Burr

by Gore Vidal

  “This is very good of you, Burr.”

  “Yes, I know it is.”

  Hamilton gave me his beautiful boy’s smile. “We must not let others come between us.” He spoke with what was, for the moment at least, affection.

  “How can they?” I asked innocently. “When we are both retired from political life.”

  “You are a most witty man, Burr. Come. Walk me to the City Tavern.”

  Together we made our way down Nassau and then across Pine to the Broad Way. It was a slow progress, because half the town wanted to pay homage to the leader of the Federalist party (even though his hold on that party was loosening due to the enmity of President Adams) while the other half found me interesting as a leader of the Republican forces in the state (I had been returned to the Assembly a few months earlier). Although we were political rivals, we were also practising lawyers who had to deal with one another in court and out. I think we actually were, to a point, friends in those days.

  Hamilton tried to draw me out on Jefferson, but I took no bait from him. “Obviously I suspected Monroe of publishing the story. But if he is innocent—which we have agreed he is,” he added quickly, “then Jefferson is responsible. And I know why, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know that Jefferson has anything to do with it.” I was wary.

  Hamilton was reckless. “Because of Mrs. Walker.”

  “And who is Mrs. Walker?”

  “Plainly she is the wife of Mr. Walker who was once a friend of Jefferson.”

  I recalled the gentleman. He had received an interim appointment as senator from Virginia.

  “Mr. Walker was angry with Jefferson for not keeping him on in the Senate. As you know, politics for those Virginians is entirely a family affair.”

  Since Hamilton’s father-in-law had only just replaced me as senator, I could not resist, “Unlike New York?”

  Hamilton burst out laughing. “Well, let us say there are good and bad families. Anyway, Mr. Walker has disliked Jefferson ever since, and is now putting it about that Jefferson tried to seduce his wife.”

  “Unsuccessfully?”

  “There are always two versions in such a matter. Of the two, the one version that never varies is that of the wife. In her husband’s absence, Mrs. Walker virtuously resisted Massa Tom on a number of occasions.”

  “How long have you known this story?” We were standing in front of Trinity Church.

  “Several years.”

  “Would you—would one of your newspaper writers use it against Jefferson?”

  The storm returned to that bright face. We stepped off the busy Broad Way into the shady churchyard. Then, as now, those who wished to speak privately to one another strolled in pairs amongst the tombs.

  “I am convinced that, to protect himself, Jefferson struck first at me—a sort of tu quoque.”

  In the green shade we stopped close to the church wall, and Hamilton said something most odd. “I wonder sometimes if this is the right country for me.”

  “You would prefer to live under the British crown?” I played with him.

  “Of course not! But there is something wrong here. I sense it everywhere. Don’t you?”

  I shook my head and said what I believe to be true. “I sense nothing more than the ordinary busy-ness of men wanting to make a place for themselves. Some are simply busier than others, and so will take the higher ground. But it is no different here from what it is in London or what it was in Caesar’s Rome.”

  Hamilton shook his head. “There is more to it than that, Burr. But then I have always thought we might be able to make something unique in this place.”

  “Our uniqueness is only geographical.”

  “No, it is moral. That is the secret to all greatness.”

  “Are great souls ever moral?”

  “They are nothing else!” So spoke the seducer of Mrs. Reynolds. I should make it plain that I am not one to think such an intrigue of any moral importance—rather it was the way in which Hamilton revealed (revelled in?) a sordid seduction in order to cover up what Jefferson and Monroe went to their graves confident was dishonesty at the Treasury. Hamilton demonstrated a perverse—to say the least—morality. But of course his use of the word “moral” was practically theological in its implications; and mine is a secular brain.

  Hamilton again thanked me most warmly for my good offices and we left the churchyard together, crossing the exact spot where seven years later I was to place him.

  Hamilton’s response to the Callender attack was to publish an extraordinary pamphlet in which he revealed to the world his adultery with Mrs. Reynolds while proclaiming his honesty as a public servant.

