Entry from JoBeth’s Journal
February 1864
Access to the president and to the White House still amazes me. People seem to wander freely in and out, with very few being stopped or questioned about their intent or errand. Does it not seem strange that the man most responsible for the great struggle to reunite our nation is so open to whosoever would come?
I suppose it particularly affects me because of the difference between Lincoln and the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis. He is almost a recluse. When I was in Richmond awaiting my pass to Washington, he remained a mysterious presence. Rarely did I hear of anyone, outside his immediate circle of trusted advisors or army officers, having an audience. Occasionally he could be seen riding out in the afternoons with General Lee or one of the other generals, ringed by a protective guard on horseback. But it was also said that because the threat of Unionist spies meant possible danger to his person, his route was often altered and his driver took him for airings on back roads and country lanes.
Here it seems to me that no such caution is taken for President Lincoln’s safety, although secessionist sentiment runs high. He and Mrs. Lincoln are often easily viewed taking carriage rides with only a few mounted soldiers in escort.
I suppose this is much on my mind because of an encounter I had today. Wes had asked me to meet him at the White House, where Major Meredith’s headquarters are located. We were to go to a late afternoon levee, held at the Merediths’ home, for some new officers on his staff, and it would be easier and save time if I met Wes there.
As I was seated in the corridor, waiting for Wes, I observed the constant parade of people from the desk of the president’s secretary to his office. How could he see so many people, hear so many petitions, answer so many questions, make so many decisions? One would have to be almost superhuman to handle such a load of demands.
Suddenly I became aware of a young girl, hardly taller than a twelve-year-old child, carrying a large artist’s portfolio. She came down the hall toward me, juggling a sketch book that almost seemed too heavy for her slight build. There was an empty chair beside me, and she asked me timidly if it was taken. At my negative reply, she sat down.
At closer view, I reversed my estimate of her age and guessed her to be about sixteen, not more than seventeen at the most. She was quite pretty, her features regular, and her dark hair fell in ringlets to her waist. We acknowledged each other with a smile and a nod. I had no idea who she was and what on earth her business with the president might be. However, after a few minutes she introduced herself and enlightened me as to her purpose in being there.
Her name, she said, was Vinnie Ream, and she was an artist and sculptor. Shyly, not bragging or a bit arrogant, she then proceeded to tell me she had been given permission to station herself in the president’s office and make sketches of him from life with the ultimate goal of sculpting a statue of him.
I was completely taken aback by this statement. She looked so young, looked to be barely out of the schoolroom. Quite unaffectedly she filled me in on her background. She had attended Christian College in Missouri, studying art and especially interested in sculpting. She told me her father had moved the family to Washington, where he was employed as a government mapmaker. She told me that on her very first day in the city, she had caught a glimpse of the president, and the nobility of his face had made a profound impression. Even then it became her ambition to sculpt him.
She went on to say it was a “miracle” how her deep desire came to be, how she was allowed to sit in the president’s office and sketch him “from life.” She may consider it a miracle—however, from listening to the account, it might well have also been her own persistence. What I’ve learned from being here in Washington, close to the political hub, is that it is also a matter of “whom you know” which most often is the way of accomplishing your goals. And so I believe it to be with Miss Ream. She went on to tell me that through the Missouri congressman James Rollin, she was apprenticed to a well-known Washington sculptor, Clark Mills. Eventually, through her connections, she was able to gain her long-held dream of actually drawing the president from life, with the object being a bust or statue of him.
She was very sincere in telling me what a privilege it was, how intimate the sittings became with Mr. Lincoln. That he shared with her the grief he felt for the loss of his little boy (his son Willie died tragically of typhoid fever), for whom he still mourned so deeply. She recounted to me how he would sometimes stand at the window looking out on the White House lawn, where he used to watch his children at play. Tears brightened her eyes as she told me how his head would bow, great tears would roll down his hollow cheeks, his shoulders would shake, even as he tried to control his sobs.
About this time she was motioned forward by the lift of the appointment secretary’s hand. It was time for her to go, the girl whispered, and she quickly rose and, almost like a will-o’-the-wisp, slid quietly down the hallway and disappeared through the door of the president’s office.
How much of all she told me is true, how much her dramatic rendition, I cannot say. However, I did feel that putting down this encounter might someday be of historic importance, should this young woman’s dream of sculpting a statue of the president be fulfilled.
April 1865
Appomattox! Lee surrendered. The war is over!
From the pictures I’ve seen of General Robert E. Lee, stately and silver-haired, and the glimpse I once had of General Grant, the commander of the army of the Potomac, when he was in Washington—short, stocky, his uniform unpressed and rumpled—it’s hard to imagine two more different men. Victor and vanquished. One could imagine that if they were actors in a play, their roles would be reversed. I wonder how this news is being received at home? Certainly not with the church bells ringing, celebrations in the streets, as is here.
JoBeth heard that some of the still staunchly loyal Confederates were moving their families to South America, to Brazil, to escape living under what they feared would be harsh treatment from the dreaded Reconstruction government. She knew the heavy price many persons dear to her had paid. They had lost all, then had been deprived of the victory that would have made their sacrifice worthwhile. She grieved for them. Again—it was as true now as it had been at the beginning of the war—she had a divided heart.
Dearest Mama,
Good news. Less than a week since the surrender was signed, and the travel bans between North and South have been lifted by presidential decree, so it should be possible soon for me to come home for a visit. Do you think AuntJosie and Uncle Madison will welcome me? Or are they still angry and bitter about what I did? I would come alone and Wes would join me later. Perhaps I can lay the groundwork for reconciliation before he comes? After all, the president is advocating that the country come back together as one nation again. Surely our family can do no less? Let me know as soon as you can how you feel my plan will be received.
Give them all my dearest love, for it is still as true and strong as ever. Give Shelby especially a hug and kiss from his sister. I long to see you all.
Ever your loving daughter,
JoBeth