters of the Army of the Potomac to consult with General Meade. Upon Grant's return, Lincoln informed him that Mrs. Lincoln was planning a dinner in his honor that Sat.u.r.day. When Grant begged off, arguing that he wanted to get back to the field as soon as possible, Lincoln laughingly said: ”But we can't excuse you. It would be the play of 'Hamlet' with Hamlet left out.” Still, Grant insisted. ”I appreciate fully the honor,” he said, ”but-time is very precious just now-and-really, Mr. President, I believe I have had enough of the 'show' business!”