I WAS BORN with a leaden cowl upon my shoulders. Such cowl—namely, this Mosaic religion of ours, rendered impossibly perfect by Protestant hypocrisy, passed down to me from my father, and to my father from his father. I must admit, I always considered Christ's precepts mystic and felt myself completely in the right to ask questions in its regard. For instance, if a man commits adultery with a woman every time he looks at her, did I not sin in infancy, while my mother breastfed me? The question agitated me even more than I was myself aware; I kept uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this apparently ordinary contradiction.The upshot of all this was that, after considering that my blood was not parched even by the sight of the young school coquettes, I decided that there was no sin on my soul.
In the past I instinctively avoided guys like me (that is, inexperienced kids) solely because I felt safer on a plane where nobody could even assume cranks like me existed.
Whenever my schoolfellows spoke of women—and they did so often—I smiled knowingly, so that they soon came to the conclusion that 'still waters run deep.' Excessive modesty in a young man is a thing you always blame deeply. 'Cherchez la femme', they say. I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. As to conversations about more intimate details of love battle, I avoided them as far as possible, feeling that there were certain objections to which I could make no answer. For example, my friends were very fond of telling obscene jokes—why, I did not exactly understand; for I had not the slightest idea even of what minette was; nor could I see that anything so loathsome could be turned into a joke.
Still the sluggishness of a heart does not mean total callousness. Moreover, I had felt the first faint stimulus of love much earlier than I like to think. There was one moment when, nature being stronger than prejudice, I should right willingly have given up my soul to perdition. I shall tell you about it in its proper place, however.
***
I WOKE UP on top of smooth silk, surrounded by huge pillows worked in gold. Lamps of varied form filled the room with a strong red light. I raised my head and saw soft velvet divans, mattresses covered over with lions' skins, and giant paintings of the most beautiful nature. From huge amber bowls rose full-blown red and pink roses. Bronzes, plaster casts and flowers emerged amidst deep-tinted silks of velvety softness, amidst sparkling crystals, china and opaline majolica. The room was not very large, and its walls were all covered with Persian rugs. The furnishing was peculiar, and I was if not dazzled, at least perfectly bewildered.
Feeling faint, I fell onto soft pillows. It seemed as if I had been transported into the magic realms of fairy-land. The scent of roses intoxicated me. My mind was clouded, and my heartbeat was so slow that my head became desolate. It took me a while to realize that I lay fully naked, with my legs spread wide. Perhaps women in labor take a similar position.
I turned to the wall. My arms and legs felt numb, as if shut down, but I did not attempt to move; I did not wish to. My body seemed to me delightfully light, and my slothful yet half-awakened mind was elsewhere. Strange to say, I seemed immediately to have become perfectly calm; not a trace of my recent delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted me of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden calm. I understood that I was unusually weak, but my intense spiritual concentration gave me strength and even self-confidence. I hoped, moreover, that I would not fall asleep, for I liked it here.
All at once I was roused from my pleasant somnolence by the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps. I shuddered and came to my senses. Two fiery eyes were staring at me from the darkness of the doorway. I wasn't ashamed. For the first time in my life I found myself good-looking, entrancingly handsome even. Besides, even if I wanted to cover myself up, I would not be able to.
The stranger entered the room. He seemed to me somehow familiar. I had often seen him, that man, had seen him some time, and very lately too; where could it have been?
My heart was beating violently. The stranger came closer and suddenly looked at me with such a passionate and voluptuous longing, that I felt faint. Our eyes met, and a terrible anxiety overcame me. He seemed to be slowly drawing me to him, and the feeling was such a pleasant one that I yielded entirely to it. Dull pain spread all over my lower body, whilst I myself was in a state of prostration. Feverish shiver coursed throughout every vein of mine. I could by now get a full view of the guest. I looked full at him and almost cried out with amazement and horror, but the words did not come from my panting chest. He touched my knees, and I felt something hard press against my thigh. At that moment I was so terribly alarmed, that I shuddered, trying to say something... And woke up.
I woke up, soaked with perspiration, with dull pain in my crotch. It was nearly six o'clock, and everyone in the barrack was still asleep. I lay on my bunk without moving, as though I were not yet quite certain whether I were awake or still asleep. In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. Such dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system. I suffered. My brain was aglow; my blood was over-heated; my body shivering with excitement. I sat up, rested my elbows on my knees and leaned my head on my hands. "It must be some fever coming on," I thought, drawing deep breaths. "This damned book! It is cursed, no doubt... Good god!"
