Sally Heming (30 page)

When Langdon had finished, John Trumbull sat as still as a
great eagle, alert to the slightest gesture. The strange, almost cross-eyed
effect came from the fact that the painter had been blind in one eye since
childhood.

"You are a Southerner, Mr. Langdon?"

"Yes."

"And an abolitionist, I take it?"

Nathan Langdon flushed. Had he ever really thought in those
terms? "Of course," Nathan Langdon answered.

"You know, of course, my position. It is strange that
antislavery has come to be identified with political partisanship and, I might
say, with the conservatives of this country. We were the ones who got the slave
trading from Africa outlawed, even if the smuggling continues and more Africans
still reach our shores. The enslaving of the inhabitants of Africa in the name
of Christianity, especially in the name of Christianity, is not only criminal,
it is intolerable in our nation. 'Is not the enslaving of these people the most
charitable act in the world?'" he intoned, bitterly mimicking the pious
tones he had heard on so many lips. " 'With no other end in view than to
bring those poor creatures to Christian ground and within hearing of the
gospel, we spare no expense of time or money, we send many thousands of miles
across the dangerous seas, and think all our toil and pains well rewarded. We
endure the greatest fatigues of body and much unavoidable trouble of conscience
in carrying on this pious design. We deprive them of their liberty, we force
them away from their friends, their country, everything that is dear to
them.... And are they not bound by all the ties of gratitude to devote their
entire lives to our service, as the only reward that can be adequate to our
abundant charity?' Ah!" he thundered, "I could forgive anything but
doing what we did in the name of Christianity! At least we can't accuse Thomas
Jefferson of hypocrisy, can we? He didn't believe in Christianity."

Suddenly, John Trumbull got up and walked to the back of
the immense studio. He was gone for a long time, and when he returned he had in
his hand four small sheets of paper. In silence, the two men looked at the
delicate pencil renderings of a young girl in the dress of forty years before.
The sketches were quick, almost futile, with none of the pompousness Nathan
Langdon so detested in the large paintings of John Trumbull.

The pose of the first sheet was guileless, the young girl
with her hair down, her face cradled in one hand, her elbows supported by the
arm of the chair in which she was seated. She looked out of the picture with
enormous, wide-spaced, light eyes. The second sketch was a three-quarter
half-portrait, where there was the ghost of a smile and symmetrical dimples.
The third was of the girl in profile, standing in front of a bouquet of
flowers. The long neck stretched slightly forward and bent, and tendrils of
dark hair had escaped from the twisted knot piled high on her head. The final
sketch, smaller than the others, was a fresh and delicate watercolor. The
girl's tiny hand was touching her black hair absently, and she was gazing out
of the picture.

Nathan Langdon's hand trembled as he held each of the
sketches. They were drawings of almost unbearable tenderness and delicacy. His
throat constricted. How lovely she had been! He turned his back to John
Trumbull.

The painter, who had spent his life looking and learning
from people's faces, turned away when he saw the expression on the young man's
face. John Trumbull had cast his lot with the great and the famous in every way
except one. Like Thomas Jefferson, only in his heart had he erred against his
class ... and no one was ever going to find out about that from his lips, he
thought. What, he asked himself, would Langdon know, having listened only to
Sally Hemings, of the pain a man feels who falls in love with a forbidden
woman? Of not being able to protect her ... of always being something of a
coward in her eyes because of it.... Trumbull had loved his beautiful,
illiterate and socially unacceptable wife, Sarah, now dead. How he had known
that love for a woman ultimately unprotected against the hurts of society.

Even Jefferson had not been able to protect his Sally, any
more than he had been able to protect his Sarah, he thought. And what of their
children? His illegitimate son now hated him and was lost to him forever, just
as Jefferson's sons were. It was true, he had no fondness for Jefferson.
Jefferson's atheism, his want of credibility, his stupidities in military
matters, his unconstitutional embargo, had long ago wiped out their friendship.
But for the sake of his Sarah and
his
Sally, not a word of this affair of the heart would ever escape his
lips, certainly not to a young whippersnapper like this Langdon.

What did he know about loving and risk! Real risk!
Jefferson had risked everything for her.... What had Langdon ever done for
Sally Hemings except to turn her white in fright!

Nathan Langdon, as if sensing John Trumbull's thoughts,
suddenly understood the awful power a woman could wield over a man. He
remembered with what overpowering sensuality and force he had been drawn into
the embrace of Sally Hemings that day...

"I'm afraid, Mr. Langdon, that I cannot accept your
commission to do a miniature of this ... person, for her ... uh ... son."

"But, sir...." Nathan Langdon turned in alarm.

A look of contempt passed over the face of the proud old
man. Such unmilitary behavior! "First of all, I am sure that the person in
the sketches and the person of whom you speak are not the same. She was not a
slave. I refuse all comment on your incredible story and, of course, all
confirmation."

Nathan Langdon looked dumbfounded.

What a stupid boy for a lawyer, thought John Trumbull.

