Work Text:
It is 1819 when a sculptor knocks on Monticello’s doors and asks for Jefferson.
The man has heard of his collection of busts and is offering his services to him. Jefferson finds it amusing how the man flusters and babbles and shoves several letters of recommendation into his hands, clearly eager for him to accept and deem his talents worthy.
Jefferson reads through all of the letters carefully, fully aware how the man continues to nervously shift in his seat opposite him. The man’s eyes are flickering from the room, to his lap, where he twists his fingers, and to Jefferson.
“You are aware that I am no more or less man than you are, are you not, good Sir?” The comment is said without Jefferson looking up from the paper, preferring to focus on the writings - so much more familiar and dear to him than sociality. It reminds him once again how glad he is to have withdrawn from politics and the public.
The sculptor, obviously embarrassed by being called out, stops his nervous fidgeting and looks at him as if he had grown a second head. “Sir- I- our nation would not be where it is now without you! If not for your sake, then allow me to create a bust of your likeliness for the world after us. It would be my greatest honor, Sir.”
Jefferson looks up from the letters. “A bust of my likeliness?” A chuckle. “Do you not consider me a bit too old for such things? But-” He raises a hand to halt the man before he can interrupt. “-I have wished for a few busts for some time now. If you came all this way to Monticello then you must have heard how important those sculptures are to me, yes?”
“Yes. Again, it would be my greatest honor. I am your obedient servant, Sir. What did you have in mind?”
He stands, deciding he has been sitting long enough for the day and walks through the room, thinking about the people he wishes to have a place among his collection. A fleeting sentimental thing, Jefferson muses, to have busts of people for the wish of honoring them and displaying his admiration for them. He won’t ever forget those people and once he is gone the busts are of little use to him regardless. Who even knows if the people after him will ever value the people the way he does? They way they do or do not deserve? Or if they are remembered at all. Jefferson blames such musings on his growing age, despite being fully aware that he has always thought too much about things he shouldn't have worried about so thoroughly in the first place.
“You must know that Mr. Madison and I are very close?” An understatement. Yet the spoken word is not among his skills and even if Jefferson tried to write, which would bring him closest to expressing what he feels and thinks, he would run out of paper and ink before finishing. “I wish to have a bust of him, I had considered putting one in my office for some time now. I also want one of Mr. Monroe as we, too, share a close friendship. It seems only right.”
The sculptor hums, nodding along eagerly, having taken a notebook from his bag and fervently taking notes as Jefferson speaks.
“Ah- and Mr. Hamilton,” Jefferson concludes, almost an afterthought. He watches as the pen stills in what seems to be halfway through a word as far as he can see from across the room.
“...Mr. Hamilton, Sir?”
Jefferson hums.
“Alexander Hamilton?”
There are people with the same surname, sure, but Jefferson had not met them or held up conversation long enough to even consider.
He gives another hum.
The man looks up from his notebook and stares at him for a long moment.
“Are you not familiar with Mr. Hamilton?” Jefferson asks, a slight confusion lining his voice. “He died merely a few years ago but I was under the impression that-”
“No- I… I do know him, Sir.”
“Then there should be no issue then, right? If you are concerned about reference material I can assure you that there are paintings of him and I do believe there is a sculpture of him already.”
The sculptor continues to stare at him as he returns to the table, picking up his cup of tea again, letting the silence stretch.
Then, finally, he gets his answer. “Of course, Sir, if you wish me to make one.”
—
He places two of the busts, like intended, in his office - to oversee and be there while he works, as they always have been.
After some consideration he places the third one in his entrance hall, opposite to the one of himself - a fitting, true to life, design choice.
—
It is Madison who first comments on it.
Jefferson has had a few visitors since he displayed the new busts but none of them had spoken to him about it, if they even noticed another one among his collection. He has seen that Madison has been wanting to say something since the day he arrived at Monticello. Upon entering Madison had frozen for a moment, going very still. They have known each other for almost half a century and Jefferson knew something bothered his friend, yet prodding and urging James to speak his mind when he was not ready had never done anything. Jefferson had kept his silence, walking ahead and having been content with his friend following him after a few long moments of silence.
Perhaps it had been the fact that they haven’t truly seen each other since Madison's presidency. Perhaps Madison had simply not wanted to disrupt their reunion.
Whatever it had been seems to be gone now as Madison stops in the entrance hall, about to leave.