The mere recollection made me feel sick. The thought of my father came to my mind, and I asked myself, shuddering, whether my senses were leaving me. Very soon, however, they began more clearly and more distinctly to receive their habitual and everyday impressions. The dirty green, dusty walls, a much-stained divan, the table painted grey, and the dress taken off in haste overnight and flung in a crumpled heap on the floor, looked at me familiarly. I could not possibly doubt that I was not in some sort of fairy-land, but in the slave barrack. When I had made this important discovery I nervously closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to get rid of the thoughts about this horrid dream. What happened at night had still tormented me. I could give a great deal to forget about this abomination. I would prefer not to know that a man, who already inflicted immense fear upon me, had such... Unusual predilections. "Perhaps the book does not even belong to him?" I mused. "What if he picked it by accident, just like me, unsuspecting? No, it cannot be. The library is his after all."
Grasping the idea about which my scattered and wandering thoughts had been revolving, I leapt out of bed at one bound and came to the divan. Then, hoping not to wake anyone up, I got down on my knees and took out a stack of newspapers from under it.
"Only if I were to find some sort of rumor; a headline, a gossip, a joke! Maybe he had something embarrassing happen to him in public, or anything else unpleasant; for if he is actually ill..."
My hands shook with nervous impatience as I turned the sheets. I found at last what I was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before my eyes, but I read it all and began eagerly going through the following numbers. Whenever the familiar name met my eyes the paper shook in my trembling hands. I expected to discover the innermost secret of his identity, something I had never dared to think of. However, all the rumors about him were solely political. Moreover, most of the time, even almost always, his name was connected with Jefferson's name. Apparently, their careers were so inextricably intertwined that writing about them separately was considered a vice. As for the sordid details, that is, gossips of the piquant nature, I hadn't found any. Frightful thoughts, assumptions and guesses weighted upon me, and vague questions surged through my mind.
At twenty past eight, when it was time for a wake-up call, I pretended as if I had just woken up. Then, after dressing up and making my bed, I left the barrack; I did not wish to wait in line in order to use the only sink.
I entered the bathroom and stared at myself within the looking-glass. Even though this sleepy pale physiognomy could have appeared to someone pathetic, I was completely satisfied with what I saw. I looked sickly, my eyes had dimmed, and of my youthful attractiveness (if there ever was any) nothing remained except perhaps that expression of a kind of wonderful helplessness. There was a bit of stiff stubble on my chin, and, even though I had never been a strong specimen of manhood, such occasion made me feel confident, proud even. "Perhaps a beard will grow!"
It was a very ordinary morning and there was nothing exceptional about it. I was still much distracted by some inner overpowering agitation. It even occurred to me that I might try somehow to make up to Theodosia, to drop a hint in the course of conversation, saying, "This is how it is, what a striking likeness, a strange circumstance!" — that is, find out whether Hamilton was ill or not. I, however, only contemplated this; I thought better of it in time. I realized that this would be going too far. "No, I cannot do that. What if she thinks that I am interested? Such vileness!" I said to myself, tapping myself lightly on the forehead; "I must wait."
Some idea in the form of a question which I had not the strength to answer kept bothering me. A sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take possession of me; at moments I forgot myself: I almost let the spoon go past my mouth during breakfast, and then I knocked a plate off the table. Theodosia never ceased looking at me, shaking her head uneasily.
But soon something turned me away from what was troubling me a minute before.
"John!"
Hamilton's voice was muffled, as if it was coming from the parlor. Theodosia and I exchanged a short glance. Instantly she drew herself up on the chair and raised her eyebrows. We kept sitting like that for about ten seconds, eyeing each other persistently.
"John!"
The voice became louder, and there was now a gleam of irritation in it.
"His Excellency's callin'" said the cook in a hardly audible voice, as though there was something wrong with her throat or chest. All my mysterious panic was dispersed at those words. I jumped up from the table, excused myself and rushed into the parlor. In order not to raise suspicions, I firmly resolved in my heart to behave in future as if I did not read anything.
The parlor was empty. "Perhaps he did not await me? Changed his mind?"
But my judgment was made too lightly and hastily: after all, there had always been something about Hamilton which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. I was convinced that he would not leave me in peace.
And I was right: the shrill voice called me back into the room.
"John, I am here!"
It came from above. I raised my head. Hamilton stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with condescending interest down into the parlor.
