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The Script

An upstairs parlor in the White House furnished with only a table and chair. September of 1867. Mary Todd Lincoln enters carrying a small armful of clothing.

I shall not! I shall not be more than a moment and if I choose to take two moments, then you will simply have to wait! (to herself) I cannot abide this constant… (shouting offstage) .. And I may take three moments! Just sit there with the trunks and tell me when the wagons arrive! (to herself) Four years in this Washington City…surely they can wait another moment. (shouting off) Or two! (to herself) To put the accumulations of four years into a few trunks and a single valise.. And still I must leave so much behind. So much behind. When the President and I would succumb to the tempestuous heat of Washington summers we would retreat to the Soldiers Home on 7th street. It would not be unusual for me to order 19 wagons of clothing, toys, and furniture to accompany us to our summer dwelling. And now… four years of making a life now confined to the pitiful contents of a few trunks. Our first…(she smiles..almost a laugh) ..oh my. I had nearly forgotten. Our first home..the Globe Tavern in Springfield, operated by the formidable Mrs. Beck. “Eight pleasant and comfortable rooms for boarders as well as convenient resting places for the weary.” One would have to have been mightily weary to get any rest in that first home of ours. Four dollars a week and that included our meals. It had begun as the office for a stage line and had improved but very little beyond the horse trade when Mr. Lincoln and I took up residence there in our first year of matrimony. A traveler would pull up in the dead of night and pull on the clapper bell until dear Mrs. Beck roused herself…and she did not hear well. Next door was the clanging and banging blacksmith and the parlor was filled night and day with lobbyists and their shoutings. Our home? One eight by fourteen foot room. I know. I measured it daily, detecting no signs of growth. We took our meals at a common table filled with cigar-smoking officials and traveling peddlers. All this while pregnant and married to a husband who returned to work shortly after our marriage. And they said our dear baby Robert made too much noise! My word, he was simply responding to Mrs. Beck’s bell from hell! (shouting off) You shall wait until I am ready to depart! (a beat, then) Stay! (to herself) I’m taking but very little with me from this White House … my dear husband’s night table and a few personal gifts. More was due me. Much more. But after the funeral a veritable stream of ..shall we say “unauthorized visitors” began their plunder of our belongings. Within weeks several pieces of my prized Haughwout crystal and the new buff-colored china had been seen in a second-hand shop in Georgetown. And my prize…the huge Japanese punchbowl …was on display in Christopher Shaw’s saloon on High Street in Baltimore. The goats! Dear God even my precious Abraham’s pet nanny goats mysteriously disappeared on their way to Francis Blair’s country estate in Maryland. If anyone should be accustomed to leave-taking, it should be I, but still…. I cannot quite bear the… (sees a small box on the table).. I cannot bear the…..What’s this? (she picks up the box, then opens it) .. My…(beginning to shout off) .. why wasn’t this…? (stops… sits to examine the contents) Of all things to leave behind. (clutches the box to her chest and quickly sits) Oh.. had I gone to Chicago and left this…..(turns her head to hear someone from downstairs) Let them shout. I must take this moment… (to the audience) Will you sit and take this moment with me? (struggling a bit to explain) This..uh… this is …. I mean to say there are many memories in a place like this…too many for me, I fear… but there are a precious few that I cannot leave behind me. (She opens the box…looks in a moment, then takes out a well-worn roll of paper tied with a pink ribbon) My second courtship by Mr. Lincoln.. a handful of election returns. I am sure you are all aware of the stories of our meeting..the long and awkward ruffian from Kentucky and the demure socialite of Springfield… but the President and First Lady who traveled to Washington were the result of their second romance. The first…how should I say?…. was cut short. I think that my exact words were “Go!” .. and then I stamped my foot a little, and said, “..and never come back!” Cut very short. A misunderstanding, a mistake… an intention misunderstood… too many mis’s prevented me from quickly becoming Mr. Lincoln’s missus. Then the army came into play…the veritable legion…the army of friends who tried so valiantly to bring us back together. Of course my sister Elizabeth thought our match to be a mismatch from the beginning, but not all Springfield were as short-sighted. Eliza Francis secretly brought us together in her parlor. And Dr. Henry did the same. Mr. Lincoln had called our break-up the “Fatal First.” He missed six consecutive days of the legislature’s January session in his grief. One of his close friends wrote that “Lincoln is rather in a bad way..the doctors say he came within an inch of being a perfect lunatic for life.” Hardly that, I think, but his friend Joshua Speed took away Mr. Lincoln’s razors as a precaution. Abraham wrote to my cousin John Todd Stuart, “I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would be not be one cheerful face on the planet.” And I suffered equally, but in my silence. But this.. (indicating the bundle of ribbon-tied papers in her hand)… this. One fall afternoon a smiling and lovingly handsome Abraham Lincoln strode down the Springfield street to my sister’s home and handed me something that was as close as he could come to a sentimental peace offering…a list of election returns in the last three legislative races. I tied it with a pink ribbon and placed it in this box. You may cherish your lover’s gardenias and rose blossoms as you wish…(clutching the packet to her chest).. I have my election returns. (She smiles and returns the papers to the box.) Rose..