The Lonely Minister
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Original - Misc › Historical
Rating:
Adult
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2
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1,211
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Currently Reading:
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Category:
Original - Misc › Historical
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,211
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
The Lonely Minister
The Lonely Minister
Introduction: This is a completely fictional account of imagined happenings of Thomas Jefferson while he served as the Trade Minister to France for the United States of America from 1785-1789, in his early forties. It is well known that he was romantically entangled with a Maria Cosway during the period, who would have been in her late twenties, and was of Anglo-Italian descent. However, history remains unsure to what extent she ever returned his feelings - she was, after all, married, but that marriage would be later annulled, albeit long after Jefferson had returned to serve in George Washington's famous Administration. Their relationship was dramatized in a 1995 movie which I have not seen and in numerous books. Where possible, I have tried to keep the story historically accurate, though some artistic liberties have been taken. If you can spot any, leave them in the comments.
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Prelude: 15 September 1789. Paris, France.
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A tall man stood among the dying magnificence of les jardins Tuileries in the oppressive, pouring rain of the French night. Despite their construction by a tyrant among tyrants, the Sun King himself, Thomas Jefferson, avatar of liberty, could stand in their radiance and appreciate it. If he strained his eyes, he would have been able to make out the faint outline of a ship, tied fast in the nearby Seine, bobbing patiently on the dark, choppy waters. But there was no reason to look.
His left hand cluctched a sogged letter that had begun to disintegrate under Nature's assault. Jefferson smiled ruefully at the remains. It had been a copy of his most recent epistle. He would not object if this was lost to history; a statesman should not be recorded uttering such sentimental bons mots.
It is with the ardor, enchantment, and melancholy that I pen these words. I am bound departed home, as you well know, but only wish that my country, to which I have devoted my head, was not in such conflict with my heart, which rests with you.
I trust that this letter finds you well. I feel more fit for death than life. But when I look back on the pleasures of which it is a consequence, I am conscious they were worth the price I am paying. O, to once again live as we did. I am indeed the most wretched of all earthly beings. Overwhelmed with grief, every fibre of my frame distended beyond its natural powers to bear, I would willingly meet whatever catastrophe should leave me no more to feel or to fear.
I doubt we shall ever meet again, though my heart cries out that such love could not forever be denied. This Revolution and strife of which men speak does bear ill for traffic and commerce between our worlds. Know that I shall forever make all of America & its glories available to you.
I am going to America and you are going to Italy. One of us is going the wrong way, for the way will ever be wrong that leads us further apart.
Your affectionate & humble serv't,
TH. Jefferson
He turned, dropping the ragged fragments of parchment into a particularly beautiful stand of jet black tulips. His hand twitched: his broken wrist had never set perfectly. "What slings and arrows", muttered the author of the Declaration of Independence.
Jefferson slowly stretched out as the rain beat down. Turning, he began a slow meader back toward his abode on the Champs Elysées. He did not notice the pair of men crouched behind some statuary depicting some French cavalry proudly rearing on their hind legs. Nor did he notice the muskets that were at distinct odds with the marbled sabers worn by the mounted French officers.
Two shots rang out in the French rain.
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Author's Note: Jefferson wrote with what was then called a polygraph, which allows one to write two copies of a letter simultaneously, providing justification for him having a copy of his own letter in the second paragraph.
Introduction: This is a completely fictional account of imagined happenings of Thomas Jefferson while he served as the Trade Minister to France for the United States of America from 1785-1789, in his early forties. It is well known that he was romantically entangled with a Maria Cosway during the period, who would have been in her late twenties, and was of Anglo-Italian descent. However, history remains unsure to what extent she ever returned his feelings - she was, after all, married, but that marriage would be later annulled, albeit long after Jefferson had returned to serve in George Washington's famous Administration. Their relationship was dramatized in a 1995 movie which I have not seen and in numerous books. Where possible, I have tried to keep the story historically accurate, though some artistic liberties have been taken. If you can spot any, leave them in the comments.
==============================================================================================
Prelude: 15 September 1789. Paris, France.
==============================================================================================
A tall man stood among the dying magnificence of les jardins Tuileries in the oppressive, pouring rain of the French night. Despite their construction by a tyrant among tyrants, the Sun King himself, Thomas Jefferson, avatar of liberty, could stand in their radiance and appreciate it. If he strained his eyes, he would have been able to make out the faint outline of a ship, tied fast in the nearby Seine, bobbing patiently on the dark, choppy waters. But there was no reason to look.
His left hand cluctched a sogged letter that had begun to disintegrate under Nature's assault. Jefferson smiled ruefully at the remains. It had been a copy of his most recent epistle. He would not object if this was lost to history; a statesman should not be recorded uttering such sentimental bons mots.
It is with the ardor, enchantment, and melancholy that I pen these words. I am bound departed home, as you well know, but only wish that my country, to which I have devoted my head, was not in such conflict with my heart, which rests with you.
I trust that this letter finds you well. I feel more fit for death than life. But when I look back on the pleasures of which it is a consequence, I am conscious they were worth the price I am paying. O, to once again live as we did. I am indeed the most wretched of all earthly beings. Overwhelmed with grief, every fibre of my frame distended beyond its natural powers to bear, I would willingly meet whatever catastrophe should leave me no more to feel or to fear.
I doubt we shall ever meet again, though my heart cries out that such love could not forever be denied. This Revolution and strife of which men speak does bear ill for traffic and commerce between our worlds. Know that I shall forever make all of America & its glories available to you.
I am going to America and you are going to Italy. One of us is going the wrong way, for the way will ever be wrong that leads us further apart.
Your affectionate & humble serv't,
TH. Jefferson
He turned, dropping the ragged fragments of parchment into a particularly beautiful stand of jet black tulips. His hand twitched: his broken wrist had never set perfectly. "What slings and arrows", muttered the author of the Declaration of Independence.
Jefferson slowly stretched out as the rain beat down. Turning, he began a slow meader back toward his abode on the Champs Elysées. He did not notice the pair of men crouched behind some statuary depicting some French cavalry proudly rearing on their hind legs. Nor did he notice the muskets that were at distinct odds with the marbled sabers worn by the mounted French officers.
Two shots rang out in the French rain.
==========================================================================================
Author's Note: Jefferson wrote with what was then called a polygraph, which allows one to write two copies of a letter simultaneously, providing justification for him having a copy of his own letter in the second paragraph.