HAMILTON had not come to see me since. I do not blame him for that and, to be frank, never did I blame him. What was really at the bottom of it was our quarreling, our mutual recriminations at the time, in fact, wounded vanity on both sides. I don't know what hurt him more: my words or the fact that I lived. All my slavish life was here, on the palm of my hand, with all its cynicism, monstrous and coarse injustice. My illness was looked upon as lightly and facetiously, just as simply and without suffering, as a cold would be; my infection was treated with vodka and nettle– Hamilton did not wish to provide any sort of remedy. He had treated me with such absence of even a hint at endearment, with such disdain and wooden indifference, as no human being is treated; not even a dog or a horse, and not even an umbrella or boot, but like some dirty object, for which a momentary, unavoidable need arises, but which, at the passing of its needfulness, becomes foreign and useless. Perhaps he was taking revenge for all the evenings that he had wasted on me.

All the time I was ill felt as in a dream, as through a mist. I remember clearly waking up and always seeing Vella's compassionate and anxious little face leaning over me. She brought me something to drink, arranged my bedclothes, changed my bandages, or sat looking at me, quiet and distressed like a ghost. Another time, suddenly waking up in the night, by the light of the oil lamp I saw her lying with her face on my pillow with her cheek resting on her hand, and her lips half parted in an uneasy sleep.  Once I remember her gentle kiss on my forehead.

Two weeks passed, and on Saturday I woke up almost fully recovered– only the uneasiness of the body and my usual pain in the back reminded me of illness. My wounds did not heal, yet they stopped bleeding. I sat up and stretched, feeling I had cast off that fearful illness that had so long been weighing upon me, and all at once there was a sense of relief and peace in my soul. I got up and went back and forth across the room. Strange to say, now that I am sitting alone in a prison cell, abandoned by all whom I loved so fondly and intensely, some trivial incident of that past, often unnoticed at the time and soon forgotten, comes back all at once to my mind and suddenly takes quite a new significance. The bright sun, the sweet exhalations of the wind which entered the room through a half-open window, the joyous sensation of the strength and alertness of my body– is that what made me smile? I'm looking around me, I'm searching for this feeling, but all I can feel are traces of mortal anguish and regret. I grieve that the momentary beauty has faded so soon never to return, that it flashed upon me so treacherously, so vainly, grieve because I had not even time to pay attention...

Somewhere far away, it might be in the parlor, two voices were shrilly quarreling. One – hysterical and raspy alto, so awfully familiar; the other one – an unknown baritone. I came closer to the door and began listening; I was about to go out, but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened. The voices became clearer.

"When did I say that the misdeed is bound to happen?" argued Hamilton. "To be cruel or not to be, everyone must decide for himself. Here's... how shall I tell you.... It's the same idea by which I for instance consider that a misdeed is permissible if the criminal is evil."

"Define evil."

"A crime. Any crime is evil by nature."   

"But you can't think that capital punishment is applicable to any crime."

"A crime is a crime..."

"There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities. A murderer murders and knows he is a scoundrel. But, let us say, the Jack Laurens' incident..."

"It's John."

"Yes, the John Laurens' incident. The boy thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing!"

My face turned hot. 

"What thing, treason?" replied Hamilton.

"So be it. Do you think that the punishment for treason must be the same as the punishment for murder?

"He did murder them."

"Yes, but it wasn't a premeditated murder. And you know what, this theory of dividing mankind into slaves and superior persons...

"You are jumping topic to topic, my friend."

"That is, persons to whom the law does not apply owing to their inferiority, and instead of law— slavery or execution."

"Une théorie comme une autre."

Hamilton sounded confused.

"You are too fond of Mr. Jefferson."

"He is a genius."

"A genius indeed. Because he wrote his Theory at the right time, that is, at the time of an economic downfall."

"You know damn well what will happen if slavery falls."

"I'm not speaking of the abolition of slavery. I believe in the abolition of the Theory. If we revoke the Theory, gradually, by systematic efforts, by promoting the ideas of humanity, slavery will fall by itself."

"This gradual process has more than one aspect. Side by side with the gradual development of humane ideas the gradual growth of ideas of another order is observed. We give to slavery refined forms, at least, we succeed in finding a justification for it in each particular case. We no longer flog negroes on the plantations..."

