One Glorious Ambition (33 page)

A hole formed in Dorothea’s thin leather soles. She would have to find a cobbler to repair them and then order another pair. The many muddy trails, wet-bottomed boats, cold snows that she stepped into while traveling thousands of miles over the past seven years of surveying had not been kind to her feet. She stoked the small coal stove in her room at a Nashville boardinghouse. The two black merino dresses she rotated were looking thin in places from the many brushings. If she stayed a week or more here, she would have them steamed, but lately she rarely stayed that long anywhere. She checked the black dress for tiny holes she could repair and decided that she would stop at the nearest dry-goods store to purchase wool. She would delay her trip for a few days and sew a new dress. Her crinolines needed refreshing as well, perhaps she needed two new ones so she could avoid the hoops that made movement so expansive. It wouldn’t do for her to look threadbare or too frugal. She must look feminine and formidable when she met with the men who made the nation’s laws to put forth her most ambitious plan.

This was where she stood: ready to pursue her life’s purpose in a powerful way. She was forty-five years old, and her new hope involved living in the belly of the beast: Washington DC. She planned to arrive in the spring of 1848 and to stay at Mrs. Birth’s boardinghouse, where the Bells had landed after John was elected to the Senate. They had already written to her of the lovely accommodations. Hope rose as abundant as the lilacs that would be blooming then. She had learned how to move through the maze of politics and would emerge victorious for the Abrams and Madeleines of this great land so flawed by its blindness to those relieved of their reason.

Dorothea supposed she was blind too. Anne was right about slavery. But Dorothea could not enter into that foray. The mentally ill had her passion. She had let Anne leave without her, remaining with the Bells to strategize about her grand idea until they left for Washington DC.

After another week in Nashville, with new clothing and two pairs of shoes without holes in her trunk, she left by train, heading first to New Jersey for the opening of the first asylum she had helped construct. Trenton was beautiful in May, and the grounds leading up to the mansion-like building wore emerald green like royalty. The Delaware River sparkled off to the side. Landscaping suggested tender care, and the rooms inside were bright and airy. Dorothea was ecstatic with the Trenton hospital and humbled by Superintendent Horace Buttolph’s personal tour, along with Thomas Story Kirkbride, the architect who had become synonymous with moral treatment.

“Here we are,” Buttolph said on the third floor as he opened a door to a sitting room. Dorothea could see a bedroom beyond.

“I don’t remember this in the plans.” She turned to Kirkbride.

“We thought it a good addition.”

She let her fingers linger on the wainscot shelf. A small kaleidoscope could rest there one day. Through the window she saw a horse and rider lope across a field. It reminded her of Marianna’s drawing. “Yes. An apartment for the superintendent to stay when needed. It is a good idea. There are always emergencies.”

The superintendent shook his head. “I have quarters on site. This apartment is for you, Miss Dix. Should you ever be in need of a place to rest your head. These rooms will always be here for you. You may furnish them as you like, of course. They are yours for the rest of your life.”

Dorothea’s throat thickened. Tears threatened to dribble down her checks. She reached to wipe them with her gloved fingers.

“Are you all right, Miss Dix?” Kirkbride touched her elbow.

“I am. Yes, I am. It’s … to see this place, after all you’ve done to speak of moral treatment and to create this lovely atmosphere … the wings staggered so light comes in. Art on the walls.” She spread her arms to take it all in. “And to have created a small apartment that will surely be available for residents or students spending time here.”

“It will be known as the Dix Apartment,” Buttolph insisted.
A place of her own
.

“I … thank you.”

They toured the other rooms, and then she offered, “I have a
writing desk. It was my grandfather’s and is quite an heirloom. It would fit nicely here. If you like, I’ll have it shipped.”

Dorothea left for Washington and reviewed her notes along the way, wistfully resting her hand on the traveling desk as she recalled the lovely apartment she might one day call home. While she had resisted having hospitals or wings named for her, or even a bust, as Jane Bell had wanted, the idea of “home” appealed. She inhaled deeply and returned to her notes.

She had done her homework. She no longer wished to charm or beg state legislators who were always strapped for funds. Those wishing to reduce the suffering of the mentally ill had to compete with other state needs while assemblymen parsed out meager funds to those making the greatest noise, or worse, offered bits to those who would help them win election, like mother birds feeding their babies to silence their constant chirps.

Now, her target was Washington and a report by the US General Land Office stating that the federal government had title to almost one billion acres in the states and territories. A billion acres! The end of the war with Mexico had brought a half million new acres into the public domain. Plans were underway to open up the Oregon and Minnesota Territories for more settlement, but nearly a billion acres were not yet spoken for and promised incredible development for the still young nation. For Dorothea, the land promised a way to finally fund hospitals across the continent, where asylum supporters would no longer have to seek unreliable
state funding every year. She had drafted a plan to provide long-term funding for a national system of public mental hospitals. This was her greatest goal.

