ELEONORA AND JOSEPH. Julieta Almeida Rodrigues
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.
Chapter 2
Eleonora: Awakenings
At the Vicaria Prison, Castel Capuano, outskirts of Naples, June 29, 1799
As I stare at the blank page of parchment paper that Suor Amadea handed me, I might as well start to write. I don’t know how much longer I have to live. But I’m here, now. It’s the middle of the night and I have all the time in the world. I pick up my quill pen.
It all started with Joseph, our passion, and our parting.
To this day, I remember the moment we fell in love. How could I forget? His mother died in 1765, at the age of thirty-one. At her funeral, his father, feverish with grief and anger, appeared shattered. Joseph’s family filled a dark, wooden bench at church; the father stood at one end, and Joseph, the oldest son, stood at the other. In between them sat his two brothers; and his grandmother, who held his two young sisters on each side of her lap. The Neapolitan church where mass was celebrated was uncomfortably warm, since it was June, and the light coming through the stained-glass windows was colorful but opaque. I noticed Joseph’s stare wandering aimlessly. First, he looked up at the frescoes of the saints displayed. The holy images illustrated the survival of those devout souls: theirs were lives of adversity and sacrifice. Some were hunchbacks; others used canes to walk barefoot through