(a small chuckle).. he always said “Molly, you smell like roses.” … and I did. For him. Molly was his name for me. And it all led to this…(brings out a scrap newspaper)… We sealed our reconciliation in the ink of the Sangamon Journal. He wrote “Too well I know how much you suffer; but do, do remember, it is not my fault that I am so handsome and so interesting.” To which I replied…in newsprint, mind you, “Let him come here and he may squeeze my hand as hard as I squeeze the butter and if that ain’t personal satisfaction, I can only say that he is the first man that was not satisfied with squeezing my hand.” To which Mr. Lincoln responded, “I know he’s a fighting man and would rather fight that eat, but isn’t marrying better than fighting although it tends to run into it?” A courtship displayed publicly in the Springfield newspaper? Actually, it was a joke between Abraham and I. He had begun writing anonymous letters from the fictional “Lost Townships” to the newspaper under the names of Jeff and Rebecca. ..all a ruse to embarrass the local Democrats. I soon joined in with a few letters of my own and soon the entire town began eagerly awaiting the next installment of “The Rebecca Letters.” Few folks realized that once we strayed away from politics we were getting into the serious politics of courtship. (reading) “p.s. if he consents to marry there is one condition, if he ever happens to gallant any young girls home of nights from our house, he must not squeeze their hands.” (she smiles, then puts the clipping into the box) There were times, you know, when we feared we might need to flee this White House at a moment’s notice. This war…this horrible, horrible war… was not something separate from our lives. Until Union troops captured Alexandria the enemy was just across the Potomac River from the capital. I feared for our lives more than Mr. Lincoln, I suppose. He said the threats made him, "a little uncomfortable . . . but there is nothing like getting used to things." I never did. I never did get used to things. That’s why I kept this box near me…. If all else was to be lost, I would have these…(she looks into the box again)… I would have these things. (She hears something, goes to the door of the room.) They’re here? Then let them begin loading. No, my presence is not required to lift a few boxes onto the wagons. I’m sure they know their business. (turning away, to herself) Besides, everything than can’t be broken has been…stolen. Did I mention that I was a thief? Oh, not the miscreant you’ve heard described by the hellish old codgers of the senate or the wagging tongues of the press…No. My theft was more… how shall I say?... scientific. I stole a heart. Mr. Lincoln’s. (pulls something from her box) A piece of coal? I’ve not robbed the government of the winter fuel. It’s a reminder of my dear husband’s love. Those Rebecca letters? Well, they became more than a playful prank in the newspapers and one James Shields, Illinois’ Democratic auditor, took offense when young Mr. Lincoln criticized him in the letters. A duel was proposed. A duel! I wrote my Rebecca letter stating that “if they have to fight then broomsticks, hot water, and a shovel full of hot coals” would suffice. Mr. Lincoln settled upon broadswords. Broadswords! He even practiced for the duel…moved across the state line to Missouri to avoid our state’s prohibitions. The place was aptly named Bloody Island, Missouri. Shields had demanded a retraction, but to protect my name Mr. Lincoln vowed to fight the duel. My Galahad! My Apollo! And….my good fortune that both men’s seconds settled matters before the carnage could begin. If you ask me, Mr. Lincoln would have shown himself splendidly and emerged with Shields’ head on a silver platter…after all, the man was a Democrat. (she smiles at the coal and puts it away) (rising and moving around the room a bit) How do you say goodbye to a place? Oh, I am much accustomed to goodbyes. Accustomed? No…perhaps not…accustomed…the word implies some sort of …some type of settlement…some sort of…peace. And there has been no peace. Not in this heart. The nation continues to celebrate the so-called peace of the recent war but my peace…my heart’s peace…is …illusive. Tragedy works in shadows. It cannot be clearly seen nor felt except by those whose soul has known the chill of the darkness. No doctor can ever bring a candle of healing into those dark shadows. No friends can pry open a window to the sunshine of cure. There is…no escape from those shadows, and peace is…illusive. I brought four shining sons into this world of shadows… two have receded into the dark corners of death. But through all those dark days, I had a hand to hold me. I had a strong hand to hold me. “Mother,” he would say, “you are the only one I ever cared for.” And he was truly my all… “always-lover-husband-friend-father and all, all to me.” Even as the War increasingly demanded his time and mind, I would find myself sitting my weary room and at 11 o’clock, he would come to me. “Mother,” he would say, “you are the only one I ever cared for.” Despite the horrors and troubles and decisions that had so consumed his mind since rising that morning, his last thoughts of the day were for me. And then…and then my strong hand…my “all” .. slipped away into the same shadows where our loving boys had gone. (a long beat as she stares into the darkness, then at last her eyes return to the box…she moves to it takes out a very worn piece of paper, unfolds it) His most cherished poem…for most of his life he didn’t even know the author, but he would recite it from memory, his eyes partially closed, his head tipped slightly upward… (reading) “Mortality” “Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.”

