The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (45 page)

These observations have been quite enlightening. Watching Ophelia in her private moments brings irresistibly to mind the following passage from the
Persian Letters
: ‘How wretched a woman is, having such violent desires, when she is deprived of the only man who can appease them; when, left to herself, with nothing to distract her, she must habitually spend her time in longing, in a frenzy of unsatisfied desire.'

So I can be patient with her, because what I have seen through the peephole tells me that I will eventually seduce her. And I must confess to deriving considerable pleasure from watching her when she is unaware of being watched. The sulkiness of her mouth softens and she loses her suspicious expression. She is very aware of her own physical charms, I have discovered. When I saw how, when she changes her clothes, she always examines her body – cupping her breasts, running her hands down her stomach, even squeezing her buttocks – I bought a full-length mirror for her room. Sure enough, she now always undresses before it, looking at herself with a fascination that is exceeded only by my own.

The first evening I saw her rub herself still remains vivid and intense in my memory. She stood completely naked in front of the mirror, her back towards me, and in the shadowy lamplight I could see in the mirror's reflection how her middle-and ring-fingers moved in small, rapid motions at her crotch. Despite the obscenity of her action, there was something elegant in the manner in which she held her fingers, and in the curve of her wrist. Her entire being was engaged in this masturbatory act; she was aware of nothing but her own self-pleasuring. My eyes darted back and forth between her blurring fingers and the trembling globes of her buttocks. I could see her rib-cage, her stomach, rising and falling as her breath quickened. Her fingers slowed their motion, then vanished within her vagina as she clutched tightly her most intimate parts. I heard her sweet, subdued “Unnh!” and my own seed spilled warmly into my palm.

November 19, 1828—

Despite the volume of work, I finished
Meditations
and am already two-thirds through Jean Jacques Rousseau's
Du Contract Social
, which arrived last week. Some things I agree with completely, others I think arguable. On the whole, a notable tract, well-written and profound. I should consider doing a translation.

I think it would be best to deal first with those parts with which I disagree.

Rousseau writes: ‘Man is born free, and yet everywhere we see him in chains. Those who believe themselves the masters of others cease not to be even greater slaves than the people they govern.' Yet is it really so obvious that man is indeed born free? All men are subject to God's will. Morally, He has given us the ten commandments, which men must obey or suffer eternal damnation. Physically, all men are subject to Newton's Three Laws (which, as Newton himself pointed out, are also laws of God). Indeed, the latter laws are even more binding, for no man can fly. Therefore, to say all men are born free is not, strictly speaking, accurate.

This is not mere pedantry on my part, for it leads into the second, more crucial part of my argument. Rousseau writes, ‘Since no man has any natural authority over his fellows, and since force produces no right to any, all justifiable authority among men must be established on the basis of conventions.' Yet I am not sure that some men do not, in fact, have ‘natural authority' over others. Watch a group of children playing together. Inevitably, there will emerge one, or two or three perhaps, who dominate their playmates. There can be no question of ‘conventions' in the minds of toddlers. It is simply that some individuals, through some inherent advantage – physical size, higher intelligence, charm of manner – exert influence over their fellows. The causes of such dominance I cannot fathom, nor can any other man. For those causes, even the simple dominance of brute strength, are determined by God. And, in His eyes, men are clearly not created equal. Moreover, Rousseau himself seems to deny his premise, when later he writes: ‘Liberty not being a fruit that every climate will produce, it is not within the abilities of all peoples.' Whether that assertion is true or false, I shall discuss at another time.

On other, but no less profound, matters – Ophelia earlier this week looked at me and exclaimed, ‘But your face heal up already!' This may seem trivial, except that it is the first time she has really addressed me. I am hoping her comment bespeaks some burgeoning attraction toward me. Usually, she speaks only in response to my own conversation or to make necessary queries. I replied, ‘That's because they were love scratches.' She twisted her mouth and made that peculiar sucking sound by which Negroes express annoyance. I would not tolerate this from any other slave, but with her I merely laughed. For the fact is, I can take her any time I wish. That is my right as her master, and she knows it. But I would much prefer if she comes to me willingly. And, of course, she knows that too.

