Theory of Slavery | Hamilton

X

"Right," muttered I. "Of course, I have read them. In school. Pardon me, I'm wandering. I'm sleepy."

Hamilton raised his eyebrows. It was an involuntary gesture; he evidently did not wish to betray his uneasiness.

"Yeah," said he, pressing the palms of both hands on his knees. "You are wandering. First Communism, now memory loss."

"What's wrong with Communism?"  

"Communism will never go further than making a joke," growled Hamilton, putting up a new candle in place of an end that had burnt out. "Men made of cardboard. It all comes from slaves."

"There are no slaves in Europe."     

"Slaves exist everywhere. If Europe could be suddenly reformed, if it accepted our Theory, it would become extraordinarily prosperous and happy. They'd have no one to hate then, no one to rebel against, nothing to find fault with. Now there is nothing but an immense animal hatred for the government which has eaten into their organism... It's the same in Russia and, for instance, in France. Our economy grows because our system is the only one that's right."

"Goodness only knows what you're saying," I laughed.

"Why? A Russian proletarian is a slave before everything, and is only looking for someone whose boots he can clean."

"What boots? What allegory is this?"  

"Allegory, indeed! You are laughing, I see... But the whole essence of the European revolutionary idea lies in the negation of honor."

As he talked he looked doggedly at my legs as he always did, even when he was excited. At this point, he suddenly raised his head.

"I have become American and I am proud of it."  

"God!" I broke down. My tone suddenly changed and became more and more insolently familiar and sneering. "Have you ever been to Europe? How do you know which system is better?"

Here I paused.

"And what does it mean, 'have become American?'"

Hamilton didn't respond; he got up, turned to his writing table, and began searching for something on it. I watched him silently for a minute. 

"Well," he said at last. "It's just a figure of speech. It means I became a patriot. And that's my advice to you."  

I had suddenly begun laughing—at first quietly and intermittently, but my laughter grew more and more violent, louder and more conspicuous. I flushed crimson.

"Please excuse me," I responded hurriedly. "But... But..."   

I laughed again.

"But I cannot be a patriot of the country that turned me into a slave."

Then I added automatically:

"Your Excellency."

Hamilton was standing motionless and with an austere face that seemed turned to stone. The light of the candle in thin gold spirals shone on his moist, yellow forehead and the tip of his nose.

"Your business. A boy made of cardboard."

He looked like he wanted to argue but decided against it. I made haste to leave– so the conversation wouldn't get even more absurd. Hamilton wished me a good night's sleep.

***

"Henry! Hey, Henry, wake up!" roared someone and prodded me in the ribs. "Henry!"

"M-m-f..."     

"Wake up, to whom I speak, Gallic cock..."

I shuddered, opened one eye, and recognized Charles.