Sally Hemings

by Barbara Chase-Riboud

  “Colonel, which of the paintings were you working on when you visited Paris in 1788 to do the portrait of Thomas Jefferson?” he asked.

  John Trumbull was startled at the sudden turn in what was usually a smooth and well-rehearsed recital.

  “Well, I was working on the Declaration, of course, but also on the Surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown, and I needed portraits of all the French officers who took part in that event. It was December 1787 when I arrived at the Hôtel de Langeac, President Jefferson’s home, and I took with me the prepared canvas of Yorktown and painted a dozen portraits of the French officers while I was there. Those that had participated in the battle or were present at the surrender. I remember it was the end of February before I was finished.”

  Nathan Langdon listened in amazement to the roll call of the French officers trip easily off the tongue of the tall, pompous old man. If he remembered all this, he would surely remember what happened that winter at the Hôtel de Langeac.

  “It is, sir, in connection with that visit to Mr. Jefferson’s ministry in that particular year that I have come to see you.”

  “Really? Are you a relative of one of the officers in the painting? And you would like his portrait? I do many miniatures for family and friends from my historical paintings.” John Trumbull waited deferentially, and tried to guess, from the manner and clothes of the gentleman, how much he could reasonably ask for a portrait of the young man’s uncle, or father, or whatever. He had frightened off many a prospective customer with his high prices. But what did they think? That artists lived on air? He had received only twelve thousand dollars apiece for his Capitol paintings from that tight-fisted Congress, and he had had to completely repair and reinstall the paintings twice. The heartache … the trials of those blasted paintings, he thought. The size of them alone, twelve feet high and nineteen feet long, had almost killed him with his one-eyed vision. And then the damp and mildew from the new masonry and the swampy humidity of Washington climate … These paintings were supposed to last as long as the Republic! God knows if they will, with all the abuse they get! He turned back to his young visitor. Normally he asked one hundred dollars for a head, one hundred and fifty for a head with hands, two hundred and fifty for half-length, and five hundred whole length. A full fifty percent below his famous competitor …

  “The topic I had in mind, Colonel Trumbull, was only marginal to your work in Paris and touched you only casually, I think. While you were there, you did, I believe, some pencil sketches and a watercolor of a young girl who was maid to the Jefferson ladies … one Sally Hemings.”

  Nathan Langdon glanced nervously up at the hooded blue eyes of Thomas Jefferson gazing serenely, not at him, thank goodness, but toward the venerable figure of John Hancock.

  Then he heard Trumbull saying:

  “Sketches? Of a servant? In Paris? At the Hôtel de Langeac? Not of Jefferson?”

  Of course he remembered the little maid from Virginia, thought John Trumbull, the exquisite maid with the superb bone structure and the extraordinary complexion, little Sallyhemings. . . . But that didn’t mean he should admit it to this young man. So many years ago. She would have to be an old woman now. But still beautiful, if his artist’s eye had not deceived him. Yes, she had sailed back to Virginia with Jefferson the very same day he had sailed back to New York. The last time he had seen her was where? In Cowes, when he had given her the miniature of Jefferson. Ah, he had been a romantic young man in those days. Now, how much should he admit to this young man? And who was he anyway? And what did he want with his sketches of Sally Hemings?

  “I do remember now. Perfectly. I did several sketches of an exquisite girl at the ministry of Thomas Jefferson, the maid of Polly Jefferson. I gave one of them to her.”

  John Trumbull gazed at the visitor. Who was this Nathan Langdon and what did he want?

  “Let us sit down, Mr. Langdon. I will order tea to be served. You say you would like to commission a miniature. Why?”

  “Let us just say I am an agent for a private person who would like a miniature of … his mother.”

  Nathan Langdon held his breath. He had taken a bold step. Either the old gentleman would feign ignorance or the prospect of a commission would bring him around to talk. He had had no intention of commissioning a painting, but he wondered why he hd not thought of it before. He would like very much to have an image of Sally Hemings for himself.