I have such a feeling of familiarity for her. This is partly because I feel a kinship of race, she being also a mulatto. But I do not feel so strong a kinship that I scorn to fuck her. Our opposing qualities only fuel my passion: that she is fair-skinned where I am dark; that my features are European where hers (save for those unreadable grey eyes) are Negroid; that I am master and she is servant. And, since I have begun watching her through the peephole, I feel as though I know her better than she knows herself. I know she is not as fierce as she pretends, nor as cold. Oh, far from it! That is why, forgetting myself, I reached under her skirt as she was sweeping my study and caressed her plump buttocks. I was speaking to her about some triviality, and she bent over to pick up a piece of paper. It seemed perfectly natural for me to feel her. She reacted immediately, grabbing a candlestick from the table and swinging it at my head. I managed to jerk back just in time to avoid being brained, but the blow stunned me nonetheless. Pain flared through my skull, and in a rage I got up and cuffed her on the side of the head. Her head rocked back, but she poked the candlestick into my stomach, driving the breath out of me, then turned and fled.

I fell to the floor, and by the time I recovered sufficiently to run downstairs, Quashie, my faithful butler, and another house slave Nero, a footman, had already held her. She was screaming obscenities and spitting like a wildcat – the farthest thing from the gorgeous creature I had paid so regrettably large a sum for. I told them to throw her in the gaol. I did not even bother to go and see them do it. I was thoroughly disgusted with her, and my head ached horribly.

November 26, 1828—

Ophelia's attitude is now much improved. I kept her in the gaol for five days without food, though I let her have enough drinking water. I let her out personally. The gaol buzzed with flies amidst the stench of her faeces. Her long confinement, naked, in the sweltering heat of day and chill at night, had left her thin and drawn. Her expression was still defiant, but she was unsteady on her feet. Women are like horses – beautiful, noble animals that need a master's firm hand. I could see that Ophelia was close to breaking-point. But women are NOT horses – I did not want her broken, just tamed. So I watched her up and down, and she crossed her arms across her breasts, not looking at me. I said, ‘I treat my slaves well. I have treated you very well since you came here. But if I do not begin getting the kind of service I paid for, I'll sell you to a master who will not be as... understanding as me. And I'll sell you in a condition that will fetch a very low price. Do you understand?'

She nodded, a bare movement of her averted head.

I said, ‘What?'

She said, ‘Yes.'

I said, ‘I cannot hear you, Ophelia.'

She said, raising her head and looking directly at me. ‘Yes. I understand.'

‘Good,' I said. ‘Clean yourself up and come to my room.'

And I walked off. I am quite proud of how I handled the situation. Ophelia came to my room about half-an-hour later. No doubt she expected I would fuck her, but I just had her tidy up while I wrote some letters. I did not speak to her at all. When she was done, she asked, ‘That go be all?' and I said yes and sent her to her room. I
will
fuck her, but I want her to be willing – or at least cooperative. My hand still remembers the silken feel of her buttocks. But I can wait. (Though I confess that as soon as Ophelia left, I sent urgently for Little Mimber. I didn't even remove her clothes, but took her standing, from behind, with her dress rucked up around her waist.)

December 3, 1828—

Busy week. Transplanted star-apples, oranges and shaddocks out of the garden. Also planted lignum vitae and horse lilac seed there. The boiled wood of the lignum vitae will be a cheap elixir for the slaves. I myself chewed it for three days after Ophelia burst my scalp. In pasture, planted following: corn, plantain suckers, cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, lettuce, parsley, and aloes. This last also good for healing. I put it on my face when Ophelia scratched me. My mother used to give me these medicines since I was an infant, and I suspect that is why I do not ever get sick and why my cuts and bruises heal so much faster than those of other people.

