Читать книгу ELEONORA AND JOSEPH - Julieta Almeida Rodrigues - Страница 5

I shall be very happy to receive you at Monticello, to express to you in person my great respect, and to receive from yourself directly the letters of my friends beyond the water introducing me to the pleasure of your acquaintance.

—Thomas Jefferson’s letter to Joseph Correia da Serra, April 17, 1812

Come and live here. I’ll give you the chair of botany at the University of Virginia. You’re the most learned man I’ve ever met.”

Thomas Jefferson’s boisterous voice echoed through the dining room and filled my heart with joy.

“What an invitation. Thank you, my dear Sir,” I replied.

“How wonderful you’ve finally made it to Monticello. I never imagined I’d have to wait for more than a year to meet you.” Jefferson touched my arm.

“Your reception is captivating.” My eyes shone as I said this.

I arrived in Monticello, Jefferson’s mountaintop plantation near Charlottesville, well past six o’clock. Jefferson had kindly waited for me to have dinner. This gave us the chance to dine alone. A rare opportunity, since I had heard his daughter Patsy and her family always kept him company during mealtimes.

Monticello’s dining room was an intimate space painted in a stylish, bright color—so-called chrome yellow. It was June, and the first thing I noticed was that the floor-to-ceiling paneled windows allowed the summer light in, despite the time of day. As I looked up, I saw a skylight. A lot of the furniture was European, undoubtedly pieces Jefferson brought to America after his ambassadorship to France. The golden clock at the center of the fireplace was the epitome of refinement. The atmosphere was stylish and, at the same time, relaxed.

I had dressed for the occasion. I wore my best jacket, my Florentine breeches, a clean white shirt, and my only pair of black silk socks. My shoes had buckles, and I made sure my garters would be in place the whole evening. Jefferson, on the other hand, was dressed in a modest blue coat and black breeches; his soft leather shoes looked like slippers. His republican simplicity was patently displayed.

There were no servants around. Jefferson addressed the matter saying he enjoyed talking to his guests uninterrupted. There was a dumbwaiter on the side of the room and serving plates, filled with food, lay on various shelves in a revolving door. Jefferson said the fireplace had a side mechanism to transport bottles of wine up from the basement—he would show it to me later.

“I plan to attract to Virginia the best European minds.” Jefferson had a suave manner. “You already live in this country, which is an advantage. André Thouin’s letter of introduction for you is outstanding.”

“You flatter me.” I trembled with excitement while looking through the windows at the west lawn’s vibrant grass.

Upon arriving in the New World, I swiftly wrote to Jefferson from Philadelphia asking to meet him. I had carefully chosen the friends who could give me the best references. I knew beforehand that my success in America depended on the good fortune of making prominent acquaintances. A botanist, I was already a member of the American Philosophical Society, and Jefferson continued to be its president. As I intended to pursue my long-life interest in the natural sciences, Jefferson was at the top of my list of people to meet.

André Thouin was the chief conservator of the Jardin des Plantes, the main botanical garden of France. He was a towering figure of the French establishment, a man of influence, and a good friend of Jefferson. Of all the recommendations I had brought with me to America—and I had several from renowned European luminaries—I particularly appreciated Thouin’s. He told Jefferson that I was a naturalist of the first order. He said my scientific credentials were the best among the best, and that he could rely on my botanical expertise. I was a philosophe with a practical mind, who enjoyed field trips into the countryside, and therefore believed in the usefulness of science. Moreover, he said, Jefferson would enjoy my conversation and company.

Jefferson replied to my initial contact with an invitation to visit Monticello. An exchange of correspondence ensued. Needing to establish myself first in Philadelphia, and hesitant about a journey through uncharted territory, I kept postponing the trip.

Now I had the privilege to be his guest at the dinner table.

“Friends tell me you might be waiting for a diplomatic assignment from the Kingdom of Portugal. But knowing your passion for botany, I’m confident I’ll steal you away.” Jefferson rested his glass of Bordeaux back on the table.

“I see you’re well-informed. But correspondence across the Atlantic is slow and unreliable, therefore my assignment might never come through. One thing I know for sure, I plan to stay here, I love your country.”