Taken off guard, I said the first thing that came into my head.
"Hello!"
My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the parlor. Hamilton's lips were twisted in a smile. I went red.
"Why hello, Monsieur Laurens," shouted he. "Go to the dressing room, find a red suit and bring it to the bedroom. And hurry up!"
I swallowed a lump in my throat; my heart was throbbing.
"Will you need cufflinks?"
"No!"
He did not say anything else: he vanished.
I was not fully conscious when I ascended the stairs. I was of course capable of reflecting that it might be far better not to say anything, leave as fast as possible without raising any suspicion. But I had so completely lost all power of dealing with anxiety that If Hamilton had asked me, "What happened?" I would perhaps have simply told him about the book. When a man is ashamed he generally begins to get nervous and is disposed to act foolish. I was afraid of it the most.
After a minute I stood in front of two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits, waistcoats, ties and colorful shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. "Black, black, blue, black, white, green, black... Damn it all! Could he not find it by himself? Another blue one, a coat, a shirt... Here it is." I finally found the red suit and took it out of the closet. I must have felt pretty weird by that time because I could think of nothing except the suit's blood-like color.
The door of Hamilton's room was closed but not locked. I raised my hand and was going to knock, to be the correct thing. I did not want to be scolded for my manners.
"It's unlocked," he said before I could acknowledge my presence.
So I opened the door and entered the room, with a twitching upper lip, breathing painfully. I felt vexed at myself for acting like a frightened child.
"He is not a man... of honor, yes," I thought. "But what's so scary about him?"
I found Hamilton standing by the closet, playing with a tie which hung around his neck.
I had no sooner come in he took me in in a rapid attentive glance. It was impossible to guess from this glance whether he had come as a friend or as an enemy. He smiled at me; but I was in no smiling mood.
Making a respectful bow I said:
"A suit, your Excellency. I hope I am not mistaken; there aren't any red ones left."
I spoke rather loud to cover my growing excitement. Hamilton nodded and began taking his waistcoat off. Perhaps if not all the alarming questions which surged through my mind I would for sure reflect on his behavior. Why, for instance, would he undress in front of me, if he had been expecting me for about ten minutes? I felt all at once that it would be loathsome to look at him only in his chemise. "It is because I am very ill," I decided at last, "Yesterday and in the morning I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don't know what I am doing... I shall get well and I shall not worry... Good God, how sick I am of it all!"
I had a terrible longing for some distraction, but I did not know what to do. I could not just turn away and run from him. My spleen rose within me; this was an immeasurable, almost physical repulsion. "The timing couldn't have been worse," raged I. "And how unlucky I must be that I have to see him the day after..."
Meanwhile Hamilton threw his waistcoat on the bed, and with his arms dangling, leaned forward to get his shoes.
"I am going to the post office," he declared. "I must send out the party invitations. Do you like parties?"
I was perplexed; I did not expect him to talk to me.
"I don't know..." said I and added awkwardly: "No one told me you threw parties."
He bent down and began fumbling with the clasp of his shoe. Without lifting his eyes, but smiling quickly and slyly, he said:
"Well, I do throw parties. I am a reputable man with a reputation to protect."
He suddenly turned to me, with a mysterious sparkle in his eyes.
"I know you like parties."
Hamilton confused me. The longer I looked at him, the more I suspected behind the invariable mask something spiteful, cunning, and intensely egoistic. My attention was particularly caught by his eyes: they were as if not completely under the control of his will. Perhaps he wanted to look mild and friendly, but the light in his eyes was as it were twofold, and together with the mild friendly radiance there were flashes that were cruel and spiteful.
"Well, it is very possible. But what made you think that?" mumbled I. Then, remembering that I ought to be more polite, I added:
"Your Excellency."
"I used to know your father in Congress," Hamilton stood on his tiptoes and fetched a hat from the upper shelf. "In 1918, If memory serves."
I tensed up.
"You... You know my father, Sir? He never told me about you..." I said slowly, ransacking my memory.
"How queer," Hamilton put on a hat and began adjusting his tie. "Yes, I've had the pleasure of speaking with him... By accident. What a shame not to have a quick talk with a man in such high command. And as I had come as a visitor and as a subordinate official of Mr. Jefferson, he deigned to speak with some openness... The subject was the liberal youth, that is, abolitionists who were at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark. 'We are not particularly afraid,' said he, 'of all these abolitionists and revolutionists; we keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who grew up in proper republican households, but at the same time are liberals.' And then he told me about you.