"Do not use this word when speaking with me." 

"..we no longer flog negroes on the plantations, because if now, at the beginning of the new century, it were possible to lay the burden of the most unpleasant of our physiological functions upon innocent people, the thinkers and great scientists were to waste their precious time picking cotton."

"I refuse to speak about the Old Slavery, Hamilton. And isn't the New Slavery much worse? What kind of rule is this, when the government doesn't know what to do with people and so turns seven-tenths of them into slaves?"

"I have already said, I support Mr. Jefferson, but I do not agree with him on everything. However much you tinker with the world, you can't make a good job of it, and by cutting off a hundred million heads and so lightening one's burden, one cannot jump over the ditch."

"If you do not agree with him, announce your candidacy."

"Who am I to try out for the presidency? Nobody knows who I am."

"People don't need to know you. They don't like Jefferson."

There was a creak and a low thud.

"I shall drink. Do you have Martini?"

"Ask Theodosia."

At last, all was still. I was just taking a step towards the stairs, trying to comprehend what I just heard, when fresh footsteps sounded from the staircase. I dashed to the bed. This conversation touched my sores, because I didn't understand it. I decided to think about it later, however.

Hamilton was preserving on his face an expression of haughty, offended unapproachability. It had been two weeks since we saw each other. His suit was exquisite: it was wine-dark, with a fantastic purple undertone and a peculiar collar. It was a suit of a cut and pattern unique enough to have sauntered down Wall Street on a Sunday. I was in a nightshirt, without underwear and with stubble on my upper lip. I felt embarrassed. We simply eyed each other for a minute or so.

"Well?" he said, at last, dropping his voice in an awfully strange way, almost to a whisper.

"What?"

"When are you planning on dying?

I wondered how I could kick him out. I guessed that he, stung into alertness, would start demeaning me, and I, of course, would not be able to respond to him. Sure enough, in a moment his voice managed to qualify everything unpleasant he had said before and everything he was about to say now.

"I am not planning on it. What do you want?"

"I heard you're getting better."

"You should have come to see me before. Then you'd see it for yourself, not only hear about it."

"I take no interest in this."

"Then piss off."

Hamilton quickly raised his hand to the level of my face, and would certainly have struck me if he had not drawn back in time. He sighed and fixed his hair.

"I do not know the full particulars. I only heard from Theodosia that you are well and of sound mind. Still, I'll sit down. Health is all very well, but I've come to remind you of our agreement."

"What agreement?"

"How can you ask?" Hamilton pretender to be startled. "You are to live in the barrack and clean the house." 

He said it somewhat venomously. It offended me.

"You must be joking."

"I am not joking. You are very stupid, John. Get up."

I clenched my fists under the sheets. Hamilton's revenge was blatantly coarse; now in him, there was none of that falsehood and that hypocrisy which enmeshed us from top to bottom. And at once I realized how much nagging, drawn out, disgusting deception, how much hate, there was in all our interceptions. How much blind, merciless lust—precisely not animal, but human, reasoned, far-sighted, calculated lust—there was in this man—and behold, with what tender colors this lust is adorned! Although, this lust had vanished like a ghost. I felt uncomfortable under his stern, intent gaze. A minute, two minutes passed, and we were silent. 

"What are these cigars?" I asked suddenly. "You made me fall asleep with your cigar."

I had never even thought of asking him about that. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to ask.

Hamilton did not like the question either.

"Why, do you want more?" 

"No... I'm just curious."

"That's good. You can very quickly get used to opium."

I jumped up.

"You gave me opium?"

Opium is the strongest and the most insidious poison. I remember how once I laid half-dead, loaded with opium (opium back then could be ordered from a pharmacy) after I broke my leg. I felt sick. I looked at Hamilton, looked at his pupils, dark and deep as a grave, and at once realized why his eyes always seemed black to me.

"You are an addict, aren't you?"

Hamilton sat straight as an arrow ready to fly from the bow.

"Surely mild habituation is not the same as becoming an addict," he said with grave calmness. "Don' t be ridiculous."

"You keep drawing me into your vice."