“I’d like to work out the statutes of the University of Virginia with your counsel. They’ve been worrying me and, after all, you set up the Royal Academy of Sciences of Lisbon. May I count on you? Your reputation is widely acknowledged.”

“I would be honored to be at your service.” I hoped my smile indicated to my host how happy I felt with his request.

“I want to create a state institution paid for through public funding. But my university must be free from religious affiliation, unlike those in the North.”

I nodded. “I congratulate your originality of thought.” Jefferson filled my glass a second time.

The food we were enjoying was first-class. We had Beef à la Mode, eye round cutlets, accompanied by white onions, carrots and mushrooms. The brandy gave the meat a most delicate taste. Jefferson explained his cook used the art of French cuisine, following his taste. The china, the glasses, and the silverware were all French.

As the dinner proceeded, I was delighted to confirm that the sage of Monticello and I had a lot in common. The University of Virginia was a monumental initiative, something the two of us had already touched upon in our letters. These exchanges, even if brief, convinced me that we shared the same encompassing love of the natural world. I was confirming my impressions.

As we moved from topic to topic, my host said that he very much enjoyed the company of regular visitors since retiring in 1809. I could see he was a gregarious human being: he gesticulated, looked me in the eyes, and touched my arm cordially once in a while. His guests, he said, were American and foreign alike, people he knew enlivened his inner world. He abhorred cities now, and preferred the ease of plantation life. Surrounded by his family, he had found the peace and quiet he needed for his projects to mature. Establishing the University of Virginia was a major one.

Jefferson reminded me of a well-bred Frenchman. I knew them well, I had lived in Paris the previous decade. Although born and raised in the privileged landowning class of Virginia, Jefferson was wholly down-to-earth, which struck me as surprising. As we talked, he seemed to embody the soul of the new America.

From the outside, we were an odd pair. Jefferson was tall and lean, I was—and still am—short and stout. His face was angular, mine was round. His eyes were a deep blue, mine were brown. His hair, now white, still had reddish overtones, mine was still black. His complexion was fair, mine was olive. My face was pale. His was pale, too, but had freckles. Our age disparity—I was in my early sixties and Jefferson in his late sixties—didn’t make any difference.

The French loved Jefferson and stories about his demeanor still abounded when I arrived in Paris, many years after his sojourn there. The inconsistencies of his life were a perpetual topic of conversation. He had written the American Declaration of Independence, declaring we were all created equal. But he had two mulatto servants with him, and Parisians knew they were his slaves. These enslaved individuals were members of the Hemings family; their offspring, if they had any, would also be Jefferson’s property. Furthermore, it was well-known that Jefferson had helped the Marquis de Lafayette draft the French Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, also ensuring equality to all in France. The document had an enormous influence at the start of the French Revolution, and the two men had remained life-long friends.

These ironies excited the French elite. Jefferson never mentioned his mulatto slaves in the salons he regularly frequented, but people said he treated them as well as his paid French domestics. He never mentioned, either, his help to Lafayette. As an ambassador, he was forbidden to meddle in French affairs. So, he had advised his friend in private. As I heard these stories many times over, I had an insurmountable curiosity to meet the man in person. The descriptions indicated a unique individual with exceptional qualities of heart and mind.

When we finished the meal, Jefferson got up from the table. “I’d like to show you the drawings for the university. Let’s go to my private quarters.” It was now getting darker outside. He took a large candlestick from the table to light the way across the entrance hall.

So here I was, astonished, as I followed Jefferson. A priest from Portugal, in the company of one of the most—if not the most—famous man in America. Moreover, he wanted me not only to help him establish his university, but also be a professor there. Soon, I suspected, I would be agonizing over my decision. I knew I wanted to remain in America. But what would I prefer? A diplomatic assignment, undoubtedly prestigious? Or devote my time to scholarship in rural Virginia? In due time, it appeared, I would have to make a choice. Even if it didn’t seem an easy one, how much more blessed could I be?

Jefferson’s private quarters comprised a suite that started with his library, which he called his book room. The area was lit with well-placed candleholders. When I mentioned how bright the ambiance was, Jefferson said he used spermaceti wax candles made from whale oil. According to him, they gave the best light.