She had written the national memorial a bit differently than those she had prepared for the various states. She would ask Congress to set aside five million acres of public land to be divided among the states, which could then sell the land for the sole purpose of funding public mental health hospitals for the indigent where moral treatment would prevail. None of the proceeds could go for housing the insane in almshouses or jails or even private hospitals, and none would fund care in private homes. This democracy, with all its lack of discipline and order, had helped create madness among its people, and it must be required to assist in relieving the suffering of the Madeleines and Abrams of this land.

There was precedent. Congress had already set aside land for schools and for universities in the year she was born—1802—and two states had later received donations for deaf-mute schools. She could build a case for need, show precedent, and then describe the solution: land grants and sales. She just had to work
with
others to make it happen.

She already knew several legislators she called colleagues if not friends. Many she had worked with in her state campaigns were now representatives and senators. John Bell, two representatives from Massachusetts, and Horace Mann, her old mentor, had been elected to the House, the latter succeeding the late John Quincy Adams. She had met Jefferson Davis while traveling in Mississippi—he would not be supportive—and she knew Henry Clay as
the founder of the Whig Party, having met him at a horse stable in Lexington, where he practiced law before his many incarnations in government service. There were others. Her task would be to win over the reluctant, such as Davis, and give sound reasons to the supporters not to lose faith in the battle. For it would be a battle, she knew that.

“I think both parties will find value in my proposal,” she told John Bell at the boardinghouse. Jane knitted on the settee, and John picked at his teeth with a toothpick. His stern eyes belied his compassion for the downtrodden as well as his passion for the federal government’s role as a tool to benefit individuals across the nation. He had been in the House of Representatives and had sided with those who wanted public land sales to fund things such as canals and roads. Most of the Democrats, however, wanted the federal government to stay out of the states’ affairs, especially with regard to issues of property, which included land and slaves.

“I think not,” John said. “We Whigs will favor it, but the Democrats resist any federal moneys being spent inside the states. They want the land sold and the money given to them to do with as they see fit. The western states are already glum, because they have not been able to sell some of their land at the federal minimum of one dollar and twenty-five cents an acre. We may have to propose lowering that price.”

“And they will fund what? Not mental hospitals,” Dorothea said. She placed her delicate fingers on the white lace collar of her dress. “As for the land prices, anything less than a dollar twenty-five
will not bring in enough revenue to sustain the hospitals. Maybe we should ask for more land.”

“The Massachusetts delegates might agree with you. They would like the proceeds of western lands to be given to them, by apportion, precisely because the New England states have little public land to sell.”

“But the North is not so committed to moral treatment,” Jane Bell said. “You have been more successful in the Dixie states.”

“New Jersey and Pennsylvania were the first to move forward,” Dorothea pointed out.

“That’s hardly New England,” Jane said. “And what you propose is a new national charity approach. It’s a wonderful idea but it’s never been proposed before.” Dorothea knew this. It was what made her stomach churn in the night when sleep evaded her.

“You’ll have to reach out to New England with the land distribution support rather than appeal to their benevolent nature,” Senator Bell said. “The proposal really does benefit them more than the western states. And there will be many knocking on the door of free land. Homesteaders. States for new colleges and universities, all to advance the nation, none for the indigent insane or for the poor at all. The Free-Soil Party wants confirmation that slavery will not darken the new territories. And the railroads.” He poked at the air with his cigar, smoke curling around his face. “They will be your biggest competition. New Englanders may eventually see a benefit to them in their long struggle to win distribution rights from federal sales.” He pulled on the vest stretching
over his stomach. “You must win over the Democrats. We Whigs alone cannot carry your bill.”

“I have a plan to reach the biggest Democrat: the president,” Dorothea told him.

“Have you now?” Jane looked up from her knitting.

“Oh, I know you have little time for President Polk,” Dorothea said. “Though he is a Tennessean.”

“The worst thing Tennesseans have perpetrated on the country. The man has little time for Whigs,” the senator scoffed.

“Yes. But his
wife
has an interest in my work. At least I heard that, so I have boldly asked for an appointment. She has invited me to tea.”

Bell grunted. “I have no such luxury of opportunity.”

“Oh, Dorothea! What a coup!” To her husband, Jane said, “We women are forced to work through wives and others, as we are excluded from the halls of Congress.”

Bell turned to her. “And have
you
been approached by some Democrat seeking my attention?”

“I have not. And if I did, I would tell you. But I do have ears. I do hear things.”

“Indeed.” He smiled, then turned to Dorothea. “And for whatever you can tell me of Mrs. Polk’s husband’s state of mind, I would be most grateful.” He stood and made a courtly bow to Dorothea. Under his breath he added, “On more than one occasion, I believe, the president has been relieved of his reason.”

“Oh, John!” his wife protested as she and Dorothea exchanged smiles.

Sarah Childress Polk wore maroon, which set off her olive skin and hair as black as piano keys.

“Welcome, Miss Dix. I have heard such wonderful things about you and your work in our South. I’m so pleased you asked for an audience.”

“And you are so gracious to have invited me to a tea instead.” Dorothea noted they were the same height and, from what she knew, nearly the same age. A nephew had been taken in as a ward because the president and first lady had no children of their own, another thing they shared.