"My vice?" Hamilton drew himself up menacingly. "Have you grown wiser during these two weeks or what?"

"It's not that I've grown wiser, but simply that the truth has come out. You couldn't draw me into sodomy, so now you're drawing me into addiction..."

"Stop talking about sodomy!"

Hamilton jumped up.

"Do you know how ugly you are? Do you think I actually need someone like you?"

He flared up suddenly and unnaturally.

"And do you actually think I'll be running after you like a lunatic now? Do you believe I've fallen for such an ugly dog? What an idea!"

He laughed, flushing crimson.

"Not another word about sodomy," mechanically, with two extended fingers, he fixed the bow of his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Your ignorance is as big as your damn ears."

His words at a moment were so terrible for me and the hint that he always thought I was ugly sent a pang to my heart; I felt offended, very offended—that was all! His thoughts became at once something obvious for me, and if he had kept speaking, I think I should have covered my ears and should have refused to hear anything more.

"And your conceit is as big as your nose." I decided to pour all my venom on him. "Your mama must have been a Jew!"

I myself felt that I had undertaken too much; Hamilton was overcome by my impudence. He gave me two blows in the face with all his might.

"Get out!"

I got up and left. It seemed to me that he turned red.

The house was dark and gloomy at any time, but just at this moment it was rendered doubly so by the fact that the thunder-storm had just broken, and the rain was coming down in torrents. I ran into the barrack just in time and shut the door behind me.

The walls, with an appearance of having some loathsome, scabby, skin disease looked at me familiarly and without welcome. Someone's shirt lay crumpled on the sofa, and on the table in front of the sofa there were four unfinished bowls of grain, a piece of dry bread, a paper plate with withered greens, and another one with dried apricots.

So that's how it went down.

I was in a perfect dejection, especially as I had spent the whole time of my friend's absence in extreme illness. I didn't even say goodbye properly... His abrupt and mysterious departure had made a profound and poignant impression on my heart. I felt sorry for him. For all of them. The most awful thought was that they could have died on account of such a trivial circumstance. And how many have died because of me already?

I went to my bunk and sat down, almost fell on it. Everything seemed as depressing as ever. Perhaps it was because of the persistent autumn rain outside. 

I went to the bathhouse— washed and shaved; I even shaved my legs. It didn't make me feel any better. The thin tunes, holding lost times and future hopes in liaison, twisted upon my head. In the pauses the rain held the scene together with a single note.

I had long since eaten the apricots, stuffed my pillow with feathers, covered my mattress with a sheet, and a light was burning. Spellbound, I now sat and stared at Charles' great achievement: the newspaper archive. I was unable to read. I felt as if he sat opposite me, watching me, and though still he was hurt, he was relieved and almost happy that we met again. "Where is he now?" I wondered. It was worse with my eyes shut for the rain gave a rhythm: "Murderer! Murderer!"

I opened the most recent number and began reading it. I shall now recount a wordy article from the first page:

"There never has been a nation without an idea of good and evil. When the same conceptions of good and evil become prevalent in different people, the nations are dying, and then the very distinction between good and evil is beginning to disappear. For us, citizens of the United States of America, this topic has become very prevalent this year, considering that President Johnson's term will soon come to an end. Slavery (or, to be exact, "The New Slavery"), the goal and crown of Thomas Jefferson's diplomacy— the most terrible scourge of humanity, worse than plague, famine, or war for some, and a rational and consistent necessity for others. In his "Slave Theory", which came out only four years ago, Jefferson refers to Aristotle's "Politics". In Aristotle's times most people would have believed that the question of slavery had an obvious answer: of course, slavery is just. Some are simply born to serve, while others are meant to be masters. "Those human beings who are naturally suited to be ruled but [are] unwilling...[is] by nature just" (1256b25). Jefferson's analysts fairly say that he, while being the flower of the reddest despotism, is a way protesting against the Old Slavery, which, in his opinion, used to be a trait of the oppressive, narrow, unfair world of the past. The most obvious criticisms of the Theory point out Jefferson's destructive ideas of the nature of slavery, as well as the expected standards of treating a slave which he proposes. Public doubts are also caused by Jefferson's desire to create a trade union with Soviet Russia.