  “If you care to, Mr. Langdon, you may tell me what you know, and how you came to know it. But first you must give me your word as a gentleman that you are not of the press.”

  Again the disclaimer, thought Nathan Langdon, always the disclaimer …

  “I give you my word.”

  “And that this discussion will never be repeated to a living soul. You promise this as a gentleman.”

  “I do.”

  Nathan Langdon felt much as he had felt that first afternoon in the cabin of Sally Hemings, except that here there were no shadows, no darkness. The surroundings were all light—the bright, elegant studio in the prestigious American Academy, immense, immaculate, filled with portraits of the great and the famous. A subtle and not unpleasant odor of turpentine and paint blended with the steaming English tea served in delicate cups of Sèvres China by the liveried servant. The old man settled into a comfortable English armchair and listened to the young lawyer’s extraordinary tale.

  When Langdon had finished, John Trumbull sat as still as a great eagle, alert to the slightest gesture. The strange, almost cross-eyed effect came from the fact that the painter had been blind in one eye since childhood.

  “You are a Southerner, Mr. Langdon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And an abolitionist, I take it?”

  Nathan Langdon flushed. Had he ever really thought in those terms?

  “Of course,” Nathan Langdon answered.

  “You know, of course, my position. It is strange that antislavery has come to be identified with political partisanship and, I might say, with the conservatives of this country. We were the ones who got the slave trading from Africa outlawed, even if the smuggling continues and more Africans still reach our shores. The enslaving of the inhabitants of Africa in the name of Christianity, especially in the name of Christianity, is not only criminal, it is intolerable in our nation. ‘Is not the enslaving of these people the most charitable act in the world?’” he intoned, bitterly mimicking the pious tones he had heard on so many lips. “ ‘With no other end in view than to bring those poor creatures to Christian ground and within hearing of the gospel, we spare no expense of time or money, we send many thousands of miles across the dangerous seas, and think all our toil and pains well rewarded. We endure the greatest fatigues of body and much unavoidable trouble of conscience in carrying on this pious design. We deprive them of their liberty, we force them away from their friends, their country, everything that is dear to them. . . . And are they not bound by all the ties of gratitude to devote their entire lives to our service, as the only reward that can be adequate to our abundant charity?’ Ah!” he thundered, “I could forgive anything but doing what we did in the name of Christianity! At least we can’t accuse Thomas Jefferson of hypocrisy, can we? He didn’t believe in Christianity.”

  Suddenly, John Trumbull got up and walked to the back of the immense studio. He was gone for a long time, and when he returned he had in his hand four small sheets of paper. In silence, the two men looked at the delicate pencil renderings of a young girl in the dress of forty years before. The sketches were quick, almost futile, with none of the pompousness Nathan Langdon so detested in the large paintings of John Trumbull.

  The pose of the first sheet was guileless, the young girl with her hair down, her face cradled in one hand, her elbows supported by the arm of the chair in which she was seated. She looked out of the picture with enormous, wide-spaced, light eyes. The second sketch was a three-quarter half-portrait, where there was the ghost of a smile and symmetrical dimples. The third was of the girl in p
rofile, standing in front of a bouquet of flowers. The long neck stretched slightly forward and bent, and tendrils of dark hair had escaped from the twisted knot piled high on her head. The final sketch, smaller than the others, was a fresh and delicate watercolor. The girl’s tiny hand was touching her black hair absently, and she was gazing out of the picture.

  Nathan Langdon’s hand trembled as he held each of the sketches. They were drawings of almost unbearable tenderness and delicacy. His throat constricted. How lovely she had been! He turned his back to John Trumbull.

