Theory of Slavery | Hamilton

VII

"Stay."

I already regretted venturing to repeat an old mistake. My mind was in a confused state, so much so that all the past incidents seemed to be imperfectly realized, though acutely felt. Something became clear to me: Hamiton's office was cursed.

It suddenly seemed to me that he already knew that I would come, that he was already warned, and that if he did not speak first, it was because he was sparing my feelings, was afraid of my humiliation.

Suddenly he cast down his eyes with a kind of shyness, with a quite unnecessary dumb smile. This instantly roused in me disgust and reaction; I wanted to go; in my opinion, Hamilton was decidedly drunk. But then he raised his eyes and looked at me with such a firm and thoughtful gaze, and at the same time with such an unexpected and enigmatical expression, that I nearly shuddered. 

"Come here."

I was still overcome with great confusion after what happened a minute ago.

Suppressing my agitation with an effort, I came to the divan. I was going to tell him about a journalist, but had no time to say a single word.

"Well?"

Hamilton sat with a straight back, slapping himself on the knee.

"Well," repeated he. "Hurry up!" 

"What... What do you want?"

"Where is the letter? You brought the letter, right?"

I frowned and looked at him in bewilderment.

"No, I do not have a letter with me... Sir."

Hamilton became terribly pale and sat without moving for some time; then he averted his eyes. For the next minute he was probably fighting himself, but then he pressed his lips together and laid back on the divan. A shudder ran down his face; he lifted his hand, opened his mouth, and eventually broke down into tears.

"Well, God be with him," he said at last; "God be with him if he leaves me like that..."

At that point sobs stifled his voice; he was obviously drunk as a monkey.

"Wait... Wait," I began; but looking at him I had not the heart to go on, and what was I to say to him? What's the point of comforting a drunk man?"

"Don't try and comfort me," he whined; "don't talk about him; don't tell me that he will come, that he has not cast me off so cruelly and so inhumanly
as he has. What for—what for?"

"I..."

"Can there have been something in my words, my unlucky words? Huh?"

It made me uncomfortable.

"Can I help?" asked I, though not particularly sure If he could hear me. It was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to me. His lips worked, helplessly struggling to utter something; he couldn't. Once again he covered his face with his hands and hung his head. Suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter pity passed through my heart. As it were wondering and frightened of this sensation, I sighed and looked around me.

"Oh, how inhumanly cruel it is!" he began again. "And not a line, not a

line in five days! He might at least have written that he does not want me, that he rejects me—but not a line! Tell me, why..."    

He was trembling like a leaf, and cried ugly, as though in convulsion, smearing the tears on his face.

"Listen... Mr. Hamilton, calm down..."  

"What!" 

"You are very much upset," I said; "Let us... Let us drink. Shall we drink?"

Instead of an answer Hamilton hung his head and leaned his elbows on his knees.