Continuing on
Du Contract Social
: Thomas Hobbes in his
Leviathan
argues that slavery is the result of war and socially desirable. The American revolutionary leader Jefferson also argued that slavery is socially desirable. (Yet I was informed by a well-connected American correspondent that in the original draft of that country's Declaration of Independence, Jefferson had originally included three paragraphs attacking the King of England for his ‘piratical warfare' on the coast of Africa against people who had never offended him. Jefferson deleted these paragraphs under pressure from representatives of the major tobacco and cotton-producing states, but, writes my correspondent, it is a well-known secret that this most eminent of Americans lives with his Negro slave mistress as a man lives with his wife and has even fathered children by her.)

At any rate, it turns out that Rousseau himself, contradictorily, seems to agree with these thinkers. ‘Among the Greeks, whatever the people had to do, they did personally, and were continually assembled in the public square. This they were enabled to be by the mildness of their climate, their exemption from the vice of avarice, and their having a sufficient number of slaves to do their work for them – their important business was liberty... What! Liberty depend on the servitude of slaves for its support? It is not impossible. The two extremes may act upon each other.'

This, to me, is the most fascinating passage of Rousseau's treatise. Despite his initial opposition to slavery, he realizes that no civilized society can be created unless its lesser individuals serve the needs of the greater. That is because gifted men need to concentrate upon philosophical issues without petty distractions. From personal experience, I know this to be an absolute necessity for, if I did not have to run a plantation, I might already have established myself as a modern Aristotle. After all, if what Rousseau says is true, then surely Trinidad can become the Athens of the West Indies! We certainly have the correct climate and sufficient slaves. What we lack is freedom from the vice of avarice. This is a vice from which both masters and slaves need to free themselves. For men of lesser abilities, the truest freedom is freedom from want. Slavery provides this. For a man of greater abilities, the truest freedom not worrying about mundane needs, so that his mind is free to concentrate on the higher realities. Even I, try though I do to resist it, am continually dragged back to this earthly plane by everyday concerns. But I shall redouble my efforts to live up to my highest goals, and this diary shall be my sure anchor!

A major development with Ophelia this week – she bathed me. Since the gaol incident, noted in my entry of Nov. 26, I had planned this to be the next step. But I led up to it very gradually – first, changing my clothes when she was in my room, then having her pull off my boots when I came in, then having her button my shirt, then my breeches when I got dressed in the morning. Ophelia must come to understand that her purpose in life is to serve my smallest need.

I take especial pleasure in coming in at evening and sitting in the planter's chair in the hallway. The first few times, she was tardy in coming to meet me and I took my belt and dealt some blows across her back. Now she knows to look out for me. I do not even swing out the extendable arms of the chair. She does that without demur. I put up one leg on the chair-arm, and she kneels and pulls of my boot, then I put up my other leg and the process is repeated. Once or twice, I have made her pull off my stockings and massage my feet before rising. I like having her kneel before me, watching the top of her bowed head as she does these duties, for I feel as a king must always feel. Not to mention the pleasure of looking down her cleavage, though it is odd that this should thrill me since I have seen her entirely naked.

Previous to this notable day, I had on several occasions made sure to take my bath when she was cleaning the bedroom. This allowed me the opportunity to call her into the bathing room to soap my back or towel my feet dry. On this memorable Tuesday, it had rained quite heavily. I had been out examining the fields and ponds for most of the day, and when I returned home I was muddy and weary. Ophelia pulled off my boots and I told her to draw a hot bath. This took about half-an-hour, to boil the water and carry the pitchers to my bathing room. I sat outside on my porch (I deliberately built my Great House in the English style, in order to make my important English guests feel more comfortable – it is my attention to details which accounts for my success in life) and watched the pelting rain until my porcelain tub, imported directly from Germany, was ready.

Ophelia herself came out to tell me, and I told her to accompany me to the bathing room. She helped me undress readily enough, but when I lowered myself into the steaming water and told her to wash me, she hesitated. I looked up at her expressionlessly, saying nothing. But my message was clear as crystal. Ophelia knew that my sharp glance went straight back to my words of warning when I had released her from jail. She took up the soap and rag.