"About me?"
Hamilton nodded, glanced at me, and slightly screwed up his eyes.
"Almost a madman and at any rate, a perfectly useless creature, undoubtedly, given to drinking and parties," Hamilton smirked and shrugged. "Well, and so on. There's no point in saying it; the words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me... You also were at this reception, were you not?"
I knew that my father did not love me very much, and therefore those words did not surprise me. Sir Henry was right when he called me a 'useless creature'. I have always been impressionable, passionate, stubborn, and, above all, did not live up to his expectations.
'In that life there will be no mistakes,' said he when I was only five years old, and as it was characteristic of him to attach himself doggedly and passionately to any dream that fascinated him, he made up his mind at once to raise me as a true gentleman. Teachers came for me from Europe, among them a real Frenchman, who taught me French. There were Germans, British and even a Russian — he was quickly dismissed, however. Play and childish mischief was forbidden to me. I had to go to morning service and to early mass. When I met priests or monks I had to kiss their hands; at home I had to sing hymns. I was taken to a Sunday school as soon as I was eight years old. Father talked little to me and did not often interfere with me, but I was always morbidly conscious of his intent, searching eyes. Yet at that time his faith in me was unshaken; I was to inherit his plantation and to take over the family business.
One can't help believing that such upbringing had rather a bad influence on my nerves. When at thirteen I was taken to a law school I was fragile-looking and pale, strangely quiet and dreamy. (Later on I was distinguished by the opposite). I had been studying there for about six years, rarely came to visit, and never bothered writing proper letters. Sir Henry sent me money without stint. He took great interest in his son's success in education. Where he had failed, the wealthy young man with expectations succeeded.
But very soon, five years later to be exact, rather strange rumors reached him. His son had suddenly taken to riotous living with a sort of frenzy. There was only talk of savage recklessness, of drinking and partaking in "questionable activities". There was a callous nastiness about this affair. It was added, too, that it had something to do with abolitionism. Father probably assured himself that this was only the first riotous effervescence of a too richly endowed nature, and that the storm would subside, and with feverish impatience he awaited answers to some of his letters.
He had not long to wait for them. The fatal news soon reached him that his son had been involved in two illegal protests, had openly called himself an abolitionist and had been seen visiting a certain type of underground pubs — those where the transvestites and other lunatics came around. The case ended in a large penalty (by special favor), my being expelled from law school and transferred back to South Carolina. Needless to say, my true nature instilled great disappointment into my father. I succeeded in reaching the deepest chords in his soul, and had aroused in him a sensation of that eternal, sacred yearning which some parents can never give up when once they have tasted and known it.
Formerly, when I used to come home for the holidays, I had the honor of attending father's receptions and dinner parties. Now I was not even allowed to show up in public. Father harboured a deep resentment against me, and, as if trying to rid himself of a shameful mark, pretended that he had never had a son. That's why Hamilton's words did not make any sense to me.
"You must be confused," I mumbled with painful distrust. "I was not at this reception."
"Perhaps you have forgotten?" Hamilton observed.
"No, I have not forgotten; it would be ridiculous if I did not remember. Perhaps you have merely heard about me and formed some idea, and thus made the mistake that you had seen me."
"I cannot be that I mistook you for someone else," he insisted. "You are a copy of your father."
I glanced at him even more incredulously. It is true that I somewhat resembled Sir Henry— not so much in facial features but in the tonality of my general appearance: the brown shade of the round head, big protruding ears, the slenderness of the neck with the shadow of a hollow at its nape. I even sat in the same pose father sometimes assumed—head slightly lowered, legs crossed,
arms not so much crossed as hugging each other, as if I felt chilled, so that the repose of the body was expressed more by angular projections and the contraction of all the members rather than by the general softening of the frame. As for the face, there was perhaps no resemblance at all; there might have been something in common in the wide-set eyes. . . but no, one couldn't tell exactly what our relationship was at a glance, especially when looking from a distance.
Hamilton lied, and lied openly. Both of us perfectly knew that I could not be present that evening, and that I was only faintly like my father. But why , I mused hurriedly, why is he lying?
"And it would be hard to forget you anyway," added Hamilton after a moment's silence.
"Why?"
He was quiet for some time, and then, fixing his glittering black eyes upon me, uttered with a strange smile:
"You are exceptionally beautiful."