Similar to the dining room, the library’s décor also favored intimate exchanges. The doors were made of exquisite dark wood. The space was filled from floor to ceiling with books, maps, pictures, and paraphernalia. An engraving in a corner showed Benjamin Franklin with his peculiar beaver cap.

“I now have time to devote myself to the things I value,” Jefferson said. “Come here to see my sketches. I very much enjoyed designing these plans for the university.”

I sat down at a table near the window—it had a rare hexagonal shape—and Jefferson brought the drawings from the desk nearby.

“Look at this,” he said. “I like to call the university my ‘academical’ village. At the north end, there’s a Rotunda where the library will be located. The Rotunda will be modeled after the Pantheon in Rome. I want a dome with a glass oculus in the middle, but I can’t leave it open. It’ll be a space that’s used daily, rain can’t come down through a hole in the ceiling.”

We chuckled. “True,” I said.

“There’ll be a central, rectangular lawn with two rows of pavilions on each side. The first row will have a succession of gardens in the back.”

“I didn’t know you enjoyed architecture so much,” I said while admiring the drawings.

“It’s one of my pleasures. I love the Italian architect Palladio, so I want the grounds to be enjoyable to the eye.”

“How do you plan to use the buildings?” I pointed to them in the drawings.

“On each side of the lawn there’ll be apartments for students and faculty. The gardens behind the first row of buildings will have vegetables, flowers, and trees—and, possibly, livestock. The green areas will be enclosed in serpentine brick walls. The houses further away from the lawn will be meeting areas: classrooms, dining halls, living rooms, and whatnot.”

I examined the sketches in detail. “You draw like a savant,” I said.

“There’s something I want to show you about the pavilions in the first row, facing the lawn. The light of Virginia will be mirrored in the building’s white facades. I call this the ‘Lumiѐre Mystérieuse,’ the mysterious light. I like to think this beauty will inspire the students—not to mention the professors—to feel not only a sense of joy but the urge to practice virtue.” As Jefferson said this, his eyebrows seemed to flare.

“It might!” I wasn’t sure how serious Jefferson really was, so I decided to play it safe. “As a Portuguese, I know the importance of sunlight in determining a sensible mood. And that feeling might inspire good character and bring hard studying. When will the university open?”

“It all depends on funding, but I’ve started to talk to the Virginia legislature.”

“These drawings are classical, but planned for a tranquil and pastoral environment. There’s a sense of community here. You’re a visionary! Who else would think of constructing such fine buildings in the middle of nowhere?”

The project was fascinating, and we discussed a few more architectural details. Then, as Jefferson put the drawings away, he said he would show me the location he envisioned for the buildings on the morrow.

I rose up from my seat at the table and perused the nearest shelf of books. Jefferson’s library was huge and diversified. Some books were simply bound in leather; others had elaborate designs or lettering in gold leaf. I noticed a shelf with books on Révolution, the titles on the spines all written in French.

“I’m glad I don’t have to translate the French titles for you. I started collecting those when I lived in Paris,” Jefferson said. “I visited booksellers every afternoon.”

“How lucky for the French to have, first, Mr. Franklin and then you as ambassadors.”

“Mr. Franklin had all the social skills I lacked: he loved Parisian salons and their women, young and old. He also loved defying French protocol by dressing as a simple Quaker.”

“When I prepared my eulogy on Mr. Franklin at the Lisbon academy, I read all about him,” I said.

“You gave a talk on my friend?”

“I described Mr. Franklin as the ultimate representative of Les Lumières, the Enlightenment. I spoke about his revolutionary ideals, his internationalism, and his experiments in electricity.”

“Did your colleagues enjoy the talk?” Jefferson crossed his arms, as was his habit. Was it a defensive stance? I couldn’t say, but I hoped he wasn’t jealous of my praise of the old American icon.

“They did. Mr. Franklin was an ‘indagador da natureza,’ an inquirer into nature—something I’ve always tried to apply to my own work.”

“I loved the French calling him ‘the electrical ambassador,’” Jefferson said. “The French knew of Franklin’s experiments in electricity. And his nickname had a hidden meaning: liberty had become inevitable.”

