Theory of Slavery | Hamilton

X

The night before the party I found him in the library. It was after midnight. Outside it poured with rain, water cascading past the glass, and the room, lit only by a kerosine lamp, with its walls completely filled with dark books, towered over him like some huge sleeping animal. In a pool of light on the desk in front of him lay a magazine. The unusual spectacle of Hamilton rocking comfortably, and winding a strand of hair around one finger, and reading anything but a voluminous Platonic Dialogue made me feel as if some unnatural phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.

I felt uneasy when he didn't come to bed at the usual time. I couldn't sleep. I lay alone in the dark for a long while, staring up at the blind plaster eye in the middle of the ceiling, erotically musing about tomorrow. I would find Jefferson as soon as he arrived, even in the parlor full of guests. "Shall we go?" I would extend my hand then, lead him to a solitary bedroom, away from the party. I'd let him touch me wherever he wishes, take my brand new suit off, take me, I wouldn't make a noise, wouldn't tell a soul. If my heart would only stop pounding in my ears, I thought, perhaps I could even come up with what I'd say to him afterward. Oh, if only Hamilton would walk in on me now, so I would be spared the ordeal of having to touch myself. My agitation forced me to get up and quietly sleepwalk, on silent bare feet, to the study, which I found empty, and then downstairs. I deserved to be scolded.

I sped into the library noiselessly. No one would ever intrude upon Hamilton like this, believing that he wished to be left alone with his perpetual vigil at all times, but to be left alone was the last thing I myself desired.

"Hi Mr. Hamilton. It's very late, do you know that?"

He could hardly conceal a shudder.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Don't you sneak up on me like that ever again."

"Lucky for you I did. You'd probably be falling asleep just now if I didn't."

He took off his reading glasses and, shading his weak eyes with his hand, looked up at me.

"What time is it?"

"It's half past midnight."

"It's not a bad time," he mused strangely. "It's not one of the worst times of the day."

Despite the persistent dull ache at the very bottom of my being, the dread of the morrow quickly departed from me, upon seeing him (lame, lamentably lame). There was something vital and earthy and coarse about Hamilton that made me feel at home.

"Why aren't you in bed?" he asked, staring at the page he had just been reading.

"I was waiting for you. It's going to be a long day tomorrow, you'd better go to sleep."

"This voice of reason is your least convincing trait, John," he said, lifting his eyes from the magazine. "Do you like me so much that you can't sleep without me, or what?"

I laughed outright.

"Says who! Have you always been so very wise?"

He frowned.

"I'm not wise at all."

Was he about to adopt a condescending, pre-lecture tone? Or was this a preamble to his role as a part-time parent? Even at our very best moments, when he sat reading in bed next to me (my glance skipping from his face to the page and back again), or shared with me the leftovers from his supper, or casually covered me with a blanked in the mornings, I seemed to myself as implausible his son as he seemed to be my father.

"In point of fact, I lied," I invented, trying to change the subject but also perhaps to come to his rescue and show, without quite seeming to, that his secret did not bother me one bit. "I wasn't even searching for you. I was going to steal a book from here while you were busy."