The simple disorderliness in which Jesserson had so zealously and systematically taken part had ended in a way that was most expected. Burr– an accuser and a judge whom we all know well– has recently published five critical papers. Characterizing the system of "The New Slavery" in "Stories from the factory", Burr points out several traits that the Theory shares with other highly questionable political convictions. He emphasizes that Jefferson "has not the slightest desire in what he is doing to fling a stone at Old Slavery or at the economic downfall. <...> The arrogant Republicans who stand behind this are worth studying because they are the expression of a certain type, very definitely marked in history, of tyrants and pests." (Burr, 43)

Burr describes his presidential campaign: "The attempts to reinforce slavery is not merely a waste of precious time which might be employed in a more suitable and befitting manner, but presents, moreover, that deplorable deviation from the moral path which has always been most prejudicial to our Nation and has delayed its triumph for scores of years. I wish to become President solely to protest against this inhumane system, intending then to withdraw at the actual moment, in order not to become another thief and planter."

It is worth mentioning that the internal vote will be held in February, and the party candidacies  are yet to be confirmed."

"An election. There's going to be an election."

Everything froze within me– for obvious reasons. After a year spent in prison and servitude, I had no human thoughts left in my head. I had long been oblivious about everything that was happening in the world. I didn't even know that there was going to be an election. All hopes for the future and, so to say, the restfulness of outlook lay in this, instead of this everlasting destruction, instead of darkness and disorder which has led to nothing for ten years. The feeling was utterly undefined and at the same time, I felt frightened and delighted, both at once. After all, Jefferson could win.

Somewhat disturbed by this thought I went back and forth across the barrack. When I came up to the lamp I caught sight of a silhouette in the window. I shuddered and began hurriedly shoving the newspapers under the sofa. I had hardly had time to tidy myself a little when the door opened.

Before me there appeared a solid black man dressed in all green. His face broadened out like a pear from the forehead down to the cheeks; the eyes are small, black; the nose wide, the lips sternly pursed; the expression of the face fussy. The same expression showed in the harsh outline of his shaved, round, jutting out chin.

"You!" exclaimed he and held out his hand. I shook it mechanically. "Oh, how happy I am to have met you here! Such luck... It was not my intention to alarm you. Excuse me."

He spoke a lot, almost hopping on each word. His articulation was wonderfully clear. His words pattered out like small grains, always well-chosen, and at your service. At first this attracted one, but afterward it became repulsive, just because of this string of ever-ready words. One somehow began to imagine that he must have a tongue of special shape. Although, Aaron Burr's tongue was quite sharp, indeed.

I didn't even ask why he knew me.

"You did not alarm me..."

"Only fancy," he pattered on, "I came here thinking: "Shall I meet you or not?" Ach, Mr. Laurens, how glad I am to meet you at the very first step, delighted to shake hands with you..."

Suddenly I recognized his voice– Hamilton was talking to this man earlier. I felt quite uncomfortable as if I were tied up.

"Are you lost, sir?" I asked carefully.

"No, I don't think so. I've simply come to make your acquaintance, and nothing more."

"Make my acquaintance?" asked I, in amazement, and with redoubled suspicion. "Then why did you say you did not know if you were to meet me?"

"Oh well. There is one little matter; but my principal object now is simply to introduce myself, really."

He shook my hand again, almost mechanically.

"You..."

I didn't know where to begin.

"Aaron Burr, sir."

"Politician Aaron Burr?" I blurted out.

"The very politician, yes."

He then inquired about my health. I felt shy and, as people always do in such cases, began immediately talking of other things, as though they were of absorbing interest to Burr at the moment. Burr looked around the room.                                                                                                                                                 
"And where's everyone?"

"He sold them."

"To the factory? For how much?"

"I don't know. Why did you come?"

"To the barrack?"

"No, I meant, why are you visiting?

Burr shrugged.

"Just a friendly visit. I needed to talk."

He took a small envelope out of his pocket and shoved it under the sofa. I didn't question it. Burr had made a positive impression on me which I could not analyze.

"I didn't know Mr. Hamilton had friends."

"Well," Burr sank impressively on the sofa. "He is a single-hearted man, for sure. But what do I care if he is a good friend?"