“Thomas…” He starts tentatively, his back towards Jefferson, looking at the doors and busts lined above. “You must be aware that you are a very dear friend to me and that we have been allies and supported each other for many years to possibly threaten our relationship with anything… right?”
Jefferson leans onto his walking stick, making a gesture for Madison to continue even though he does not see it. “Of course, James, our friendship is very dear to me. Please, speak frankly, be assured there is nothing which could possibly draw my anger on you.”
Madison turns with a deep breath. “You don’t think this is a bit tactless?”
“Tactless?” Jefferson raises a brow. “I had no work done in this hall, it is the same as it was last time, everything is in the same place as-”
“The bust,” Madison snaps tersely.
“I think the bust is of high quality and-”
“Thomas-!” It is not usual for Madison to raise his voice, it also echoes a bit in the hall and they both fall silent. Jefferson watches as Madison takes a few deep breaths and turns his head away sharply. He doesn’t push the conversation further, if his friend has something to say, he will.
“You always-...” A pause. “I know the two of you never got along. But surely this- this is a bit too far? Even for you?”
“I do not see what the issue is with the bust, James.”
“You do not- How do you not see there is a problem with displaying him-” A sharp pause, then slower, “It… the bust like a hunting trophy you shot?!” Madison looks at him, wide eyed, disbelieving. There is a flicker of anger there, too and- yes…
Guilt.
Jefferson’ eyes flicker up, above Madison, to the bust. He should have been aware that Madison would not like to be reminded of a broken friendship that cannot be mended anymore. He knows Madison and Hamilton had been quite close friends while he was in France and the two of them have written many papers together during that time.
The moment when Jefferson had received the news of Hamilton’s death is not very clear in his memory. Days and hours had blurred together since he had still been mourning his daughter’s passing, it was all fuzzy. But he does remember that Madison had been very shook. Looking back Jefferson knows he should have given better support than the distant words he offered Madison. Especially when Madison had done everything he could to cover for the absence of his Vice President, whose sole purpose it was to step in, if the President could not fulfil his duties, so Jefferson had the chance to take a step away from office and be with his remaining, grieving family.
Back then when both of them had been unaware just why Burr had traveled north.
Alas… Hamilton is gone now. The possibility of talking things over, too.
Jefferson lowers his eyes from the bust. “It neither was nor is by any means my intent to make a display of a trophy.” The thought is a macabre one, to have a bust of his political enemy up on his wall like a hunting trophy.
Admittedly, he and Hamilton have shared more than a bit of animosity towards the other’s ideas. But he likes to believe that, if it came down to it, this is all there had been; the dislike for the other’s ideals and what the other wanted for the future of their nation. Looking back, Jefferson is aware neither of them wanted the nation to crumble and they were both convinced they knew better than the other. Which still does not mean he agrees with Hamilton’s ideas now.
From looking at his friend Jefferson can tell he regrets what has been said. Both he and Madison had written a lot of papers against Hamilton’s debt plan, not all of what was written was necessarily the truth. The goal was to stop said atrocity, meant to place the power in the hands of a few greedy bankers, not to mention a plan against the constitution in the first place. Though this last argument, something not forbidden but not explicitly allowed either, he will retract, since he too had done so with the purchase of Louisiana - but, for the sake and safety of their nation, it had been necessary. The generations to follow shall be the judges of their decision when they are gone in their graves.
He knows Madison has not changed his mind about the risks of said debt plan but he is aware of the fact that Madison feels terrible about the lies written and how he and Hamiton never managed to reconcile.
Madison continues to look at him, eyes narrowed. Studying. Observing. He has always been able to read Jefferson like none other, an understanding where no words were necessary. Madison understands him, perhaps even better than Jefferson understands himself and that in a way Jefferson both loves -what greater gift is there for humankind but to be understood and seen?- and loathes - for it is a vulnerability he cannot change nor control.
“Why then?” Madison demands. “You have filled your walls with people you admire. He- This bust is the exception.”
Indeed. Why? “You do not think he is worthy of admiration?”
Another stern look from Madison. Diversion, it accuses. “Someone who served this nation in the army is someone who ought to be respected. He helped build our government. But this is not about what I think of him. I asked why you put it up.”