“Our own Franklin is a Brazilian scholar called Andrada e Silva, someone the Lisbon academy sent on a tour of Europe when he was a student, all expenses paid. Afterward, he was for many years a professor at the University of Coimbra.”

“Why do you find these two people similar?” Jefferson asked.

“They combine scientific fervor with revolutionary zeal.”

“What’s Andrada e Silva doing these days?”

“He’s positioning himself to be one of the fathers of Brazilian independence, if that possibility ever arises. I hope not, I prefer the Portuguese empire to remain intact.”

“You see what happens when you give people wings to fly? They desert you,” Jefferson said with a sprightly laugh. I smiled back at him, he was absolutely right. I enjoyed my host’s frankness. It was inspiring and, moreover, put me at ease.

Jefferson now approached a small table and poured Madeira into two glasses. I joined him.

“To the University of Virginia,” he said, raising his glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” I replied.

“Interesting that you spotted my books on revolution, I haven’t looked at them in a while,” Jefferson said. “With the French Revolution underway while I was in Paris, I laid my hands on topics dear to my heart, the sacred fire of liberty above all.”

“Themes dear to you, to me, and to our Republic of Letters,” I replied.

“Indeed,” my host said.

“I have something on that shelf written in Portuguese that’s rather intriguing. It must have been sent to me after I returned to Monticello. As I don’t read the language, I wouldn’t have bought it myself.”

Jefferson took out a black leather case tied with a red ribbon and brought it to me. “This is a manuscript and it seems one of a kind. I’ve always been curious about it.” My host looked at me with inquisitive eyes.

“Let me see,” I said, taking the case from him and opening it.

“As you see, it’s handmade and has a small pocket at the back.

Inside, there’s a folded letter written in a different hand.”

As I examined the booklet, I felt faint. I’m sure I turned pale for Jefferson asked whether I was alright.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “This is a memoir written by a Portuguese woman I was very close to in Naples. My Eleonora! Our families knew each other; we all moved from Rome at the same time. She was later famous as one of the revolutionaries of the Neapolitan Republic. The king and the queen of Naples—Ferdinando and Carolina—had her executed in 1799.”

“What was her surname?”

“Fonseca Pimentel. She was the daughter of the Marquis and Marquise Pimentel, members of the Portuguese nobility.”

“Her calligraphy is rare. It’s so well designed that I imagined it belonged to a proud woman,” Jefferson said.

“How did you get this?” I asked.

“A French bookseller must have sent it. I still receive packages with books from France.”

“Neapolitan revolutionaries escaped to France after the Republic failed. They sailed to Toulon, with many settling in Paris later. Someone must have brought Eleonora’s manuscript and sold it to feed the family. Once they were in exile, the French government was far from welcoming.”

Jefferson remained silent.

“My dear Sir, you and I have had a long day. I see it’s close to nine-thirty.” I felt now an indescribable need to be on my own. I wanted to read Eleonora’s words, feel her near me. “Do you think I may retire and bring the manuscript with me? I promise to tell you all about it when I finish.”

“Certainement!” Jefferson’s gaze was gallant as he replied in the French affirmative. “I’ll show you to your room, and I hope you have a good night’s sleep.”

“You’re a generous host,” I answered. “We had a delightful philosophical evening.”

“The chair of botany at the University of Virginia would give you great happiness,” Jefferson said. “Besides, you would get a comfortable and lucrative retirement.”

“Thank you, Sir, I’ll consider your offer. But I must wait for news about my assignment. As you know, the Portuguese royal family is established in Rio de Janeiro now. Brazil is so far away! I wish I received news more often.” I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, so I added while caressing my chin, “I’ve heard these woods offer a sound occupation and countless opportunities to a botanist like me.”

As we crossed the entrance hall once again, with Jefferson holding yet another candlestick in his hand, I was reminded my host didn’t live alone. A few of his grandchildren—he had eleven—encircled us momentarily to greet their grandfather. They were a lively set. Two or three put their arms around him and said they had missed him at dinner. My host kindly introduced me as a friend of Thouin, saying I would be staying for a few days.

“Can you repeat his name, ‘Correia’? It’s Portuguese,” Jefferson said to the children. A girl he introduced as Ellen took to the task with a strong English accent. All the other children laughed, for she wasn’t even close.