  When Monroe showed me the pamphlet I was certain that someone else had written it but Monroe assured me that it was Hamilton’s work. “He has put an end to himself politically,” was my first response.

  “I would not count on it.” Monroe was cautious.

  “But he can never be elected to office.”

  “Why should he want to be elected? He already controls Adams’ cabinet.”

  “But not Adams.”

  “He does not need him. He also has the support of that vain old man in Virginia.” So Monroe referred to the founder of the Virginia dynasty that would, in time, give to him the crown.

  Four or five years ago, crossing William Street, I saw an aged man getting into a carriage. I was struck by the powdered hair, the cocked hat, the black velvet small-clothes. He looked as out of his time as Rip Van Winkle. Then, with a shock, I realized that it was my one-time friend James Monroe. Yet at first glance what had struck me most forcefully was the uncanny resemblance he bore to his old enemy George Washington. I am sure that the resemblance was deliberate: the last of the Virginia dynasty chose to imitate the first whom he had detested and traduced—no doubt this elegant performance was a form of expiration.

  A few months later Monroe died in the house of his son-in-law. Like the rest of us, insolvent!

  Nineteen

  COLONEL BURR HAS DETERMINED not to contest Madame’s suit. “It will be too costly in time, and we must conserve what’s left of my brain.” He sat in the centre of ledgers, newspaper cuttings, packets of yellowed letters tied with faded silk ribbons (“love letters,” Mr. Craft unexpectedly told me with a most disagreeable smirk).

  Day after day I take down the Colonel’s narrative which now flows so rapidly that I have developed a huge corn on my right middle finger from the pen’s chafing.

  This afternoon, before we started work, Burr suddenly mentioned Hamilton. “Somewhere in the text we must make the point that Hamilton and I continued friends for the next three years until I became vice-president. We even worked together to create the Manhattan Company …”

  “Hamilton was involved with you?” This is not the usual version.

  “Oh, yes. The Manhattan Company was most respectable. In those days the city’s principal water supply was in the Collect, a large pond that had become foul. Most people felt that the yellow fever was, in some way, caused by bad water. After the epidemic of ’98 it was agreed that the city must tap the Bronx River. I favoured a private company. Others wanted the city to pay for the new system but even Hamilton admitted that this could not be done without unpopular taxes—and he was an expert on that subject! So I persuaded a Federalist legislature to accept my bill creating such a company, with a most distinguished board of directors. In fact, at Hamilton’s request, I made his brother-in-law a director. And so we brought fresh water to the city.”

  Burr suddenly laughed. “I understand that at Jefferson’s request his tombstone tells us that he was the founder of the University of Virginia. Well, let mine declare that Aaron Burr with his rod struck the rock Manhattan and the waters flowed. Drink, O Israel, of Aaron’s water! And drink they do to this day.”

  Then the Colonel poured himself strong tea, opened a ledger in which he had made a series of notes, and for the first time gave his version of what happened when he and Jefferson were bo
th elected president.

  Memoirs of Aaron Burr–Ten

  BY THE TIME of the presidential election of 1800 it was plain to everyone except John Adams that he would not be re-elected. His administration had been a disaster, equalled in our history only by that of his son John Quincy. It is odd that two such brilliant men lacked so entirely the ability to conduct the public business with any degree of intelligence or justice. Perhaps it was true that my grandfather had shaped their characters. If he had, their careers become explicable, for to the Puritan mind Hell is pre-ordained; therefore it is impious to tamper with God’s earthly arrangements; better to sing hosannas to His celestial arbitrariness.