I attended none of the funerals. I couldn’t. …I would not. Oh, it is not uncommon for ladies ..the mothers, the widows … to absent themselves from final services. We are thought too weak, …perhaps prone to emotional displays at the graveside. Custom or no, I would not have gone. I could not have gone. (a beat, then) Eddie Lincoln…age 3 and one-half. Consumption is a hard death. All my…all my men have died hard deaths. We first thought it to be diphtheria that pulled Eddie into the shadows, but it was consumption…. high fevers, coughing, then lifeless intervals of exhaustion. Hopes raised then lowered. I would hold him in my arms as his tiny body convulsed with the coughing, then fall limp and sweaty in exhaustion only to be racked again with the cough. Medicines…purgatives…blood-letting…I would sit with him through each night and rub his chest with balsam, then try to please get just a mouthful of rice jelly into his swollen lips…Oh please, Eddie…just a bite…oh, my dear baby boy, please just swallow this. And I would look around and the shadows!...The shadows would draw in tighter and tighter and….and…(a long beat..she looks into her empty arms) Fifty-two days of suffering…my men..my angels…died hard deaths. (reading) The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blessed;
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.

I loved Washington..I truly did. Oh, it was not Eden. The streets were not paved, animals roamed freely, sewers drained into open land, the Potomac was a fetid cesspool, and slaves were traded openly upon the streets. But..there was theatre…there was opera…minstrel shows, elegant shops, dinner parties. My Lincoln and I drank deeply of what the city had to offer. But Eddie was gone…then my father Robert of cholera, then my grandmother Parker. And as the shadows deepened, two tiny lights appeared…. Tad and Willy would stop visitors to the White House and ask them just why they had come to see the President. Willie would write a circus or a theatre piece and the two boys would charge visitors to come into their bedroom to watch the show. They rigged the roof of the White House like a ship’s deck so they could watch for the enemy and they found a way to ring all the bell cords simultaneously causing the servants to rush madly into the mansion. … and they were forever chasing their goat through the White House kitchen. And oh, the parties! Shall I tell you about just one? 1862..Christmas over and nearly a year into the War there was no indication that the Confederates would not storm Washington in victory. The mood of the country was dismal..so…I planned party.. Not just a party, but a soiree! 500 invitations, catered by Maillards, the most expensive caterers in the country, champagne and wine from Clement Heerdt’s in New York, and even a new coat rack in the dressing rooms. Coats at White House parties had been a problem. The previous First Lady would not remove hers for fear of thieves. The carriages began arriving a little before 9 p.m. and the generals were in full-dress uniform…then the over-decorated diplomatic corps, and finally the government and the Supreme Court. I had dressed my staff in their new mulberry-colored uniforms to compliment my new solferino-edged china, and the Marine band struck up “The Mary Lincoln Polka” as we received guests in the East Room. Only one slight delay as someone had lost the key to the dining room, but shortly after midnight the grand entourage entered the banquet 150 at a time to feast until 3 in the morning on a magnificent buffet that took Maillard five days to prepare and cost the Lincolns a tidy one thousand dollars. (a beat, then) Do you wrestle with God? I did. I do. I suppose I always shall. I had hoped that the party to be as much a balm for Mr. Lincoln and myself as for the nation, but even in the midst of what should have been such a joyous…a healing…time… shadows. More shadows. Few guests knew why one of us was always missing from the party…few caught our worried glances as we would return to the dining room. Mr. Lincoln and I missed much of the evening as Willie lay in bed with a high fever. Two weeks and day after the party…he was gone. It does a mother little good…it brings her little comfort to know why a child has died. ..we guessed typhoid from the wretched Potomac… (reading) They loved - but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned - but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved - but no wail from their slumber will come;
They joyed - but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

