Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings (18 page)

S
ally Hemings has always loved the main staircase, which descends in a crazy, angular spiral along the walls of the cockeyed space between the ballroom and the front hall, but once she resumes living at the Hôtel de Langeac after her five-week absence, she takes only the rear stairs, which let out in the narrow corridor just outside the kitchen, and she uses the Hôtel's side entrance onto rue Neuve-de-Berri when she goes shopping for Jimmy or Clotilde or when she has to fetch the Misses Jefferson from their school.

As a result of these practices, she only rarely catches sight of Thomas Jefferson during the days when his daughters are not present at the HÔtel. And on those occasions when she does spot him at the end of a hall or in a room she is passing, she always averts her head, pretending she doesn't see him, but not without noticing that he, too, shifts his gaze away from her.

One morning she descends the rear staircase and comes face-to-face with Thomas Jefferson as he is leaving the kitchen. He blushes so deeply that his hair looks yellow, and after a moment of flustered fidgeting he presses himself against the wall and gestures for her to pass. Neither of them says a word.

T
rue hate is effortless. It is called into being spontaneously, inevitably, by the hateful object. When the object is not purely hateful, however, hate requires effort, and if such hate regards the complexly hateful object as if it were purely hateful, then the hate itself is not pure. The world abhors purity. The world abhors most things proclaimed true. The world abhors perfection.

And because we ourselves cannot be perfect, there are moments when the effort of hating the hateful thing is more than we can manage—moments of indifference, or of forgiveness, or even of admiration. And if the hateful thing is sufficiently deserving of our hate, those moments in which we are not sufficiently hate-filled can inspire us to hate ourselves, just a little or sometimes a great deal. This is because hate is so intertwined with morality as to make the two seem almost indistinguishable.

Love, too, is intertwined with morality, but far less intimately. We are more than capable of loving someone without thinking him or her morally perfect. But when we hate someone, it is almost impossible for us not to think of that person as evil.

It is a well-known fact that hate not unambiguously anchored on moral condemnation tends to degenerate over time into gentler emotions, or into no emotion at all. And it is also true that hate anchored only on fury can spontaneously flip over into love, that most capacious of emotions, that emotion which can not only thrive in the presence of hate but be intensified by it. And for this reason our tendency to think of love as life's greatest blessing is, alas, little more than sentimentality.

S
ally Hemings is standing at the window at the top of the kitchen stairs, looking down into the garden where Thomas Jefferson is kneeling on the flagstone path between the beds of black earth that will soon be lush with cabbage, squash, beans, cucumbers and corn—all grown from seeds sent from Monticello. He licks the tip of his index finger and sticks it into an open envelope he is holding in his left hand. Carefully pulling his finger straight up out of the envelope, he peers at something on its tip and pushes his finger deep into the soft, moist earth in front of him. Then he smooths earth over the hole he has just made, licks his finger again, puts it back into the envelope and plunges it once more into the earth. He repeats this exercise twenty or thirty times before, with a childlike concentration on detail, he folds down the flap of the envelope, folds the envelope itself in half and slips it into the pocket of his frock coat.

Batting the earth flecks from his hands, he stands up and takes a step back to survey his work, not noticing the rake lying teeth-down directly behind him. His left foot steps on the rake handle, and he staggers, catching his right heel on the uneven pavement and toppling backward into the next vegetable bed, where he attempts to halt his fall with his right hand—which is to say with the arm he broke so badly not long before Sally Hemings's arrival in Paris.

He remains seated in the vegetable bed, rocking back and forth, clutching his right wrist in his left hand. After a couple of moments, he rocks onto his knees and, still clutching his wrist, gets to his feet. When he is vertical, he gingerly lets go of his wrist, opens and closes his fingers several times, then rotates his hand. From where she is standing, Sally Hemings can see no sign of pain, but he does clutch his wrist again as he walks toward the kitchen and disappears from sight.

