“But is that God’s fault? Or are people alone to blame?”
Thomas Jefferson continues to look at her intently, a slight smile on only one half of his face. Sally Hemings blushes.
“You must think what I am saying is stupid,” she says.
“Not at all. In fact, I have just been reading a dialogue by an eminent philosopher who seems to share your opinions, though he is not nearly so forthright.”
Her blush intensifies, and her right ear goes hot.
Thomas Jefferson smiles, leans forward and lifts his hand in her direction, but then he draws it back and folds his arms across his chest. “So what do you think: Is God the cause of cruelty?”
“Well…” For a moment Sally Hemings doesn’t know what to say, but then her original point comes back to her: “The preachers are always saying that God controls everything. And that he knows all, sees all. So if that’s true, then God is making people do cruel things, and so their cruelty is God’s fault. But that’s the thing I’m not sure I believe. I can’t believe that God would intentionally make people do cruel things. So maybe God doesn’t control everything. And people do cruel things on their own. But even if that is true, I still think that God is partly to blame, since he put the ability to be cruel into human beings.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t really make sense. That’s what I mean about mistakes. Maybe God wasn’t paying attention when he made people. Or he didn’t think it all the way through.” She glances at Thomas Jefferson, then looks away. “Or maybe he was just in a bad mood.”
“That makes him sound a lot like a human being.”
“I suppose. Except that he can do so much more than a human being can. He’s just not perfect.”
“But if he’s not perfect, then why worship him?”
“Because he made so many beautiful things, too. How could I not be thankful for those things? But maybe ‘worship’ is the wrong word. Maybe all I really feel is thankful. Though sometimes I’m also angry and disappointed.” She looks down into her lap, where she is massaging the center of her left palm with the thumb of her right hand. She glances up and shrugs. “But I probably shouldn’t say that.”
Thomas looks at her a long moment, then speaks in a measured voice. “I think everything you are saying is extremely courageous and rational.”
Sally Hemings does not know how to respond.
“Do you believe in the Devil?” Thomas Jefferson asks.
“I don’t know. I mean, of course, that could explain why bad things happen. God and the Devil are fighting over everything. But I don’t know, I find it harder to believe that someone would want only terrible things. That just seems too pointless to me. If I think about the Devil, if I really try to imagine him existing, he ends up seeming a lot like God — or a human being. Someone with good and bad sides. Good and bad moods. Maybe wanting to do right but also wanting other things. So… The main thing is that I don’t see the point in there being a Devil… or in there being two mixed-up magical people controlling the universe. So it makes more sense that there be only one. God.”
“Why not only the Devil?”
“I do think that sometimes, but it scares me, so I hope that I’m wrong. But on the other hand, if the Devil is running the world, he’s still made all the beautiful things, so maybe he’s just like God, and not that scary after all.”
“Do you ever think that there may be no God?”
“Sometimes. But how could this world just be here? Someone had to create it.”
“You could ask the same question about God. How could God just be here? And if it is possible for God to just be here — this being who is infinitely more complex than the earth, since he created it, just as the watchmaker is infinitely more complex than the watch — if it is possible for God to just be here, why not the earth?”
An openmouthed half smile comes onto Sally Hemings’s face. She shakes her head. “That’s an interesting idea. I never thought about that before.” Her smile broadens, and she is silent a moment. “I guess the real reason I believe in God is that it makes me feel happier to believe that someone is there, behind everything. And sometimes I feel his presence. Every now and then, when I am in a particularly beautiful place or I am feeling especially sad or afraid, I feel that God is there somehow.”
“Does he ever talk to you?”
“No. Not really. I just feel that he is there. But I don’t know if he really is. Maybe I only feel him because I want to.”
Now Thomas Jefferson is the one who seems not to know what to say. He shifts uneasily in his seat.
“What do you think about God?” Sally Hemings asks.
“I’m exactly the same as you. Except sometimes I think there is no God, but that God’s existence doesn’t matter, because we have the idea of God. Or rather, we still have the idea that God is good and that we should also be good. And the idea that we should worship the beauty of the world. And as long as we have such ideas, it almost doesn’t matter whether God actually exists.”
Sally Hemings makes a small grunt and then thinks for a moment. “The only thing is that I don’t see God as good — or good enough. That’s my problem.”
Thomas Jefferson smiles weakly, but then disconcertion crosses his face. He looks down. He pushes the primer an inch or two away with the tips of his fingers. “I’m sorry, Sally, but I think we had better stop this.”
Her forehead darkens, and her mouth falls open. He sees that he has hurt her.
“You must think I’m an idiot,” she says.
“No! Not in the least. You have nothing to apologize for — on the contrary.”
She closes the primer. “I’m sorry I have been such a bad learner. It’s just that there are so many letters and sounds.”
“That’s not it,” he says, still looking away. “I have enjoyed our time tonight.”
He casts her a furtive glance, and all at once she becomes aware that their calves are not more than an inch apart. She thinks that she should move her leg away from his, but she doesn’t. Instead, in a soft voice, she asks, “Then why?”
“I just think it would be better if Jimmy taught you after all. I will speak to him myself. It’s his duty as your older brother.”
“He won’t do it. Jimmy’s not like that. He just won’t.”
Thomas Jefferson throws himself back in his chair. Half in despair, half in entreaty, he says, “Oh, Sally.”
“What?”
“I shouldn’t say this.”
She remains silent.
“You are so beautiful,” he says. “You are utterly beautiful, you have an excellent mind, you are so kind and full of life — but this is impossible. I had thought that I would be able to keep my feelings within the bounds of decency, but I was—” He cuts himself off, looks at her with sad and yearning eyes. “Oh, you dear girl!”
After a moment he sits up and tugs once again at the bottom of his waistcoat.
“So I think you had better leave, Sally. For your own good. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I will talk to Jimmy. Or maybe Patsy. Perhaps she could be your teacher. But if neither is willing, I will hire you a tutor. I am determined that you shall read.”
Sally Hemings feels as if something is spinning inside her head. She stands and speaks breathlessly, almost whispering. “Thank you, Mr. Jefferson.”
Thomas Jefferson squeezes his lips together. His face is red, but the skin about his lips is yellow. His eyes look enormous. As Sally Hemings puts her hand on the latch of the door, he calls out her name. Then he says, “Please understand that this has nothing to do with you. You are a darling, darling girl and entirely innocent of blame. I am the one who is enslaved by feelings he ought never to have conceived.”