I will not spare words…Willie was my favorite. He even called himself, “Mama’s boy.” And he was. Mr. Lincoln would lock himself in Willie’s room each Thursday, the day of our boy’s death. It does a mother little good to know why her child has been taken, but a father must know, I think..he must at least seek to find out. The war had brought soldiers to the Potomac, the soldiers had brought their waste, and the waste had carried the typhoid. He was allowed to suffer a portion of what the nation was suffering, but such consolation was not to be mine…ever. Nothing but ever-darkening shadows. (she hears something…goes to the imaginary window) The band is playing. I had forbidden that…the summer concerts. When we are in sorrow, quiet is necessary. (looking out the window again) But they continue to play and I cannot shut out the music. (turning back to the visitors) Mr. Lincoln came to me…he was greatly worried or he would not have told me this…he talked of a dream in which he was awakened by the sound of weeping… “I wandered through the White House, Mary, trying to find its source. The East Room. It was there…a corpse resting in its coffin. Who is dead in the White House?” he asked the soldiers. And the answer came.. “The President.” (a beat) We had but a few days left together when he told me that. Palm Sunday, April 9th, Lee surrendered his army and Washington became one noisy parade… The impish Tad waved a rebel flag, the President asked the Band to play Dixie, and I stood at the second floor window ..wondering. Looking not at the fireworks and torches, but ….at their shadows. (she goes to the box and picks out scrap of cloth…a long moment as she gently fingers it) Tad had planned an excursion with one of the White House doormen. We’d asked the Grants to attend Tom Taylor’s amusement at the Ford, but they left for New Jersey to be with their children. Robert was exhausted and chose to turn in for the evening. My head was….well, it had been a series of very long days but the President’s mind was fixed upon having some relaxation and bent on the theatre. We went for a ride that day…...he was cheerful. ..even playful. And for the first time in a very, very long time we talked of the future…our future. ..traveling…where we might live the rest of our lives… above all, we decided…he decided … that we must make up our minds to be happy. It was our custom to invite friends on these afternoon carriage rides but on this day the President deemed we should go alone…be alone. The War was done. His attentions once again turned completely to me and we laughed…dear Lord, how long had it been since we had simply…and completely…and wholly laughed? When we pulled up in front of the White House the driver had to politely tell us we were home. The President had sent me a silly love note that week and I surprised him by reciting it by heart. We stepped out of the carriage and ….and I should have noticed… the shadows creeping across the spring meadow, but I was giddy girl from Kentucky at that moment and could not take my eyes off the man whom I’d looked straight in the eyes and said “I do,” on the cold November night back in Springfield. In my joyous imagination I was again wearing my sister Francis’s white satin dress and pearl necklace, standing in my sister’s parlor as Reverend Dresser asked about something which is too precious even for this box. (she removes her ring and reads) “A.L. to Mary, Nov. 4, 1842. Love is Eternal.” We were late for the play…I don’t know that we saw the first act of any play in Washington. I prepared for the theatre by donning my pretty bonnet and small-patterned blue dress and Mr. Lincoln by brushing his hand through his stubborn hair and picking up his silk hat. (she puts the ring back onto her finger, looks at the poem, begins to read, then closes her eyes and recites by heart) 'Tis the wink of an eye - 'tis the draught of a breath -
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? (her eyes still closed…tears) Shadows…shadows. Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, a flash of the lightning…a break of the wave… He passes…he passes from life to his rest in…the grave. (she opens her eyes and looks at the cloth in her hands..then finally) His pillow was …his pillow was… (but she cannot continue… She goes to the door and looks down the stairway.) They have nearly packed me up. Robert and I are moving to Chicago… not Springfield. I am not yet ready for that. Some women can never feel comfortable away from home. I was never one of them. I have Robert…I have my little Tad… (sees the box, moves it). I have memories. There is a tale…I have heard it to be true…of two pine trees that stood together in a pleasant grove. One towering far above the other. One night a storm arose and the taller of the two was struck by lightning. Both trees died. Their roots had become intertwined. (a long beat as she stands there, then someone shouts to her from downstairs) I’m coming. (she exits)

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