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Authors: Barbara Chase-Riboud
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the steep pathway to where his horse waited, waited until she could see
him no more.
CHAPTER 7
ALBEMARLE COUNTY, AUGUST 1831
The Almighty has no attribute which can take sides with us
in such a contest.—But it is impossible to be temperate and to pursue this
subject through the various considerations of policy, of morals, of history
natural and civil. We must be contented to hope they will force their way into
every one's mind. I think a change already perceptible, since the origin of the
present revolution.
thomas jefferson, Notes on the State of Virginia, 1790
The summer was passing and
Sally Hemings' thoughts were enclosed in a soft, weary happiness. Slowly, out
of an almost invisible but very deep wound, in an unceasing stream, thoughts
and feelings welled up and spilled out. She felt herself floating, felt an odd
excitement in answering Nathan Langdon's questions, and even while speaking was
divided between pleasure and torment. She had lived a life; she was startled to
perceive that life. As if it had been kept in a long underground passage which
ascended now and again into the midst of tremendous events called History.
History, which had left her alone in a vast, unfamiliar, unwanted wasteland.
Furtively, she looked across at Nathan Langdon. He really
was quite an ordinary man, yet it was only with him that she felt this new
sense of her existence. Had he given her that, or had she taken it herself? It
was so hard to know.
"What are you thinking?" he said from the
shadows.
"My own thoughts," she answered.
Nathan sensed a resistance, even an irritation. He knew the
mood. Since summer he had treaded softly with Sally Hemings. He remained silent
and let the moment pass. There would be other moments, a long series of moments
in which to unravel the mystery of Sally Hemings. He would bide his time.
Nathan Langdon sighed in the stillness. It was an afternoon
like many he had spent with this ex-slave. He felt himself sliding deeper and
deeper into compromise with his race and his class and less and less inclined
to shake himself out of a numbing lethargy, an insidious guilt that kept him
peering into the faces of his slaves, his servants, his mother, his brothers,
his fiancée. For what? He didn't know. He really didn't know anymore why he had
returned to Charlottesville. He had certainly begun to question his earthly
destiny. When Esmeralda and his mother had begged him to come, it had been with
relief that he had returned South to take up the responsibilities of his
family. He had made little headway in Boston. The possibility of success in the
North for a Southerner, without means or influential friends, was dubious. He
also knew that he was wanting in the bitter, energetic ambitions of most of his
Northern schoolmates, but he had blamed this on his "Southernness."
Yet his luck had been no better here in Charlottesville, where he could hardly
call himself a stranger. He found it difficult to slip back into
"Virginian" ways. He had acquired sharper edges in the North. At
least he liked to think so. The coying slickness of Southern manners now stuck
in his gullet. The only thing he had accomplished in the past year had been his
job as census taker. That had ended now, he thought, and he hadn't succeeded in
extending his connections or his business. He had tried to form a partnership
which had not worked out well. His clerkship with Judge Miner was over and he
had not been invited to stay on. He had always had a desire for public life; to
shape national conduct seemed to him the highest form of achievement, he mused,
but he had no money and what influence there was had to be shared with his two
brothers, who also had political ambitions. There was little that was public in
his solitary room, or his solitary office, or his solitary visits to Sally
Hemings. He didn't think consciously of his unhappiness, or of what Sally
Hemings might have to do with it. If he had, he might have prevented
him no more.
CHAPTER 7
ALBEMARLE COUNTY, AUGUST 1831
The Almighty has no attribute which can take sides with us
in such a contest.—But it is impossible to be temperate and to pursue this
subject through the various considerations of policy, of morals, of history
natural and civil. We must be contented to hope they will force their way into
every one's mind. I think a change already perceptible, since the origin of the
present revolution.
thomas jefferson, Notes on the State of Virginia, 1790
The summer was passing and
Sally Hemings' thoughts were enclosed in a soft, weary happiness. Slowly, out
of an almost invisible but very deep wound, in an unceasing stream, thoughts
and feelings welled up and spilled out. She felt herself floating, felt an odd
excitement in answering Nathan Langdon's questions, and even while speaking was
divided between pleasure and torment. She had lived a life; she was startled to
perceive that life. As if it had been kept in a long underground passage which
ascended now and again into the midst of tremendous events called History.
History, which had left her alone in a vast, unfamiliar, unwanted wasteland.
Furtively, she looked across at Nathan Langdon. He really
was quite an ordinary man, yet it was only with him that she felt this new
sense of her existence. Had he given her that, or had she taken it herself? It
was so hard to know.
"What are you thinking?" he said from the
shadows.
"My own thoughts," she answered.
Nathan sensed a resistance, even an irritation. He knew the
mood. Since summer he had treaded softly with Sally Hemings. He remained silent
and let the moment pass. There would be other moments, a long series of moments
in which to unravel the mystery of Sally Hemings. He would bide his time.
Nathan Langdon sighed in the stillness. It was an afternoon
like many he had spent with this ex-slave. He felt himself sliding deeper and
deeper into compromise with his race and his class and less and less inclined
to shake himself out of a numbing lethargy, an insidious guilt that kept him
peering into the faces of his slaves, his servants, his mother, his brothers,
his fiancée. For what? He didn't know. He really didn't know anymore why he had
returned to Charlottesville. He had certainly begun to question his earthly
destiny. When Esmeralda and his mother had begged him to come, it had been with
relief that he had returned South to take up the responsibilities of his
family. He had made little headway in Boston. The possibility of success in the
North for a Southerner, without means or influential friends, was dubious. He
also knew that he was wanting in the bitter, energetic ambitions of most of his
Northern schoolmates, but he had blamed this on his "Southernness."
Yet his luck had been no better here in Charlottesville, where he could hardly
call himself a stranger. He found it difficult to slip back into
"Virginian" ways. He had acquired sharper edges in the North. At
least he liked to think so. The coying slickness of Southern manners now stuck
in his gullet. The only thing he had accomplished in the past year had been his
job as census taker. That had ended now, he thought, and he hadn't succeeded in
extending his connections or his business. He had tried to form a partnership
which had not worked out well. His clerkship with Judge Miner was over and he
had not been invited to stay on. He had always had a desire for public life; to
shape national conduct seemed to him the highest form of achievement, he mused,
but he had no money and what influence there was had to be shared with his two
brothers, who also had political ambitions. There was little that was public in
his solitary room, or his solitary office, or his solitary visits to Sally
Hemings. He didn't think consciously of his unhappiness, or of what Sally
Hemings might have to do with it. If he had, he might have prevented
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