A Year With George Washington
On February 6th, 1797, Washington writes in his diary that he attended the theater.
“Fine Rain most part of the day. Wind So. Wt. Mer: 48. Went to the Play of Columbus in the evening.”
Washington was an avid theater goer, sometimes attending several times a week. His love of the theater was sparked early in life. During his trip to Barbados with his brother Lawrence in 1751, nineteen-year-old George attended the production called “The London Merchant, or the History of George Barnwell.”
His short diary entry of February 6th, 1797, less than a month before he would happily surrender the presidency to John Adams, records that he attended a production of the 1792 play, Columbus; or a World Discovered by Great Britain’s Thomas Morton. The Philadelphia paper, the Gazette of the United States, describes the elaborate production.
“Columbus; or a World Discovered, a historical play, was presented at the New Theatre at six o’clock this evening “by particular desire.” The production of Columbus was an unusually ambitious one. The theater had been closed for several days before the first performance on 30 Jan., “on account of the extensive preparations” necessary for the new scenery, machinery, and decorations. Included in the production were a representation of a storm, an earthquake, a volcano eruption, and “a procession of indians and the first Landing of Columbus” (Gaz. of the U.S. [Philadelphia], 23 Jan. and 6 Feb. 1797).”
The play drew inspiration from the 1777 novel Les Incas, ou, La destruction de l’ empire du Pérou by Jean-François Marmontel, a fictional account of the conquest of Peru.
The plot and subplots of the play are built around themes familiar to the modern audience: treachery, exploitation of goodwill, and the torture of forbidden love. We cannot know what coursed through George Washington’s mind as he took in the performance, but in his remarkably storied life, he would have most certainly been able to trace parallel scenes in his memory to those on the stage.
The main plot of the play is the unfolding of a mutiny by Christopher Columbus’s men, led by a Spaniard named Roldan. He is assisted in his treachery by fellow mutineer Valverdo. The plot ignited when Columbus imprisoned a group of his crew who had defaced a temple and removed the golden ornamentation for their own profit.
Columbus, with prisoners in tow, explains his actions to Roldan.
Columbus
“UNGRATEFUL men, thus, in a moment, to destroy my brightest hopes.—see them closely guarded.”
Exit Soldiers with guarded prisoners.
Columbus
“Roldan, would thou think it, those wretches (dead to prudence as to honor) have damn’d the name of Spaniard, they have reviled the Indian priests, and with unmanly outrage, have torn away the golden ornamen’s that decked the lovely breasts of innocence.—The men, exasperated, call to the Cacique for vengeance; I, at the hazard of my life must follow, and appease his just resentment.”
Exit Columbus. Roldan incites Valverdo to undermine and destroy Columbus’s authority and cites a secret deal with the Spanish Royal Chaplain, Rodríguez de Fronseca, granting him authority to do so.
Valverdo.
Shall then a brave Castilian be disgraced with bonds, for shewing disrespect to vile idolatry?
Roldan.
No, Valverdo.—Soon shall this upstart Genoese, Columbus, feel the just vengeance of insulted Spain [shewing a paper].—My brother in ambition, look on this paper.
Valverdo.
What’s this—the royal signature?
Roldan.
Mark me.—When our gracious Queen embraced the fortunes of this foreign Viceroy, even proffered her regal ornaments to equip his fleet, the minister, Fonesca, jealous of the fame that might attend this enterprise, worked on the fears of the suspicious Ferdinand, to execute this commission of control, which, now Columbus’ conduct gives pretence, arrays me with the power of crushing his authority, and with disgrace returning him to Spain.
Valverdo.
Glorious hearing!
Roldan.
Do thou, Valverdo, tamper with the troops, —press on their superstitious minds the injury our faith will suffer by winking at idolatry; tell them, the way to sudden wealth is easy, had they a fit commander—insinuate—but we waste words—about it, good Valverdo.
Exit Valverdo.
Roldan
‘Twere presumption to instruct a monk in wiles of glozing cozenage.”
One cannot help but think of the jeering memories that must have resurfaced in Washington’s mind as he watched this scene: Benedict Arnold’s betrayal, the Conway Cabal, the Mutiny of the Pennsylvania and New Jersey Lines, his officers at Newberg, and the recent Whiskey Rebellion.
There are two subplots that bear on the play’s plot, both involving newfound love, one forbidden and the other stilted.
The first is that of the Spaniard Alonzo, who is being peppered by Roldan to join him in his mutinous designs, and who has fallen for the Incan Chief’s daughter, Cora. Cora, though she has feelings for Alonzo, cannot return his love because she has just pledged to live her life as a devoted, sacred priestess. The penalty for violating the pledge is the death of not only herself, but her lover and family as well.
The Incan Chief, Orozimbo, reminds his daughter Cora of the weight of her decision.