Silence. I felt myself grow pale and then red. My lips parted like a dumb man's. Even through the appalling irrelevance of this compliment, I was reminded of something—a fragment of lost words, that I had heard— or, most likely, read— somewhere a long time ago. I immediately came to the conclusion that he, perhaps, had realized that I saw through it, and therefore decided to dismiss me with a joke, that on some other occasion could have been perceived as a compliment.
Alas! I was utterly unable to grasp his meaning. Or rather, I got it wrong— really, really wrong.
His face, which had till then been so immovable, showed traces of disturbing thought, of a sort of uneasy agitation. He anxiously reached for his hat and cleared his throat.
Why of course, I thought, It is a joke, and so it must be funny...
Then I looked up and answered with a somewhat piteous smile; a smile of a child who was given a geography book instead of a parrot for their birthday. Though it seemed to be enough for Hamilton. To my pitiful and distracted smile he answered with a smile of a sort of strange ecstasy. He got me wrong, too.
"Anyhow, I'm going to town," said he. "Watch the house, please."
And then, with a very serious look, he added:
"I accept your services with much appreciation."
I stood as if thunderstruck, unable to utter a single word. Hamilton came closer and turned his back to me. Only then I remembered about the suit and helped him put it on. I bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with myself for it; after all, Hamilton did not seem to be intending to go anywhere yet. Suddenly his face became graver, and he bent closer to me. My legs felt weak: either from fear or embarrassment. He was scrutinizing my face obstinately and closely for some few moments; then he lowered his gaze and asked, screwing up his eyes:
"What is that?"
So keen was the confusion that overcame me, that I did not understand what he meant.
"Sorry," quoth I.
Hamilton ruthlessly kept me in this position for a long time, ten seconds or even more, staring at me without mercy. He raised his hand and touched my chin with his finger; then pondered for a moment.
"Shave this off. I don't like it."
THIS MEETING had left a great impression which I could not analyze. After Hamilton left, I still stood in the middle of the room with my eyes fixed with a senseless stare on the door. This conversation seemed strange to me. I feared him no less than before; perhaps, indeed, my feeling was stronger, more poignant than ever. But at the same time, new suspicions were taking a strong hold on my heart. This strange, rugged man, all bristles on the surface, was suddenly all softness and shining gladness. I saw how awkwardly he tried to control himself, and to make a pretense of kindness, how he affected to be cheerful, tried to laugh and amuse me. But why?
"That's how he is," I thought, sitting down on the bed. "that's how he always is with me; does he not know that I understand all his tricks? Why should he keep up a pretense? He's always like that. And with Jefferson, too..."
The telephone rang in the office, startlingly, and all my thoughts vanished into the air.
I sat for a time, listening to the jangling peal, and then shook my head, as if for myself. Hamilton left the residence about ten minutes ago, and I had not been given the right to answer the telephone. Though after a minute of deafening ringing I began to grow more and more irritated.
The telephone soon stopped ringing, only to resume with renewed vigor after half a minute.
I stood up.
It has happened before, I thought. Why am I doing this again?
The ringing went on and on, with brief pauses to catch its breath. Unable to hold out, with a curse I gained the office phantom-fast. Long, long ago my present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and gathered strength, until it had taken the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured my heart and mind, clamoring insistently for action. Now the telephone had burst on me like a thunderclap. It was clear that I must not now suffer passively, worrying myself over unsolved questions, but that I must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly.
After listening to the ringing for some more, and after repeating the same thought out loud, I decided that my mischief will not harm anyone: after all, I only intended to say that Hamilton wasn't home. Truthfully, I was so deprived of communication with the outside world that I longed to do anything, whatever it might be. I stretched my hand toward the telephone and put the receiver to my ear.
"Hello?" came from the receiver.
I was silent for a long while, as though I could not answer. Then, however, I mustered up the courage.
"Hello," said I, bowing to the telephone, "Hamilton's residence is on the line... But he is not here. Not at home, I mean. He is not at home."
I nervously pinched a fold in my skirt. There was a long silence on the other end of the wire. I was going to hang up the telephone, but it was too late:
"Who is talking?"
Loudly, so that it even tickled my middle ear, an extraordinarily nimble and distinct voice seemed familiar to me. I sighed, settling my tone more comfortably.
"The ma— the butler. The butler is talking."
I felt my determination give way, for I did not wish to smear the conversation around. Again we were both silent.