"Mr. Langdon, the greatest motive I had, or have, for
engaging in or for continuing my pursuit of painting is the wish to commemorate
the great events of our country's Revolution, to preserve and diffuse the
memory of the noblest series of actions which have ever presented themselves in
the history of man. This is an enormous responsibility, Mr. Langdon, and I
carry it out to the best of my ability as an artist. The history of private
passions has no place in public history." He paused. "A painting of
Sally Hemings by John Trumbull is simply not possible."

"I would be willing to purchase it unsigned. It would
not have to be listed in any of your catalogues."

"Mr. Langdon, I have an understanding with Yale
University. All my paintings have been bought by them for an annuity."

"Even an
unsigned John
Trumbull?"

"An unsigned painting has no value, except to
us."

John Trumbull felt almost sorry for Nathan Langdon.

"I regret, sir. What you ask is impossible. There can
never be a portrait of Sally Hemings."

John Trumbull rose. "I thank you for your visit."

When Nathan Langdon had left, John Trumbull stood for some
moments in the middle of his vast studio looking at the sketches of Sally
Hemings, so beautiful, so fragile. In their small way, they were subversive,
unimportant perhaps, but subversive nevertheless. John Trumbull turned and
stared at his paintings. The bright, diffused light of the windows above caught
the old man's face; if he felt anything at this moment, the light did not
reveal it. With great ceremony, John Trumbull tore the sketches of Sally
Hemings into small pieces and let them fall to the floor. There was silence in
the room. John Trumbull stood as if listening for something. But there was not
one nay from the painted life-size figures surrounding him.

PART IV

1795-1809

Monticello

CHAPTER 24

SPRING
1795

I set out on this ground which I suppose to be self-evident
that the earth belongs to the living; that the dead have neither powers nor
rights over it.

thomas jefferson
to James Madison, September
6,1789

Lord Thomas was a nice young gentleman He rode a many a
town He courted a girl they called Fair Ellender And one called Sally Brown.

Is this your wife, Lord Thomas, she cries! She is most
wonderous brown. When you could have married as fair a young girl As ever the
sun shone on.

They buried the Brown Girl in his arms, Fair Ellender at
his feet. They laid the Brown Girl in his arms And let her go to sleep.

Traditional Ballads of Virginia,
Compiled by Arthur Kyle Davis, Jr.

It was a long time
before my mother
answered that first call from the carriage that brought me back to Virginia and
slavery. And when she did, her words had been: "You got a son, Sally
Hemings. A wee darling perfect thing." As she had taken Thomas Jefferson
Hemings from my body she had forgiven me at the same time. She focused all her
love and hopes on him. "Get that freedom for your children," she
repeated like a litany. "And get it for yourself while you're at it,"
she added. "Don't nothing in life count more than that." She had
looked at me with a mixture of pity and exasperation. "Not even
love."

That had been five years ago and now it was the spring of
1795,
one year since my master had returned from Philadelphia to
retirement, since he had come home to me. It had been the happiest year for us
both. So happy, it had made up for everything. The return to Virginia and
slavery had been a shock to me. I felt isolated at Monticello, and slights and
injuries were my daily lot. Even my master seemed helpless against these hurts.
His acceptance of the post of secretary of state had been a tragedy for me. We
were to have stayed only a short time here, then return to our beloved Paris.
In Paris, we had both forgotten what it meant to be white or black, master or
slave.

I no longer knew whether to believe him now when he vowed
never to engage in politics again. This retirement might not last. The
temptations of power were too great. But the hurts and humiliations of the past
three years were also deeply etched in his soul. He had "retired" in
a sulk from Philadelphia. He was in bad grace with President Washington, who no
longer spoke to him; defeated by Hamilton; publicly attacked by the
Federalists. Everything had passed: the excise, the Bank, the treaty with
Britain. He was back home to lick his wounds.

Our letters these three years had been numerous, and often
in French. He had bid me to burn his, but I had not done so. He burned mine, I
suspected, yet I took much care in writing them, especially those in French.
And the magic of the written word still awed me. Yet for all his letters of
love, I was uneasy without his presence. Not just lonely, but unsure of myself.
I seemed nothing without him and everything in his eyes. My tutoring and, more
than anything else, my music, had continued after my return to Monticello, and
so the creature he had begun to create and shape in Paris had finally been
ready to receive him when he rode home from his political wars. I rested easier
now that he was home, but I still needed to ask.

"Daughter, you ought to know if he loves you or not.
If you don't know, then he don't. I know he thinks he loves you, and maybe
that's all a woman can expect from a man—that he believes it.... A woman knows.
A woman knows when a man loves her ... even a slave woman. It's been six
years.... A white man don't keep a black concubine for six years without loving
her. He loved your sister and he lost her, and now he loves you."

My mother had changed little in the past thirteen years.
She had kept her low, compact figure, her slimness, her unlined and perfect
skin, her iron constitution. She was now fifty-nine years old and she still ran
Monticello, despite my position. Her beautiful, vigorous body still demanded
and got the services of lovers of both colors. I knew that I would never take
another lover. I loved only my master. A dangerous and stupid thing for a
slave.... God knows, I knew that.