ELEONORA AND JOSEPH. Julieta Almeida Rodrigues
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