"John? Is that you?" *
The voice sounded new, suave and inviting. I shrugged and fixed my hair mechanically.
"Yes... Yes, it is me."
God, how stupid I am, thought I. Hamilton will surely find out about this! Why did I say this? What a terrible idea!"
"Excuse me, but I must go," I mumbled hurriedly.
"Wait, wait!" interrupted the voice. "Please don't ring off. I wish to talk to you. It's Mr. Jefferson."
Of course. How could I not recognize this differentially familiar, but rather pleasant, voice? A voice with a suave intonation, such as is affected by planters...
Upon hearing his name, I nearly knocked the humidor off the table; I tried to catch it, and it was then that I did knock it off; then I bumped my hip against the comer of the table. The terrible, withering glance came to my mind. In terror lest this conversation should prove to be an illusion, a deception of my fancy, I put the receiver back to my ear. My heart was beating violently.
"John?"
Not a delusion! Jefferson, really Jefferson, undoubtedly Jefferson...
"I am not allowed to... With you..." I began with agitated haste.
"Excuse me, excuse me!" uninterrupted Jefferson. "You can be sure Mr. Hamilton will not know about this conversation."
For a moment I thought I would have a fainting fit. I faltered impulsively in a half-whisper:
"What do you want, Sir?"
Why would he talk to me?
Not that I was brought to a pitch of stupidity, as it usually happened with me because of fear. But of that —of that I did not forget. I stared straight before me, as though seeing nothing, and watched as I, myself, lay on the floor in a puddle of red wine. I kept imagining that something new would emerge, something else would happen, and the mere thought threw me into a tremor.
"I expected to speak with you personally," began Jefferson. "But, unfortunately, I will not be able to make it to the party... The one that is happening in two days. Do you know about it?"
I nodded, and then, realizing that he could not see me, mumbled something in agreement.
"So you do know. Anyways, regarding my last visit... That is, everything that took place during my visit. You understand me, do you?"
I swallowed a lump in my throat.
"I do."
"You see, I did not want this to happen. And it would not have happened if..."
I may remark that he was exceptionally reserved and courteous; it surprised me. The masters are not to speak with slaves— other's slaves in particular. Conversations may happen, but can never be fully candid. What's more, there must be certain subtleties in the disregard for slaves: you may, for instance, tell something, but tell exactly as much as someone needs to know who is used for running errands. No one deigns to set slaves at ease by friendly candor, and no one ever apologizes for it. Is it worth caring about the feelings of a soulless creature? By the tone of Jefferson's words I noticed then that he had some serious, sincere concern. It struck me unpleasantly.
"As though I know why a man of certain convictions would act as he does... Still I am very sorry. Mr. Laurens, I wish to make every possible apology."
He showed remorse. This cruel, disgusting man! Of course, at first I considered it half as a joke; but all the same he said it much too seriously. So how did he look at me then? This was going beyond the bounds of slavery and nonentity. To have such a view is to raise a man to one's own level. And however absurd, however unbelievable our conversation was, my heart shook.
"Alright," I muttered, utterly disconcerted.
Jefferson was quiet for some time.
"How is your back, by the way?"
"Very well."
It was a lie. Over the past weeks the pain from the lash did not go off. I could not sleep, could not wash in hot water, I became slow and weak. Though I saw no point in telling this. The absurdity of this dialogue still troubled me.
"I am glad," answered Jefferson.
There was a moment of strange silence. I waited for him to say something else.
"Well, I shall delay you no further," said he at last. "No need to gossip so much. Au revoir, then?"
"Au revoir."
There was a crack followed by a tinkle on the other end, and then everything went quiet. I put the receiver back and fell into the chair. In spite of my weakness I was not conscious of anxiety. It was as though an abscess that had been forming for two weeks past in my heart had suddenly broken. But why, I asked myself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely chance conversation happened so late? As though it had been lying in wait for me on purpose, and happened when I was just in the very mood and in the very circumstances.
This was, perhaps, a trap. There was certainly something that I did not know about— some objective prepared long ago. Or maybe not. To be honest, I do not fully grasp Jefferson's intentions to this very day.
***
THE DAY after the notification of an upcoming party, a corps of caterers came down with dozens of boxes of alcohol, fruits, and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Hamilton's mansion. Male slaves mowed the lawn, Vella decorated the house with flowers, I washed the floors, and Theodosia was busy on the kitchen. Hamilton bustled about, seeing to everything, rushed around the house and asked everyone whom he passed if "everything's alright?" He looked frowning and anxious; all his assumed determination and insolent bravado had vanished. Besides, he was continually and fussily asking for my advice, even though I scarcely answered him.Such conduct seemed to me rather weird, but I ascribed it to nothing but party pressure.
