Theory of Slavery | Hamilton

IV

Have you ever by accident placed your hand on a strong battery, and got through your fingers a shock that for a moment bereaves you of your very reason? If so, you can have but a faint impression of what I felt when I dropped the bottle. I saw it clearly—just as things grow in fast movies— how shards of glass, mixed with red drops, gushed all over the place. If this moment were a film scene, no doubt it would be accompanied by a series of atrociously vigorous, fundamentally hysterical, plangent chords.

I could not say anything. I felt that the walls of the room were closing in on me, and time itself seemed to stand still. This was, obviously, an illusion—a vision of my overheated fancy, for as soon as I shifted from my place, the world came alive and began spinning with a new frightening force.

Jefferson startled up and stared down at his feet. His leg was drenched with wine. Hamilton stood up at the same time, glanced at Jefferson, then at me, and laughed in a strange, nerve-wracking kind of way. A dreadful terror came over me at last, and I felt like I was about to faint. I saw the wad of muscle on Jefferson's shoulder tighten under his dress coat. He turned to Hamilton and gave him a look, as though expecting something tactful to be said – perhaps expecting him to start excusing my behavior as pathological. But Hamilton didn't say anything, and in the next instant Jefferson's hand lashed across my face.

"You little piece of shit!" he yelled in a frenzy. "What have you done?"

I gazed down and trembled.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I faltered. "I shall clean everything up at this instant..."

"Clean everything up, huh? A worm, that's what you are, if you don't know how to handle your own hands! Goddammit..."

He raised his elbow, but didn't strike; at this very moment, Hamilton finally decided to come along.

"Thomas!" he cried. 'Enough! Stop! Leave him alone!"

Jefferson looked wildly and fixedly for some time at me, then turned away.

"John," Hamilton gripped my shoulder. "Clean this mess up. Right now."

I fell to my hands and knees and began picking up the shards. My sore hand, forgotten in the excitement, now gave a tremendous throb. The wine had already seeped through the rug, concealing the floral pattern, making another flower, a giant red one, like the mouths painted with thick brushes by kindergarten children.

"I'm so terribly sorry," I heard Hamilton say. He had the air of a positively ashamed man, "I made a mistake in believing that even a thing like him would understand what was due on a visit of so honored a personage. I didn'd suppose I would have to apologize for..."

"Don't worry, please." Jefferson produced a cambric handkerchief from his sleeve and began to dab his pant leg. "I am completely certain that you will teach him a proper lesson, yes?"

I shuddered and stared at him. The torturing image of the planter's son from West Virginia, immortalized by the gaze of young memory, presented itself to me once again.

"Oh, look, I scared him," Jefferson said. "I would never think that he is... Such a baby."

Hamilton looked at him in a way that made me feel quite uncomfortable.

"Yes..." he took a cigar out of his pocket. "Perhaps we should get another drink."

"You know, I think upbringing is what matters most. Those who live carelessly under a parental wing usually grow up to be this way."

"How do you mean?

Jefferson let his hand rest on the back of the armchair.

"Do people pick grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles? Mr. Laurens has spoiled the boy, and look what came out of it. Now that his father is out of the picture, I suggest you become his moral guide."