(See Cover) If U.S. Presidents could be plucked from every walnut tree, complete with silk hat, inaugural speech, and one year's salary absolutely tax free, 999,999 out of a million women would hesitate a long, long time before getting one for themselves.* Even little girls seem to regard the White House with extreme caution. While small boys consistently plan to become President when they grow up, few junior misses waste any time at all plotting to become Presidents' wives. The giddy human female seldom loses her grip on reality. The life of a First Lady is not easy.
Washington has changed immeasurably since 1800, when Abigail Adams left the comforts of Philadelphia to become the first mistress of the presidential mansion, to endure mud streets, the "lies and falsehoods of ... electioneering," and to keep 13 fireplaces going all day "or sleep in wet and dampness." But little more than a year ago, Bess Truman echoed Abigail's discontent. "This is a terrible life," she said. "We don't have any privacy at all. I'll be glad when we get back to Independence and can live like human beings."
This is not to suggest that either Abigail or Bess, or any of the 26 Presidents' wives of the years between, have been completely insensate to the privileges and perquisites of their position, or the bracing effects of power and applause. A few White House wives have enjoyed such heady successes that they left the capital only with the utmost reluctance. But the price of occupancy is always high. Last week, while still technically a private citizen, Mamie Eisenhower was discovering that even public adulation can be an overpowering, if flattering, experience.
The Deluge. Ever since Election Day, Mrs. Eisenhower has been staying close to home—the residency at 60 Morningside Drive which Ike occupied as president of Columbia University. But she has not been idle. She has been deluged with (and has made valiant attempts to answer) from 400 to 700 letters a day.
After inauguration day next week, Mrs. Eisenhower's life will grow even more limited. She will not be able to shop or visit a museum without drawing crowds. If she wishes to attend the theater, any manager in Washington will keep her intentions secret, smuggle her into a seat just before the curtain, and get her out ahead of the crowd. But she will always create a stir. The Secret Service guards, who took her under surveillance when Ike was nominated, will be omnipresent—they will lurk in the next room even if she is lunching at the home of an old friend. She will seldom be out of the news. If she buys a dog, spanks one of her grandchildren, is bitten by a snake or develops a taste for yoghurt, the world will want to chatter about it.