Orozimbo
“Thy pious mind, which knows to yield such duty to a father, will well befit the service of thy god.—But hear the sacred tenour of the law which binds a priestess to her duty.— Should the heart, to heaven devoted, become the prey of sacrilegious love, our law consigns its priestess, and the accomplice of her guilt, to instant death. Her parents and their offspring are pledges for her faith, and should her flight elude offended justice, their forfeit lives must expiate her crime. [Cora bows to the sun.] Now to the altar, and record your vows; then, as our custom is, come forth to shine Queen of this festive day, the last you are to know exempt from sacred duty.”
Alonzo is as yet unaware that Cora is duty-bound not to return his love.
Alonzo.
“All that the warmest fancy can depict in the bright colours of ideal excellence, can never reach that exquisite perfection nature exhibits —how must I bless my happy fortune, that bore me to a clime which boasts an ornament like thee.”
Cora. [Aside.]
“What new emotion rises in my breast—I fear to ask my heart from whence it springs. Oh, Cora! think of thy sacred duty— think of the vow which pass’d thy lips so lately.— Stranger, tho’ sacred hospitality commanded me to pay this courtesy, yet now a higher duty enjoins me to desist from further converse.”
Alonzo.
“Let me entreat one instant—
Cora.
“It must not be—my conduct is controlled by rigid laws. Farewell.—Oh Cora, what days of wretchedness art thou doom’d to suffer!”
Washington, in his younger days, had intense feelings for Sally Fairfax, the wife of his neighbor, friend, and benefactor, George William Fairfax. He wrote her a letter in the fall of 1758 that, in many ways, echoes the sentiments of Cora and Alonzo.
“Tis true, I profess myself a Votary to Love…I feel the force of her amiable beauties in the recollection of a thousand tender passages that I wish to obliterate, till I am bid to revive them – but experience alas! Sadly reminds me how Impossible this is.”
The second subplot involves an Englishman named Herbert, who has joined Columbus’s expedition, fallen for an Incan maiden named Nelti, and is thrilled to learn that she is not bound by duty as Cora is. Like Alonzo, Herbert is being pressured to join Roldan in his plot to overthrow Columbus while simultaneously having to fend off Nelti’s numerous suitors of higher social rank. Nelti, for her part, is struggling to balance being coy, as she supposes a European woman would be, with conveying her amorous feelings for Herbert to sustain his interest.
Nelti.
“Ah, you will not love me.”
Herbert.
“Not love thee!—By Magna Charta, I’ll resign my life, fortune, and liberty to thee.— besides, I’ll bring thee beads, cloathes, music.”
Nelti.
“Ah, that is not love.—They only try to please the eye, who find their actions cannot touch the heart.—no presents or toys could influence Nelti.— no, not if you were to give her an iron javelin and a tame tiger.”
Herbert.
“Indeed!—very delicate presents for a young lady.”
Nelti [aside.]
“I wish I cou’d make him love me— how do women in England gain their lover’s hearts?”
Herbert.
“Generally by using them like dogs.— for, when a woman studiously avoids looking at a man, abuses him on all occasions, and is kind to every one else, we naturally conclude they love each other to distraction.”
Nelti. [aside]
“I never can find in my heart to use him ill—What ugly thing is that?”
Washington, like Herbert, had to contend with multiple suitors as he attempted to woo the recently widowed and very wealthy Martha Dandridge Custis, many of whom were of a higher station than his own. In the end, Washington, like Herbert, won the object of his affection. Like Nelti, Martha dispensed with the artifice, adored Washington, and never found it in her heart to use him ill.”
The play continues as Roldan and Valverdo’s nefarious designs come to fruition with Columbus being overthrown and sent sailing back to Europe. Alonzo and Herbert, resigned in their love for their Incan beauties and loyal to Columbus, choose certain death over betrayal. With Columbus gone, Roldan and his men set their sights on the riches of the Incan empire. Though they fought valiantly, Alonzo, Herbert, and the Incan warriors were no match for their European conquerors and were soon to be overthrown.
The play’s climax arrives just as all hope fades to black and the defeated prepare for their dreadful deaths. The scene is interrupted by the astonishing news that Christopher Columbus has returned with a loyal army and defeated Roldan and his mutineers.
It is hard to imagine oneself in George Washington’s shoes, as he is the least comparable to us of all the founding fathers. His life of just 67 years was really not one life but many. The trials he endured and the monumental things he accomplished are simply mind-boggling and beyond the honest observer’s ability to relate.
It is no stretch to think that President George Washington, readying himself to retire for the last time to Mount Vernon, and after having lived the most extraordinary of lives himself, sat there in the New York Theatre and humbly said to himself, “Senior Columbus, I can most certainly relate. Well done.”