. . . The erosion of my virtue began, paradoxically, with my diminished regard for Mr. Jefferson. From my very first days at the Hôtel de Langeac, I had never quite seen the awkward and morose Mr. Jefferson as a real human being. He was more like a creature out of a nursery story, a prince put under a curse or pining away for a lost love—and, indeed, I attributed most of his sorrow to the death of his dear wife. It was only after he had committed the unthinkable that he became a mere man in my eyes and thereby became both pitiful and, eventually, capable of being pitied.

The transformation of my feelings from contempt to something much closer to sympathy occurred during the month or so I lodged with Mr. Jefferson's laundress, an arrangement he made on my behalf. I would return to the Hôtel de Langeac only when Miss Martha and Miss Maria were home from school, and inevitably, from time to time, I would be forced to stand in the same room with Mr. Jefferson, while he and his daughters discussed arrangements or merely chatted. He would never look in my direction on these occasions and seemed reluctant to even meet the girls' gazes, afraid perhaps that I might have said something to them or that they might have heard rumors from some other quarter. I never breathed a word to either daughter of what had happened between their father and myself, though they clearly had intuited that something was wrong, Miss Martha in particular. Whenever Mr. Jefferson caught sight of me, his face would blanch and his voice would go low and soft, devoid of those modulations of pitch that signify joy, enthusiasm or even anger.

I must confess that I relished these manifestations of his discomfort, in part because they seemed just retribution for what he had done but more because they increased my own stature—in my eyes at least. After a period during which I would tremble in his presence (though more out of humiliation and suppressed rage than fear; I am not sure I ever truly feared Mr. Jefferson, and I never felt physically endangered), I began to take delight in intensifying his discomfort. I would stare at him whenever I was in his presence, and anytime
he would glance my way and then wince or avert his gaze, I would have to struggle to keep myself from smiling.

Perhaps it was my growing sense of my power to unsettle Mr. Jefferson that transformed my contempt to pity—though I don't know; emotions are like a stew, the taste of which is determined by no one ingredient but by all together. What I do know is that one night when I was lying in my bed at the laundress's house, it occurred to me that Mr. Jefferson had shown true consideration for my feelings by arranging this refuge for me and that had he been the debauched brute I'd been imagining, he never would have allowed me out of his sight, let alone made it possible for me to regain my sense of decency and composure. And as soon as these ideas came into my head, all of Mr. Jefferson's winces, shrinkings, averted gazes, blanches and troubled expressions—the very things that had filled me with a self-satisfied contempt for him—began to seem manifestations of his tender nature and of his remorse, and thus of his desire to be good. And with this recognition, I began to feel his sufferings and humiliation as if they were my own and to remember how, on the night he had come into my room, no sooner had he realized that I truly did not share his desires than he cried out, clutched his head in shame and ran from the room. And now I, too, felt ashamed. My body was possessed by a paroxysm of tearful remorse, and for some hour or so during the darkest time of the night I imagined that I, myself, was heartless and evil.

In the morning, of course, all of this seemed nonsense, and I resumed my determination to cut Mr. Jefferson no quarter and to preserve my dignity and modesty above all else. . . .

T
homas Jefferson is walking amid the lush stench of the open sewers and the rankness of butcher shops and slaughterhouses, the smoke of coal and tobacco, the smell of wet wool and of houses hollowed by fire, then drenched by rain. But mostly he is walking among faces. So many faces.

Although he is reluctant to cede any advantage to Europe, he feels that the variety of faces he sees on the streets of Paris is vastly beyond that of any city in America, even Philadelphia. The variety is almost entirely due to disease, however, and to the fundamental cruelty of life under a monarch. The pitted, leathery faces of the pox sufferers, for example, or the dwarf-eyed faces of the blind-since-birth, or the toothless and the potato-nosed, or the mad and the aghast.

But there are also noble faces. He cannot deny this. The hawk-sharp gaze of the broad-shouldered ironmonger. The creamy cheeks and blue-eyed concern of the barefoot mother, hurrying her two small children out of the path of the clattering phaeton. And even the face of the duchess riding in that phaeton, who, lost in her own musings, her head and shoulders shaken in the shuddering of wheels over cobbles, lets her eyes fall on Thomas Jefferson's and gives him a glance that cuts like a cool arrow straight into his heart. And then she is gone.