On the next day, on Saturday, the surrounding territory bloomed with illumination, In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and on small buffet tables spiced baked hams crowded against varied salads and pastry pigs. By five o'clock the jazz orchestra had arrived—no thin five-piece affair but a whole pitful. Street slaves, clean shaven and dressed as lackeys, were pacing the parlor with trays in their arms. By seven o'clock the cars from the city were parked two deep in the drive. Before I knew it, the air was alive with chatter and laughter and enthusiastic meetings between young women wrapped up in peculiar shawls. The floating rounds of cocktails permeated the garden, heads smeared with hair-gel glistened in the hall, and the saxophone began wheezing in the parlor.
Half an hour later the master of the house came down to the parlor; dressed in a white flannel suit, white shirt and gold-colored tie, he was pale and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. However, Hamilton welcomed the guests as though nothing had happened — with an accustomed affectation of kindness.
At this party I was forced to play the utterly stupid role of a clown— that is, a lackey, to meet and entertain some rich and extremely dull factory owners, impossibly ignorant and shameless, pale girls in identical dresses, and pathetic little magazine midges, who arrived in fashionable jackets and with a vanity and conceit of dimensions inconceivable even in New-York–which is saying a lot. They even ventured to make fun of me. No wonder: Hamilton did not let me dress as a man. Clean shaven, in a maid dress and with my hair pulled tight I looked like a scarecrow. In one word, all this was loathsome to me in the highest degree.
The bar was in full swing, stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials of such varied kind that even I did not know one from another. I got the chance to sip a glass or two; in the back room, away from Theodosia's searching eyes. Laughter was easier, charleston was sloppier, minute by minute, while tipsy republicans kept pestering me with heartfelt conversations. Some of them mistook me for a woman; perhaps they couldn't see the obvious difference (or simply didn't want to see).
I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when the events took a strange, unexpected turn.
I was so exhausted by what I had passed through that evening that I could only decide such questions in one way; "then damn them all," I thought in cold despair. I went upstairs and entered one of the guest rooms — for no particular reason. A sudden anguish oppressed my heart: I was about to turn back wondering why I had come here, when suddenly by the window I saw a man with a pipe in his mouth. The man was silently watching and scrutinising me. He took the pipe out of his mouth, and a sly smile came into his face, growing broader and broader. On the windowsill beside him stood an open bottle and a glass half full of champagne.
"He-he, just when I was about to search for a waiter," said he. "Please, take that away."
He nodded toward the bottle. He had a rather unpleasant face, like a mask; with bright red lips and thick flaxen hair. I came closer, took the bottle and made haste to leave.
"Are you a man or a woman?" asked he, looking inquisitively at me.
"I am in a hurry," I muttered wearily. "Sorry."
"Alright, let us leave you alone. You had better tell me, do you know where your master is? I've been searching for him everywhere..."
He screwed up his eyes, looking slyly at me. "Why in such haste?"
I frowned. He was obviously exhilarated, but only slightly so.
"Everyone has his own plans. And why have you been searching for him?"
"You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at my question you refuse to answer," the man observed with a smile. "You look at me with suspicion. Of course it's perfectly natural in your position... He-he! The game isn't worth the candle! See, I am a journalist. Mr. S-y, if you will..."
I turned cold. I had always felt convinced that journalists were the most worthless scoundrels on the face of the earth.
"And what can I say?" continued the journalist. "Why, I need him simply as an interesting subject for observation. I like the fantastic nature of his position—that's what it is! I shall come up with something to ask... Perhaps he will tell me something new. Do you know where he is?"
"I do not."
The journalist sighed.
"Still I must admit that your question is rather complex. I confess that I hastened here for the sake of the women. Though you probably would not like it if I suddenly started talking about women?
I glanced at him in complete bewilderment.
"I do not understand..."
"Surely you know what I mean," persisted S-y with a sly smile. — You know, on my way here I was reckoning on you, on your telling me something new, too..."
"What are you talking about?!" said I, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point. "If you are here for me, just say it! Why hanging about me..."
"Alright, alright," S-y smiled with engaging candor. "I have been most interested to hear what happened to you, Mr. Laurens. You are a recognizable face after all. Well, that's why I am here; everybody knows that you are in Mr. Hamilton's service now."