“Look, James… I have not put it there as a macabre display of triumph. You know best my and his history with each other and as much as I wished for him to be gone, I did not wish death upon him.” Beyond this, Jefferson does not find the words to justify why he got the idea to have the bust of a man he hated displayed in his home. Madison gives him a long look, one that is far too knowing, far too telling, making it far too uncomfortable to carry this conversation on. Jefferson looks away, telling Madison his coach will be waiting.
—
Jefferson would not describe himself as a very emotional person.
He is aware of the days he has lost while drowning in his grief each time he had mourned the passing of a child or his beloved Martha. Too many hours, days and weeks -dare he say months?- lost in a state of violent, overwhelming sorrow and anguish. Times who had not been clear to him then and remain beyond the grasp of his memory even now.
Apart from this, Jefferson would not consider himself as someone freely showing his emotions, even during those times, he had been alone and made sure no one would see.
As such it is quite a surprise to him when he receives Lafayette and is promptly overcome with emotion.
Despite the decades having passed and age having left his traces upon his friend it seems time has not managed to rob him of his energy and warmth. A mighty feat, which Jefferson admires, after the time Lafayette had spent in prison. The horrors he must have been through… unimaginable.
The hug -Lafayette has always been so open with affection and Jefferson genuinely doesn't remember how the young General managed to slip past his defences so easily for Jefferson has never been too fond of physical contact- he receives as a greeting is as warm and genuine as Jefferson remembers. It makes his eyes sting and he is glad to hide his face in the embrace.
They stay like for far too long before Jefferson has the mind to invite Lafayette inside, who starts recounting his return to America with a big smile and vivid gestures. He watches as Lafayette gestures wildly, a certain jump in his step as he overtakes Jefferson, who marvels at the youth the man has kept. A few steps ahead of him into the entrance hall Lafayette turns to look back at Jefferson. The silence enveloping them just a moment later brings a violent disruption.
Immediately concern washes over him when he sees the light in Lafayette’s eyes dim, posture growing stiff.
“Mon petit lion…” Lafayette breathes, taking a few steps towards him, before Jefferson even has the chance to ask. He despises seeing such endless sadness in the eyes of a person who Jefferson has always considered a ray of sunshine in the days they spent together, a light of hope during the war.
“I’m sorry,” He says solemnly, placing a hand on Lafayette's arm and he can feel a slight tremor.
“Is it… him?” Lafayette does not look at him when he speaks, gaze caught on the bust. “I mean… is it true to when he…?”
Lafayette doesn’t know what Hamilton looked like. The realization has Jefferson’s chest ache for his dear friend. But of course, Lafayette had left after the war and not returned since then. Neither Hamilton nor Lafayette had seen the other since their days together in the army, they had only communicated through the few letters Lafayette had managed to receive during the war in Europe.
“It is,” Jefferson confirms slowly.
“I should have returned sooner…” Lafayette says and the way his voice cracks and breaks is terrible to hear. “Both Washington and Alexander- I...”
To lose the two men Lafayette considered father and brother… Jefferson wants to console him, yet he feels infinitely incapable and unfit for doing so. His relationship with both Hamilton and Washington had not been the best in the last years of their lives.
“You were very dear to them,” Jefferson offers, hoping to somehow find comforting words.
A small smile pulls at Lafayette’s lips. “He was always so infuriated with the idea… Even back in the army… even then he was planning… Did you know?”
No. And Jefferson had not necessarily wanted to know that Hamilton had been working on that damn thing not only months without rest but had already been thinking about it when their nation had not even been built, when it had not been certain they would even have a nation of their own.
“I’m sorry, Thomas. I’ve been a horrible guest…” Lafayette murmurs, turning slightly away from him to dab away the wetness at his eyes.
“No need to apologize. I know how much he means to you, Gilbert.”
“I cannot put into words how glad I am to be able to see at least you again. Though… if you permit me one last question?”Jefferson nods. “How have you come to put up the bust?”
“Ah.” Is all Jefferson manages and Lafayette huffs before laughing.
“You are one of the most intelligent men I have ever known, you could have picked any of your dozens of interests and made yourself a name in said field. You are a man of science, of logic but even you should have learned that there are things that evade rationality, no?”
“I do not know what you are insinuating.”
Lafayette gives a knowing look. “Would it hurt you so much to admit that you two respected-”
“Yes,” Jefferson interrupts. “In fact I might just drop dead.”