  The painter, who had spent his life looking and learning from people’s faces, turned away when he saw the expression on the young man’s face. John Trumbull had cast his lot with the great and the famous in every way except one. Like Thomas Jefferson, only in his heart had he erred against his class … and no one was ever going to find out about that from his lips, he thought. What, he asked himself, would Langdon know, having listened only to Sally Hemings, of the pain a man feels who falls in love with a forbidden woman? Of not being able to protect her … of always being something of a coward in her eyes because of it. . . . Trumbull had loved his beautiful, illiterate and socially unacceptable wife, Sarah, now dead. How he had known that love for a woman ultimately unprotected against the hurts of society.

  Even Jefferson had not been able to protect his Sally, any more than he had been able to protect his Sarah, he thought. And what of their children? His illegitimate son now hated him and was lost to him forever, just as Jefferson’s sons were. It was true, he had no fondness for Jefferson. Jefferson’s atheism, his want of credibility, his stupidities in military matters, his unconstitutional embargo, had long ago wiped out their friendship. But for the sake of his Sarah and his Sally, not a word of this affair of the heart would ever escape his lips, certainly not to a young whippersnapper like this Langdon.

  What did he know about loving and risk! Real risk! Jefferson had risked everything for her. . . . What had Langdon ever done for Sally Hemings except to turn her white in fright!

  Nathan Langdon, as if sensing John Trumbull’s thoughts, suddenly understood the awful power a woman could wield over a man. He remembered with what overpowering sensuality and force he had been drawn into the embrace of Sally Hemings that day …

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Langdon, that I cannot accept your commission to do a miniature of this … person, for her … uh … son.”

  “But, sir. . . .” Nathan Langdon turned in alarm.

  A look of contempt passed over the face of the proud old man. Such unmilitary behavior! “First of all, I am sure that the person in the sketches and the person of whom you speak are not the same. She was not a slave. I refuse all comment on your incredible story and, of course, all confirmation.”

  Nathan Langdon looked dumbfounded.

  What a stupid boy for a lawyer, thought John Trumbull.

  “Mr. Langdon, the greatest motive I had, or have, for engaging in or for continuing my pursuit of painting is the wish to commemorate the great events of our country’s Revolution, to preserve and diffuse the memory of the noblest series of actions which have ever presented themselves in the history of man. This is an enormous responsibility, Mr. Langdon, and I carry it out to the best of my ability as an artist. The history of private passions has no place in public history.” He paused. “A painting of Sally Hemings by John Trumbull is simply not possible.”

  “I would be willing to purchase it unsigned. It would not have to be listed in any of your catalogues.”

  “Mr. Langdon, I have an understanding with Yale University. All my paintings have been bought by them for an annuity.”

  “Even an unsigned John Trumbull?”

  “An unsigned painting has no value, except to us.”

  John Trumbull felt almost sorry for Nathan Langdon.

  “I regret, sir. What you ask is impossible. There can never be a portrait of Sally Hemings.”

  John Trumbull rose. “I thank you for your visit.”

  When Nathan Langdon had left, John Trumbull stood for some moments in the middle of his vast studio looking at the sketches of Sally Hemings, so beautiful, so fragile. In their small way, they were subversive, unimportant perhaps, but subversive nevertheless. John Trumbull turned and stared at his paintings. The bright, diffused light of the windows above caught the old man’s face; if he felt anything at this moment, the light did not reveal it. With great ceremony, John Trumbull tore the sketches of Sally Hemings into small pieces and let them fall to the floor. There was silence in the room. John Trumbull stood as if listening for something. But there was not one nay from the painted life-size figures surrounding him.

  PART IV

  1795-1809

  Monticello

  CHAPTER 24

  SPRING 1795

  I set out on this ground which I suppose to be self-evident that the earth belongs to the living; that the dead have neither powers nor rights over it.

  THOMAS JEFFERSON to James Madison,

  September 6, 1789

  Lord Thomas was a nice young gentleman

  He rode a many a town

  He courted a girl they called Fair Ellender

  And one called Sally Brown.

  Is this your wife, Lord Thomas, she cries!

  She is most wonderous brown.

  When you could have married as fair a young girl

  As ever the sun shone on.