Just that morning Thomas Jefferson looked at his own face in the mirror above his washstand, and he believed he was looking at himself. But now he thinks that he was mistaken. Our faces are not ourselves. They are only the façades behind which our selves perpetrate their histories, shrouded in obscurity and human wishes.

Thomas Jefferson's heart pounds, and he is sweating.

That plump woman smiling blandly as she stands behind her board table in the market square: What secret sufferings lurk behind those brown button eyes? What does she long for and fear as she stokes the fires under her pots of fruit? As she seals her preserves in porcelain jars under layers of wax, paper and twine?

Strawberry. Red currant. Apple. Apricot.

Thomas Jefferson's fingertips have gone slick with sweat.

He has conceived the desire to buy a jar of the apricot preserves from the woman, and now, mysteriously, he cannot breathe. A nugget of pain throbs in each of his temples. What is happening? he wonders. Then he remembers one sunny morning some two or three months past, when Sally Hemings licked her fingers, laughed and proclaimed, “Nothing on earth was so delicious as French apricot preserves!” He turns his back on the woman and her preserves and strides empty-handed out of the market square.

And then, minutes later, his fingertips having gone ice cold, he is hurrying home with a jar of apricot preserves in the pocket of his greatcoat.

He has to wipe his hands on his breeches before taking up his pen to write on a scrap of paper torn off the bottom of a cobbler's bill: “For Sally.”

After he has left the jar of preserves atop his note on the table in the empty kitchen and has walked halfway down the hall, he decides he must return and retrieve his pathetic and shameful offering. He ventures back as far as the kitchen door, but then the notion that he should be ashamed of so innocent a gesture only seems more pathetic and incriminating, so once again he hurries down the hall.

And then: the bemused surprise of Clotilde when, an hour later, she comes across the jar and the note.

And then: Jimmy's somber gaze when, some hours after that, his sister walks into the kitchen.

“What's the matter?” asks Sally Hemings, stopping in the doorway.

He nods in the direction of the jar.

She recognizes not just the one word she can read but the handwriting.

What she cannot make sense of is the blue scrawl on the label glued to the jar.

“What flavor?” she asks her brother, and he tells her. She picks up the jar, and then she puts it down and leaves the room.

But Jimmy has not had time to skin an onion before she is standing again beside the table. “It won't hurt to taste,” she says.

Fingertips glossed with sweat, she tugs at the twine and paper, then picks up a knife and breaks the wax seal.

I
t is nine at night, and Sally Hemings has just finished washing and putting away the pots used by her brother and Clotilde when she hears the Marquis de Lafayette's laughter coming down the corridor from the direction of Thomas Jefferson's study. It would have been faster for her to go up to her room via the staircase just outside the kitchen, but she decides to take the main staircase instead, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the funny and kind marquis.

As she passes, candle in hand, in front of Thomas Jefferson's door, she sees a paper-strewn desk, a lit oil lamp and, just to the right of the lamp, somebody's knee, but she doesn't dare hesitate long enough to determine whose knee it is.

No sooner has she passed the door than she hears the marquis's voice: “Is that my beautiful little Sarah?”

“Sally!” Thomas Jefferson calls. “Sally! Would you mind coming here for a moment?”

Straightening her hair and her apron with her one free hand, she returns to the door. “Yes, Mr. Jefferson.”

The two men are leaning forward to get a better view of the door, Thomas Jefferson behind the desk, the Marquis de Lafayette in front of it. (His was the knee she had glimpsed.) Both have shiny red faces and glittering eyes. A half-empty bottle of wine and two full glasses are on the desk. Two empty bottles stand beside the marquis's chair. He is looking at Sally Hemings with his usual merry smile. Thomas Jefferson is also smiling, but less easily. Sally Hemings feels a piercing sorrow as she looks at him, but she is not sure why.

“Thank you, Sally,” says Thomas Jefferson. “You remember the marquis?”

“Mais oui,”
says Sally Hemings.
“Bien sûr.”

“And how is my beautiful Sarah?” says the marquis.

“I'm fine, thank you.” Sally Hemings knows that she should say, “And how are you, my lord?” but she can't bring herself to ask him a question.