“Oh Thomas…” Lafayette slings an arm around his shoulder. “We have enough to catch up on, have we not? Do tell me what I missed. And do not leave anything!”
—
The bust, much like its inspiration, has quickly proven to be just as much of an annoyance to him at times.
He enjoys teaching his grandchildren greatly. It has become a pastime of his to look after their education when he isn’t reading, writing or pursuing another interest of his. But this also means answering the questions about the many busts and painting lining the walls and spaces of his home to them.
Jefferson isn’t certain if discussing with congressmen or his grandchildren is worse. One can be incredibly dense and downright stupid and the other one has discovered the word ‘why’ and uses it to an extent Jefferson had not known possible. Every time he wonders briefly if he had missed that phase with his daughters, if they had pestered their mother and tutors with endless questioning too - in the end he decides he does not want to know; his absence from his family already causes enough regret to him as it is.
Essentially, Jefferson discovers, giving reasonable answers is useless with both.
His grandchildren though are not the only ones interested in his home decor. (For god’s sake! He does not go to other people’s houses and criticizes their choice of furnishing or why they decorated their home the way they did.)
Not only a few of his visitors have glanced at the bust and then at him questionally.
“A lot easier to argue with I assume?” Is the half hearted joke they all eventually make in some form or another. He isn’t certain what to think of the fact this -out of all the things they did- seems to be what people are most keen to remember about him and Hamilton - tearing at the other’s writing and ideas.
But… Jefferson does not correct them.
Does not tell them that, looking back, and despite their arguments, he has always valued discussions. Has always valued intellect.
‘If America can survive you two it will survive anything!’ Washington had once commented, the lines of his face hard and Jefferson had been sure he had been barely keeping himself from losing his temper.
Jefferson is aware that even though he has studied much and many things, he is not all knowing. Learning and discovering the truths of the world, learning science and mathematics ought to be the goal of every man. He still likes to think himself as well educated, despite his awareness that his knowledge will always be lacking, that with the time given to mankind he would never be able to learn all there is and to then meet a person like Hamilton, so full and certain of himself…
He loathes to admit it but, in his own mind he will grant himself the thought, he admired Hamilton and Adams greatly for the way they both were able to simply speak their minds, and that so well. People listened to them. A thought that will never leave his mind or mouth, and perhaps it's the fact that Jefferson has never been able to get rid of his inability to speak publicly (his voice cracking and hands shaking; so unbecoming and unfit for a man his age and status) but to be able to speak so freely, so confidently and with such a passion-!
No. His talent and brilliance lies with the pen. This is where he is unmatched, where he can spin words and compose sentences to be as sweet and cutting as he likes them to be, where he knows he can outdo any of his enemies.
How it infuriates Jefferson to know Hamilton had been just behind him with his own writing!
How he... welcomed the challenge to finally have someone close to his skill
And anyone who had met Hamilton, even just shortly, knows that the man liked challenges just as much.
May anyone disagree with him wrong but Jefferson likes to think that there was an understanding between them. Never peace and perhaps never even a truce- god never even a talk, sorting out and addressing the things said and done but…
What will history remember about them?
Everyone tries to shape what they leave behind in some way or another. The only difference? He has gotten time Hamilton hadn't. He has gotten the time to change stories, to add and to stay quiet on them.
To put things into a better or worse light with less opposition.
Whether or not it makes a difference in the decades to come is not something he should spend time worrying about, Jefferson has decided. Of course, he too has things he wants to leave behind, to be remembered for; his three biggest and most dearest accomplishments: the Declaration of Independence, the Virginia statue for religious freedom and the university of Virginia.
What… other things he will and will not be remembered for is not in his hands, in the end. As long as his children and his America will be fine Jefferson does not care, gone and buried as he will be.
Yet there are things he cannot change. Hamilton's financial system has proven to be as persistent as he was. Oh- and he could see the bastards smirk so clearly in his head, even though his eyesight had started to fail him. The cocky smirks he and Hamilton would have given each other after a victory in a meeting or after a vote in their favor. The smirk Hamilton would've worn if he had been alive to know that even without a whole pamphlet written to defend his financial system, Jefferson had failed to get rid of it. Alas… the nation still stands, even with Hamilton’s financial plan… so… that is that, Jefferson supposes.
It is not their decision what will stay behind, what deeds of them history will remember.
Or flaws.