  The Adams débàcle—and our opportunity—began with the various Alien and Sedition Acts. They are too well known to describe here other than to note that fearing war with France, the Adams administration pushed through Congress four measures: one, empowering the president to arrest foreigners in time of war; two, to make it legal to deport them at will; three, to lengthen the resident requirement for citizenship from five to fourteen years (this was known privately as the Gallatin Act—Albert Gallatin had come to the United States from Geneva, been elected to the Senate from Pennsylvania, and then unseated by the Senate, despite my best efforts to save him). Four, the Sedition Act: forbidden was the publication “of any false, scandalous and malicious writing” aimed at the government and its officers.

  I was with Hamilton in July of ’98 when the Sedition Act was published. He affected despair. “I have spent my life trying to prop up the frail and worthless fabric of our Constitution and now that fool Adams wants to establish a tyranny.”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t have the opportunity. He has given us the presidency.”

  “I would not be so certain of that.” The rosy face was suddenly mischievous. “After all, deporting foreigners is a popular thing to do.”

  “What about arresting editors?”

  “Personally I would draw and quarter them, and so would you. But all may yet be well for us.”

  A week later I understood what he meant. At the President’s request, Washington took charge of the army. Hamilton was made second-in-command, with the rank of major-general. President Adams then proposed that I be promoted to brigadier-general, but Washington turned me down on the ground that as a friend of Jefferson I was the sort of crypto-democrat who would try to overturn the government!

  It was Hamilton’s intention to promote a war with France. Then the American army (together with the British fleet) would attack not France directly but the Spanish empire, annexing Latin America to the United States, presumably with Britain’s connivance—a most unlikely prospect.

  Fortunately for the Republican party, Adams had no interest in war. Almost as fortunately, Washington died in December 1799. Then the French Directory made peaceful gestures and Major-General Hamilton’s dream of military conquest à la Bonaparte collapsed, leaving him more than ever bent on punishing the principal obstacle in his path, John Adams.

  Shortly after the New Year, 1800, Jefferson called on me at Francis’ Hotel in Philadelphia where I had come at his insistence. I had reserved the small side room for what was bound to be a long meeting. We had a good deal to say to one another, some of it unpleasant.

  From the main parlour one could hear the loud talk of those members of Congress whose best debates were not in the Congress but in the unrecorded privacy of the Francis establishment. They were, all in all, jovial men to be avoided.

  It was a cold day and the Vice-President was dressed accordingly. The rusty head was framed by furs, the freckles more pronounced than usual in the winter pallor of his face.

  My hand was warmly seized. Then Jefferson threw off the fur-lined cape, addressed himself to the Franklin stove, and thoughtfully explained to me its principle (which I knew), meditated on Benjamin Franklin’s character (which I also knew), was willing to talk with ease of everything except the reason why he had wanted to see me—the alliance between Virginia and New York that would make him president. Affecting to be no politician, he was nothing else.

  I asked him about Washington’s funeral services. Jefferson was unexpectedly cool. “I was not present. Here or there. I understand he asked for no funeral oration at the service.”

  “But then for ten years he had heard nothing but eulogy.”

  “That was not the way he saw it.” Then Jefferson repeated to me almost word for word his comments on Washington beside the Schuylkill River. I have noticed that even the greatest of men tend to redundancy. Doubtless, it comes of meeting too many people and having too little that is fresh to say to them.

  That season Jefferson had been particularly busy. Outraged by the Alien and Sedition Acts, he had written a secret attack on them in which he boldly made the case for the right of any state to nullify any act of the federal government which it deems unconstitutional. He also made an excellent and highly dangerous case for secession. I was horrified. So was Madison who later told me, wearily, that when enraged Jefferson had no sense at all of what he was doing.

  “Genius often expresses itself,” said Madison sadly, “in a particularly fierce manner when confronted by sensations of the moment.” Most unwisely, the Kentucky legislature accepted Jefferson’s formulation (not knowing its author) while Virginia accepted Madison’s much more reasonable document. Both resolutions were then presented to the rest of the states for ratification. They were rejected. The other states were unwilling to put an end so promptly to the federal union.