"Are you a Democrat?"

"I am."

I immediately gained respect for him.

"But surely a Democrat cannot be friends with a Republican."

"Political disagreements are a lesser matter."

Burr instilled confidence in me with his polite but seigneurial ways. He respected me just so far as one could respect a slave. There was still so much I did not understand and had not detected in that man. With the assurance of his tone and the didacticism of his presentation he paralyzed all doubts; in the same way that he sometimes, during party gatherings or at mass meetings, influenced the timid and bashful minds of young liberals. He was an orator; he was a prominent lawyer; he was chosen to compete against Jefferson.

"Is it true that there's going to be an election?" I scraped with my foot.
"It is."

"And Jefferson is running for president?"

Burr stared gloomily at the floor.

"Unfortunately."

He squinted his dark eyes.

"He doesn't stand a chance, though. Imagine the revolts that will happen in factories."

I nodded. Burr went on, reaching out for the apricots:

"A good President loves his people. Those planters never loved the people, they didn't suffer for them and didn't sacrifice anything for them, though they may have amused themselves by enslaving them. You can't love what you don't know and Jefferson has no conception of the people."

I recalled an old conversation with Charles.

"Half of the North is unemployed, is that also true?"

"True," Burr aggressively broke an apricot into pieces. "All those republicans look at the people through their fingers. What a policy! Nowadays it's easier to sell oneself to slavery than to find a job."

"One might go to the South." I interposed.

"Indeed. Go to the South."

He was quiet for a moment.

"You seem to take great interest in politics."

I felt somewhat confused. My concern was primarily for news; for out of all the current affairs I only knew the weather.

"I do. Please, tell me more."

And he told me. I listened to his chatter, a trifle too noisy to seem fully natural; supplementary value, New Slavery, the manufacturer and the worker, different judges, wardens, inspectors and prosecutors all had become algebraic formulas and were for me merely empty sounds. I had to cut him off:

"Tell me, sir, will you abolish slavery if you become President?"

There was a brief pause.

"I might."

He didn't say any more, but he's been very communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that.

Burr didn't stay too long and left the same evening. I have drawn several conclusions from our conversation.  Number one: there were two people running for president in '22 – Jefferson (that is, a despot such as has never been in the world before), and Burr.

Number two: those who stood with Jefferson were rich, slave owners and the golden youth, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor. Everyone else supported Burr. He was fascinated at the same time by the democratic element and the increase of the judicial power, and the new reforms and discipline, and free-thinking and stray notions, and the emancipation of criminals. He dreamed of giving happiness and reconciling the irreconcilable, or, rather, of uniting all and everything in the adoration of his own person. In fact, he was seen to be a straight man, awkward and impolitic from excess of humane feeling and perhaps from excessive sensitiveness—above all, a man of limited intelligence.

Number Three: I had finally found out that Hamilton's residence stood on Long Island, at the very tip of an egg. Burr mentioned that such houses always cost a fortune. So saying he looked at me in a strange way, but I didn't attach any importance to it.

***

"John."

I woke up, feeling nausea in the pit of my stomach, with clammy, cold hands, experiencing a sickening pinching in my toes. The morning air was humid and cold. The wind roared in the chimney and brushed past the walls. I slept huddled up and wrapped in two blankets to stop the cold from devouring me quite so ferociously. My hair was damp from morning dew.

When I first opened my eyes I saw before me a black stain; after some time I realized it was Hamilton. 

"What?" I asked, blinking as I gazed blearily around me.

"Get up."

"Did something happen?"

"No. Get up."

A cold shiver went down my spine. I got up and with an effort put my feet in the shoes. Hamilton slowly rose from his seat with a gloomy and sullen air and mournfully laid clothes on my bunk.

"Get dressed."

I looked at the clothes in surprise. They weren't my usual clothes. It was something like a working suit with silver buttons. Silently and without looking around at Hamilton, I began to crumple the dense fabric in my fingers. My hands were shaking, and my under jaw jumped so that the lower teeth knocked against the upper.

"Why?"

My voice cracked and broke like an icicle. Hamilton, as usual, looked at me with artistic disdain.

"We are going to the city."