Looking around the gathered Nobel Prize winners he had invited to a White House dinner, John F. Kennedy declared, ‘I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered together at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.’
That quotation, included by Jon Meacham in his enthralling biography of Jefferson, gives a measure of the man, and the man fully deserves such a biography. Not that it’s a simple hagiography: Meacham paints his subject in the round, not glossing over the difficult moments in his life story, such as the 1781 moment when, as governor of Virginia, his retreat before the British troops of the bloodthirsty Banastre Tarleton led to serious criticism of his performance, which would never be entirely expunged.
But Meacham goes further. He shows that as well as being a philosopher and a man of principle, capable of drafting the inspiring sentiments of the Declaration of Independence, Jefferson was also a practical politician perfectly prepared to act in ways that some might regard as contrary to those principles, when concrete circumstance demanded it of him. I entirely sympathise with his denunciation of the Alien and Sedition Acts of his predecessor as president, and rival, John Adams; I equally admire him for having the courage to take decisions on his own responsibility to defend his nation against British hostility and to extend its territory through the Louisiana purchase, although by doing so he increased the power of the executive presidency far beyond anything Adams had attempted.
The ability to adhere to key principles, and to uphold them sincerely, while at the same time reaching the compromises needed for the real exercise of political authority, is a talent few have attained and which the world would do well to rediscover today. Jefferson had it in spades.
Of course, at times this brilliantly skillful duality can look perilously like self-contradiction or even hypocrisy. Nowhere is that clearer than in the matter of slavery and, more particularly, the longstanding relationship Jefferson maintained with one particular slave, Sally Hemings, with whom he had several children. Like Washington or Patrick Henry (‘give me liberty or give me death’), Jefferson could perfectly well see that slavery was shameful and his new nation would at some stage need to lance that boil; he could equally well see the contradiction between that sense of horror and his continuing to own slaves and, in Hemings’s case, to maintain a sexual relationship with one of them – a sexual relationship with someone over whom he had power of ownership.
Meacham does not skirt around these matters but simply states the facts, points to Jefferson’s silence on the Hemings issue, and talks about the hints at justification that came from his pen: slavery was simply not an issue that could be tackled at that time, or not for a bearable political cost – though the political cost that would in the end be borne, in a bitter civil war and the first assassination of a president, was arguably vastly higher for having been delayed. In passing, it’s worth noting that John Dickinson, fellow revolutionary and member of the Continental Congress from Pennsylvania, hung behind Jefferson in willingness to break decisively from Britain, but far outpaced him in this other, harder field when he freed his slaves – Jefferson only ever freed the Hemings and then only on his death.
What emerges from Meacham’s work is therefore a complete picture of a man, a man of towering intellect and courage, which the clear presentation of his failings highlights all the more strongly in contrast. And Meacham presents all this in the most readable of prose (or, in my case listenable, since I chose an audio edition). Both the subject matter and the way the story is told mean that anyone who likes biography and is interested in the man or his times, has to put Thomas Jefferson: the Art of Power, at the top of their must-read list.