“One day, I’m sure, you’ll get it right.” Jefferson laughed, too. “You just need practice.”

“Grandpapa, can we look at Thouin’s calendar now?” a younger girl asked. “I want to see those pictures again.”

“It’s too late now, but maybe tomorrow—that is, if you all behave and go to bed on time.”

The group left moaning with disappointment. How much fun for the children to learn from their grandfather, I thought to myself.

My host showed me to my bedroom as we entered the north corridor. Finally, I was by myself, alone with my thoughts. I closed the door and leaned against it. It was a balmy summer night, comforting. I noticed the bedspread of my alcove bed had been tastefully turned down, making it easy for me to slide into bed. A blue and white chamber pot had been removed from under the bed and placed at its foot. Several candles illuminated the space, giving it a cozy feeling.

Sagging against the door, I pressed Eleonora’s leather-bound manuscript to my chest with both hands. Life was, sometimes, extraordinary. Then, I turned the pages feverishly, reading a line here, another there. Was I really seeing, really holding, what I thought I was? Was this indeed a memoir in Eleonora’s own hand—Eleonora the love of my youth in Naples? Indeed, it was! Not only did I recognize a few descriptions of the city where I had grown up. The author’s signature, Eleonora Fonseca Pimentel, was something I recognized distinctly. How could I ever forget it? This was the woman I had wanted to elope with; someone who had stayed in my memory throughout my life. Someone I hadn’t been able to purge from my memory.

My legs felt wobbly, my knees quivered.

I now searched the booklet’s back pocket while pacing the room. It smelled of mildew, it hadn’t been touched in years. As I took out the letter folded inside, a sprig of rosemary fell to the floor. Oh my God! Eleonora’s habit of pressing herbs to dry them inside a book stayed with her to the end. The letter’s title at the top was An Execution in Naples, and a sister, Suor Amadea Della Valle, had written it. She said she was the Madre Superiore, the Reverend Mother, of the female section of the Vicaria prison where Eleonora had been incarcerated.

I started reading. To my horror, the letter described Eleonora’s death. I lived in London at the time of her execution and knew from the English newspapers that she had been sent to the scaffold. But I didn’t know the details.

When I finished Suor Amadea’s letter, I hid my face in my hands. The scent of blood filled my nostrils. Eleonora had paid for her ideas with her life. A feeling of shame came over me; I had abandoned the love of my youth to her fate.

And now I was reading the gruesome details of her execution, things I preferred to leave behind. Eleonora had combined a powerful intellect with a disposition for writing lyrical poetry. She believed the poor deserved to be educated in order to have a better future. I turned to the memoir’s initial pages and recognized the discussion that had gone on in France after the revolution. Dr. Guillotin, a French physician after whom the guillotine was named, proposed a reform for capital punishment. His “machine” was merciful because of its surgical speed. And it should be applied to all slayings—not just those of the aristocracy—as an egalitarian measure. Hanging, on the other hand, was long, inhumane, and brutal.

Eleonora’s character, as I turned page after page, outshone many of the people we knew in common. It not only set her apart from all the other women I had met in Naples, but also those I met later in life.

Her boldness, in particular, set her apart from me. I could be a world-renowned botanist praised by Jefferson. But I had failed Eleonora. She was unswerving in her convictions. Was she—after all those years—still the better part of me? If I dared to answer my question with feeling, the answer was an undeniable yes.

For a split second, I wondered if Suor Amadea was the person she said she was at the end of the letter. The narrative was respectful, and the nun had written as one of Eleonora’s admirers. It was the work of a compassionate woman describing another’s ultimate plight. This writer was educated, knew how to express herself. Could the name be a pseudonym? That didn’t matter, I concluded.

Inspired, I brought the sprig of rosemary to my nose. No scent remained, too many years had passed. But it reminded me of the day I had delivered my goodbyes to Eleonora.

I pressed it firmly between my fingers.

This was the moment I decided to take notes of my stay, or stays, in Monticello. The future would tell me what to do with them. I wanted to preserve a fragrance, a redolence, from my past. Something that would carry me into the future.