  “I was in—I am in a most delicate position. I am a federal officer. Yet I oppose the tyranny of the federal system.” Jefferson invariably managed to get himself into the position of double agent. As secretary of state he had agreed to the whiskey tax; then he sided with the farmers who revolted against it. As vice-president, he was now making the case for disunion.

  I always found that with Jefferson one had to begin all over again with each meeting in order to establish—not intimacy, but a certain community of interest. I have several letters from him sent at not-too-distant intervals in which he seems to be introducing himself to me for the first time. There was not much continuing with him. I daresay this was his policy.

  A black servant brought us hot rum, and we both drank a good deal considering our usual abstemiousness. The arrival and departure of the Negro reminded Jefferson of a bill before Congress to grant limited recognition to Toussaint L’Ouverture, the black master of Santo Domingo.

  “We cannot recognise him. Ever. If only for the sake of our French friends.” Jefferson was emphatic. Our sister republic (whose motto was liberty, equality, fraternity) must be allowed to crush its black rebels. Meanwhile recognition was out of the question, and for an excellent reason: “Can you imagine what our southern ports would be like? swarming with former slaves who have killed their masters?”

  We discussed the editor James Callender, who had been arrested under the Sedition Act. “He is sure to be let go.” Jefferson was sanguine; loved his creature. Yet the following August, Jefferson told me, sadly, “Poor Callender is in the Richmond jail, waiting to be tried. He reports that he is surrounded by Gabriel Prosser’s people, and they keep him awake at night with their singing.” Gabriel Prosser had led an uprising of slaves, inspired, according to Jefferson, by the terrible events in Santo Domingo. No one knows how many thousands of Negroes were executed that year by the frightened Virginians.

  Jefferson spoke admiringly of Callender’s book The Prospect Before Us, a vilification of Adams in particular and of the Federalists in general. We speculated what would happen when Callender came to trial. Jefferson was certain that the charges would be dismissed. But he was mistaken. When the trial took place, Supreme Court Justice Chase sentenced Callender to jail for nine months. This trial was to have a considerable effect on our joint destinies.

  “But to return to our winter meeting in Philadelphia. I observed that the government’s arrest of some twenty editors could only help us in the coming election.<
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  “But are these arrests simply the beginning?” Jefferson’s face assumed that haunted visionary’s look that I had already come to know—and dread—for it always presaged a denunciation of “heresy,” of “monocrats,” of “Catalines and Caesars.”

  “You mean General Hamilton?”

  “I do. He commands the army. He and he alone. Adams is too weak to restrain him. Washington is dead. Hamilton can seize power whenever he chooses.” I did not listen as the familiar tirade swirled about that small parlour in Francis’ Hotel.

  When Jefferson had finished, I spoke of practical matters. “At the election Hamilton will support Pinckney’s brother instead of Adams.”

  “So I have been advised. Naturally, this will weaken Adams further, particularly in South Carolina.” I much preferred Jefferson the work-a-day politician to the inflated philosophe. Then: “How do you see your own position in New York?”

  Due to the patriotic fervour Hamilton and the Federalists had drummed up, the New York Assembly now had a Federalist majority, and I was out of office.

  “I expect to be re-elected to the Assembly on the first of May.”

  “You are optimistic.” Jefferson was not. “It is my impression that New York is securely Federalist, and I expect no votes from your electors.”

  “You will receive every one of New York’s electoral votes.”

  In theory, Jefferson knew of wit, of irony, of humour, as he knew of the opossum’s pouch but like that singularity he could not achieve any of those things himself while, worse, he was never certain when a true specimen was at hand. My manner was constantly puzzling to him.

  “You believe that you can produce a Republican majority?”

  “I do.”

  “May I ask how?”

  “You may.” I was now prepared to pay him back for his treacheries. “But I must warn you that although I expect my state to be Republican, it is by no means certain that you will be the candidate.”

  Jefferson gave me a hard look. “They would be wiser,” he said evenly, “to take Madison.” The humility was characteristically mechanical.