  They buried the Brown Girl in his arms,

  Fair Ellender at his feet.

  They laid the Brown Girl in his arms

  And let her go to sleep.

  Traditional Ballads of Virginia,

  Compiled by Arthur Kyle Davis, Jr.

  IT WAS A LONG TIME before my mother answered that first call from the carriage that brought me back to Virginia and slavery. And when she did, her words had been: “You got a son, Sally Hemings. A wee darling perfect thing.” As she had taken Thomas Jefferson Hemings from my body she had forgiven me at the same time. She focused all her love and hopes on him. “Get that freedom for your children,” she repeated like a litany. “And get it for yourself while you’re at it,” she added. “Don’t nothing in life count more than that.” She had looked at me with a mixture of pity and exasperation. “Not even love.”

  That had been five years ago and now it was the spring of 1795, one year since my master had returned from Philadelphia to retirement, since he had come home to me. It had been the happiest year for us both. So happy, it had made up for everything. The return to Virginia and slavery had been a shock to me. I felt isolated at Monticello, and slights and injuries were my daily lot. Even my master seemed helpless against these hurts. His acceptance of the post of secretary of state had been a tragedy for me. We were to have stayed only a short time here, then return to our beloved Paris. In Paris, we had both forgotten what it meant to be white or black, master or slave.

  I no longer knew whether to believe him now when he vowed never to engage in politics again. This retirement might not last. The temptations of power were too great. But the hurts and humiliations of the past three years were also deeply etched in his soul. He had “retired” in a sulk from Philadelphia. He was in bad grace with President Washington, who no longer spoke to him; defeated by Hamilton; publicly attacked by the Federalists. Everything had passed: the excise, the Bank, the treaty with Britain. He was back home to lick his wounds.

  Our letters these three years had been numerous, and often in French. He had bid me to burn his, but I had not done so. He burned mine, I suspected, yet I took much care in writing them, especially those in French. And the magic of the written word still awed me. Yet for all his letters of love, I was uneasy without his presence. Not just lonely, but unsure of myself. I seemed nothing without him and everything in his eyes. My tutoring and, more than anything else, my music, had continued after my return to Monticello, and so the creature he had begun to create and shape in Paris had finally been ready to receive him when he rode home from his political wars. I rested easier n
ow that he was home, but I still needed to ask.

  “Daughter, you ought to know if he loves you or not. If you don’t know, then he don’t. I know he thinks he loves you, and maybe that’s all a woman can expect from a man—that he believes it. . . . A woman knows. A woman knows when a man loves her … even a slave woman. It’s been six years. . . . A white man don’t keep a black concubine for six years without loving her. He loved your sister and he lost her, and now he loves you.”

  My mother had changed little in the past thirteen years. She had kept her low, compact figure, her slimness, her unlined and perfect skin, her iron constitution. She was now fifty-nine years old and she still ran Monticello, despite my position. Her beautiful, vigorous body still demanded and got the services of lovers of both colors. I knew that I would never take another lover. I loved only my master. A dangerous and stupid thing for a slave. . . . God knows, I knew that. Five years had passed since the birth of the child I had carried in my womb across the water from France. Five years that had brought me another child. My mother returned my gaze. Had she already guessed it? If I had not been bound to Monticello before, this child fathered on my last birthday was the hostage to the fading memories of Paris and freedom.

  “You trapped,” she said. “Just like I was before you. But I never had the chance you had. And that will haunt you, daughter, haunt you. Remember, you put yourself in danger when you returned to Virginia. Danger of life and limb, and, God forbid, of being sold. Did you forget about that over there in France? That you returned to the same burden as the blackest, most ignorant field hand? You forgot the first lesson of slavery, your blackness. And you forget the second, loving somebody you ain’t got no business loving. . . . The man you got has no business loving, either. He’s put himself in danger as well—don’t forget that when you start feeling sorry for yourself. In danger from his own white folks, loving somebody, he, with all his money and power, ain’t got no right to love.”