“We need your advice!” the marquis announces, his smile growing just a touch mischievous. “Your good friend,
le philosophe
”—he gestures
at Thomas Jefferson, who has ceased smiling altogether—“and I are trying to come up with a document that will help this benighted monarchy acquire some of the virtues of your wise and civilized country.”

“Gilbert,” Thomas Jefferson says reprovingly.

“Nonsense,” says the marquis.
“Je veux vraiment savoir ce qu'elle pense.”

Thomas Jefferson takes a deep sip from his glass and leans back in his chair. His face grows darker as it recedes from the lamp glow, but the flame still gleams in his eyes.

“Come in,
chère
Sarah,” says the marquis. “Would you like a chair?” He looks around the room. Every other chair is stacked with books, papers, surveying equipment or other mechanical devices.

“That's all right,” says Sally Hemings.

“Mais non!”
He turns to Thomas Jefferson. “We can clear off one of these chairs for the young lady, can't we, Tom?”

“No,
really,
” insists Sally Hemings.

The marquis is leaning forward to rise from his chair but now hesitates.

“Are you sure, Sally?” says Thomas Jefferson. His voice is kindly, and there is a tenderness in his gaze that brings back her sorrow. Her sorrow and something else. This is the first time he has looked into her eyes for more than an instant in the six weeks since the night he came into her room. Her knees are trembling beneath her petticoats and gown.

“Yes,” she says. “I was just on my way upstairs.”

The marquis leans back in his chair. “Well, we won't keep you.” He takes a sip from his own glass. “But we would both like to know what you think about something.” He glances at Thomas Jefferson, who presses his hands flat together as if he were praying and holds the tips of his fingers against his mouth. “We'd like to know,” the marquis continues, “what you think of an idea that we have been discussing. It concerns the definition of liberty or, more exactly, the liberty of people living together under one government. We would like to define liberty as the freedom to do whatever one wants, as long as that does not cause injury to anyone else or deprive people of their basic rights, including the right to liberty. What do you think of that idea?”

Sally Hemings is silent. She feels Thomas Jefferson looking at her, but she doesn't look in his direction. Her knees are trembling so violently now that the skirt of her dress has begun to shake.

“It's all right,” says Thomas Jefferson.

“Let the girl answer,” says the marquis. He is not smiling now. He no longer seems the least bit funny or kind.

“Sally,” says Thomas Jefferson, “you don't have to say anything if you would rather not.”

“It's a simple question,” says the marquis. “Should people be free to do
whatever they want
as long as they don't hurt anyone else?”

After a long moment, Sally says, “I suppose that would be all right. If they don't hurt anybody, I mean. But I don't know. I'd have to think about it for a bit. It seems to me that there are a lot of things that don't hurt anybody else, but I'm not sure if people should really do all of them. Like hurt animals. I don't know if people should be able to do that if there isn't a good reason.”

“Well said,” says Thomas Jefferson, who is leaning forward now, his hands still pressed together in front of his mouth.

“What about depriving people of their liberty?” says the marquis. “Do you think that one man should be free to deprive another man of his freedom?”

Thomas Jefferson falls back into his chair again, his forehead gnarled with uneasiness, his eyes still gleaming.

“What do you think?” says the marquis. “Do we have the right to deprive other people of their liberty if they have not committed a crime?”

“Gilbert,” says Thomas Jefferson. “I think you are being inconsiderate.”

“Let her speak,” says the marquis.

“I think . . .” says Sally Hemings. “I think that's another question I have to think about some more.”

“But you
must
have an opinion!” the marquis says impatiently. “Do you think that someone should have the right to deprive you of your liberty if you haven't broken the law?”

Sally Hemings's eyes are hot with tears. Her vision blurs.

“Gilbert!” Thomas Jefferson slaps his hand down on the desk. “This is pointless and cruel.”

“Let her speak,” the marquis says firmly. “What do you think, Sarah?”

“I think,” she says, her voice trembling, “that there is a difference between the way things are and the way they should be.”

“Is that all?” says the marquis.

“Yes, my lord.”