I clenched my fists.
"What are you?"
"What am I? You know: Samuel S-y, a journalist. And you... You must actually be a transvestite. What an interesting article it will be... Hm! Where are you off to?"
I backed away.
"A-ach! Sit down, Mr. Laurens, stay a little!" S-y hiccuped. "Stay a little, I won't talk nonsense, about you, I mean. If you like I'll tell you about Hamilton. It will be an answer to your first question indeed. Well, what do you say?"
I already stood in the doorway and looked wildly at him.
"I shall bring him here... I shall bring him to you. Just wait for a minute."
I went out without waiting for an answer. Everything was in a turmoil within me.
"An article... An article!" muttered I, pacing the corridor. "I should have kept quiet. A couple of words and the entire country thinks of me as a transvestite. Thank you, Mr. journalist! Not only that, but he will surely make up some other... Words, to complete the picture. One must cut one's coat according to one's cloth, right? Father will read it, he will find out, he will believe... And how will he feel then? Even now he is uneasy, he is worried, but then, when he sees it all clearly? And I? It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it shall not, it shall not! I won't accept it!"
I suddenly paused in my reflection and stood still.
"But what if nothing happens? If nothing happens at all?" I continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain. "If I bring him Hamilton? Perhaps he will forget about me. Yes, I must, I must bring Hamilton to him."
The journalist was right about one thing, though — Hamilton vanished as if he'd fallen through the earth. After searching the first floor and the garden I went to the door of the room where he had probably shut himself up; that is, the office. I took hold of the handle and listened warily. I was in agonies, trembling at the necessity of action and my own indecision, until there was a sudden rustle from the other side of the door, followed by soft laughter. At last I again approached the door, but managed awkwardly: my hand trembled, the handle clanked, as if by itself, there was a rattle and a creak.
I had been able to see very little in the second I held the door open; I only caught a glimpse of Hamilton's face. But when I opened it fully I stopped short again, still more overcome, horror-stricken.
And what a sight did I see.
Hamilton sat on the divan, slightly leaning back, and on his lap there was a woman; one of her arms encircled his waist, while the other was round his neck. She had on a tight-fitting white dress. The woman was clinging to him like the ivy to the oak, rubbing against him like a cat, and kissing him with as much evident pleasure as if she were a famished baby taking her nurse's breast. He kissed back, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and squeezing her breasts. I heard mingled sighs and panting, dying in stifled kisses given by lips that still cleaved languidly to each other; The pleasure they received thereby was so thrilling that they saw nothing but each other's faces. I foolishly remained stock still—speechless and dumbfoundered. The power of this blissful intoxicating lust was so intense that I unconsciously threw myself into a kind of trance.
Their entrance would have lasted several seconds more, had the woman not lost her breath. She turned around and, upon seeing me, flushed red with embarrassment. A moment, and a piercing, shrill cry rang through the air. I instantly came to my senses and recoiled, as though someone blasted me with cold water.
Poor girl! She got as red as a peony, burst into tears and stormed out of the room. She didn't even adjust her skirt.
In a terrible confusion I felt myself grow red and shuddered as if I had received a strong electric shock.
"Forgive me... Jesus Christ, Forgive me," I mumbled, breathing painfully. "I didn't want to..."
Despondent, flustered and embarrassed. I didn't know what to do. had never expected that I would ever find myself in such an awkward situation. I received an impression unlike anything I had known before. At the same time I realized clearly that all my concerns were false—so false that I felt positively ashamed of them. And what right, indeed, did I have to judge Hamilton so hastily? I caught him with a woman, after all.
Though his reaction was so unexpected that the murderous shame within me was immediately replaced by unprecedented confusion.
Instead of being angry, ashamed or disappointed, Hamilton straightened up, fixed his tie and said, as if nothing happened:
"Well, damn her then."
He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his smile.
Suddenly he turned pale, got up from the divan, looked at me, and without uttering a word sat back.
My sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when I had broken into the office. The only difference was that now Hamilton was in my shoes.
"What's the matter?" asked I, dreadfully frightened.
"Nothing... It's nonsense. It really is nonsense, if you think of it," he muttered, like a man in delirium. "Why torturing myself?"
He was drunk— very drunk, I dare say. I was about to bow and leave, but Hamilton was suddenly changed. Even his voice was suddenly weak.
"Stay."