A familiar face greets him as he strides through the halls of his home. A face opposite to a bust in the likeliness of himself. Jefferson stands in the middle of his foyer, between the two opposing busts.
Opposing in life as in death.
—
“One of the greatest men who ever lived,” Jefferson supplies.
Hamilton, standing in front of the bust of Newton, one of Jefferson’s favorite busts, turns to look at him. Jefferson can see how his mind runs, he knows there will come a disagreement from Hamilton before the younger man has even opened his mouth.
After a long pause, a time Jefferson had not thought Hamilton capable of keeping quiet: “The greatest man to have ever lived was Julius Caesar.”
Oh, of course, Jefferson thinks, ire rising, a monarchist like Hamilton, someone who loves power, would prefer a dictator for life over a man of science.
“No one asked for your opinion on how I decorate my home, Mr. Hamilton.” Jefferson can't believe he agreed to host Adams and Hamilton so they could appease Washington's wish to sort their current argument out. All four of them must be aware that nothing will come of it!
Hamilton shrugs. “Perhaps not, but has anyone ever told you how off putting it is to have so many busts of people around your house?”
"No."
“Then I see it as my duty, as the voice of the people, to tell you it is very concerning, even for someone like you, Mr. Jefferson.” Hamilton grins up at him, smug as ever. “Though I suppose this reflects you well.”
“This?”
“Monticello,” Hamilton specifies. Then, looking around, he adds: “Where is yours?”
"Mine?"
“Your bust. You do not have one of your own likeness?” There is something like genuine surprise in his voice and Jefferson isn’t sure what to make of the fact that either Hamilton thinks him a part of those great men -unlikely- or Hamilton thinks he is so vain.
“These are portraits and busts of people I admire,” he answers. “...Why? Do you think I am someone to be admired, Mr. Hamilton? You flatter me,” He adds, certain this will get the biggest rise out of the man.
Instead, Hamilton turns serious for a moment. “You did write the declaration of independence and I- the soldiers of the army read it in the camps.” A pause, then the usual challenge is back in Hamilton’s voice. “Of course, I would have written it a bit differently, and perhaps better. … But I can't say I disagree with its content.”
Jefferson looks at him and the moment is strange. He didn't know Hamilton had read his work in the army. Just then it occurs to Jefferson that there is over a decade between them. It would make sense for Hamilton to have heard of him before Jefferson had heard of him.
“Are… you implying you-” His words are quiet and hesitant, more wondering to himself if-...
Hamilton goes on speaking. “That is until I met you, of course.”
Jefferson hums. “Of course.”
“You really have none?” Hamilton returns to where they started.
“You think I should get one?”
“Well, it seems we have disagreed with each other on multiple things for some time now.”
“Good to know your politics and opinions are based on the simple principle of disagreeing with me,” Jefferson responds dryly.
“That is untrue. In this case, for example, it would mean I would have to argue for you to get a bust of yourself in this case, which I will not. But generally, someone has to stand up to your ludicrous nonsense.”
“How humble of you,” he comments. “Oh pray tell, gallant hero of our nation, where is your bust then?”
Hamilton grins as if he had been waiting for Jefferson to say those words. “The exact same question I was going to ask you, Mr. Jefferson. Where is mine?”
Jefferson laughs out loud. The mere thought is ridiculous enough that he bends over, leaning on his walking stick to keep himself halfway upright while he fights for breath through his laughter.
“That would satisfy you, no? A bust of yourself here?”
“I meant it. I am a great man.” And suddenly there is anger, there is desperation and something… raw… “I am not- will not and refuse to be a footnote in someone else's story!”
Jefferson’s laughter stops.
Touched a nerve, didn't he? Something Jefferson had seen glimpses of whenever they argued his financial plan; it was clear it was a far more personal matter for Hamilton to get it through than for the rest of his party.
The ridiculous thing, Jefferson realizes, looking at a seething Hamilton, the poker face of a politician lost -and he can see the desperation beneath clear as day-, is that he would agree with that statement, on a factual level. Certainly, Hamilton had made himself a name as Washington's right hand man but he had written enough papers in defense of their young government that are his and his alone. Not to mention that he holds the position of first treasury secretary, as long as their nation persists so will their positions. No one could ever take that away from him.
A second passes, the moment along with it as well.
Hamilton turns, shrugging. His haughty expression is back in place as he vaguely gestures to the next portrait. “Like I said, you can have yours, too.”