committee instructed to write a declaration of separation,” Adams told him. “Franklin was on it too”—Jefferson leaned forward again—“but Franklin declined to draft anything, he only writes in almanacs. I told Jefferson he should write the draft and we would sign it. He demurred. He said
I
should write it, being senior to him. I said, ‘No, I have reasons enough not to write.’
“ ‘What reasons?’
“ ‘Reason first: You’re a Virginian, and a Virginian ought to appear at the head of this business. Reason second: I am obnoxious, suspected, and unpopular. Reason third: You can write
ten
times better than I can!’ ”
Before their laughter had died away, Adams was peering through his window at the traffic of wagons and carriages come to a dead halt on the rue de l’Université. A hundred yards ahead of them the Pont Royal began its white arch across the Seine.
“Business,” Adams said, turning back. “Franklin is leaving for America. You must now know, Mr. Short, in total confidence, that I mean to leave too.”
Jefferson was wedged against the padded side of the carriage,his eyes closed in fatigue, but now he opened them. He said, “In total confidence, our friend expects within a few months to become American ambassador to London.”
“To bait John Bull,” Adams muttered.
“And therefore—” Jefferson continued in his deliberate fashion.
But Adams’s nature was blunt, impatient. He interrupted, “And therefore Mr. Jefferson is to be left here, in this sink of noise and pleasure, and therefore he needs an assistant.”
“A secretary.”
“He needs a private confidential secretary who can write well and speak French.”
Short held his breath.
“Colonel Humphreys has received a thousand pounds a year in that capacity.” Jefferson spoke with his eyes closed, his shoulders pressed back as the carriage jerked and rocked forward again. “Since he goes with the ambassador to London, I have written Mr. Jay to say that, if you accept the post, I expect Congress to pay you the same salary.”
Short exhaled with a pop.
“Not enough,” Adams said firmly. “You need
twice
that amount. Why, food alone—”
Swiveling from one to the other, Short began to say yes, it was enough, more than enough, to thank them, to trip and splutter over his tongue—Virginia was gone, Paris was his; but his effusiveness was suddenly undercut by Jefferson’s low voice, at once dreamy and ironic, quickly putting his new secretary back in his youthful place. “Well, brother Adams, our friend is vigorous and handsome. Paris no doubt has its own coin to pay him with.”
At the
pont tournant
, the rotating wooden footbridge that connected the Place Louis XV and the Jardin des Tuileries, Jefferson asked for the carriage to be halted so that he and Short could walk home through the garden. Adams protested briefly, but set them down. Jefferson, he told Short in a whispered aside, was still too feeble for much exertion. Watch him, guard him, his spirits more than his body had undergone seasoning. And as Short pulledaway to rejoin Jefferson’s tall figure at the garden entrance, Adams motioned him back for one last word.
“You know, he never complains or rages, as I do perpetually.” For a moment Adams looked neither choleric nor impatient but shrewd. “You polite Virginians bottle up all your anger.
Dum in dubio est animus, paulo momento huc illuc impellitur
. There’s Latin for you.”
“Terence,” Jefferson said, shaking his head, showing a quick, faint half-smile. “The greatest Roman playwright. ‘While the mind hangs in balance a straw will upset it.’ My hearing at least is still acute.”
Short, still bouncing, emboldened by his appointment, asked the question he had held back for half an hour. “Is he right—did you think the ceremony in the church just now was all sorcery and witchcraft?”
They had reached the riverside edge of the gardens. Over the balustrade, across the sparkling
I
should write it, being senior to him. I said, ‘No, I have reasons enough not to write.’
“ ‘What reasons?’
“ ‘Reason first: You’re a Virginian, and a Virginian ought to appear at the head of this business. Reason second: I am obnoxious, suspected, and unpopular. Reason third: You can write
ten
times better than I can!’ ”
Before their laughter had died away, Adams was peering through his window at the traffic of wagons and carriages come to a dead halt on the rue de l’Université. A hundred yards ahead of them the Pont Royal began its white arch across the Seine.
“Business,” Adams said, turning back. “Franklin is leaving for America. You must now know, Mr. Short, in total confidence, that I mean to leave too.”
Jefferson was wedged against the padded side of the carriage,his eyes closed in fatigue, but now he opened them. He said, “In total confidence, our friend expects within a few months to become American ambassador to London.”
“To bait John Bull,” Adams muttered.
“And therefore—” Jefferson continued in his deliberate fashion.
But Adams’s nature was blunt, impatient. He interrupted, “And therefore Mr. Jefferson is to be left here, in this sink of noise and pleasure, and therefore he needs an assistant.”
“A secretary.”
“He needs a private confidential secretary who can write well and speak French.”
Short held his breath.
“Colonel Humphreys has received a thousand pounds a year in that capacity.” Jefferson spoke with his eyes closed, his shoulders pressed back as the carriage jerked and rocked forward again. “Since he goes with the ambassador to London, I have written Mr. Jay to say that, if you accept the post, I expect Congress to pay you the same salary.”
Short exhaled with a pop.
“Not enough,” Adams said firmly. “You need
twice
that amount. Why, food alone—”
Swiveling from one to the other, Short began to say yes, it was enough, more than enough, to thank them, to trip and splutter over his tongue—Virginia was gone, Paris was his; but his effusiveness was suddenly undercut by Jefferson’s low voice, at once dreamy and ironic, quickly putting his new secretary back in his youthful place. “Well, brother Adams, our friend is vigorous and handsome. Paris no doubt has its own coin to pay him with.”
At the
pont tournant
, the rotating wooden footbridge that connected the Place Louis XV and the Jardin des Tuileries, Jefferson asked for the carriage to be halted so that he and Short could walk home through the garden. Adams protested briefly, but set them down. Jefferson, he told Short in a whispered aside, was still too feeble for much exertion. Watch him, guard him, his spirits more than his body had undergone seasoning. And as Short pulledaway to rejoin Jefferson’s tall figure at the garden entrance, Adams motioned him back for one last word.
“You know, he never complains or rages, as I do perpetually.” For a moment Adams looked neither choleric nor impatient but shrewd. “You polite Virginians bottle up all your anger.
Dum in dubio est animus, paulo momento huc illuc impellitur
. There’s Latin for you.”
“Terence,” Jefferson said, shaking his head, showing a quick, faint half-smile. “The greatest Roman playwright. ‘While the mind hangs in balance a straw will upset it.’ My hearing at least is still acute.”
Short, still bouncing, emboldened by his appointment, asked the question he had held back for half an hour. “Is he right—did you think the ceremony in the church just now was all sorcery and witchcraft?”
They had reached the riverside edge of the gardens. Over the balustrade, across the sparkling
Similar Books
