November 30th, 1775
Dr. Trefusis’s ingenuity is marvelous. We have been here but ten days, and he has got himself introduced into the finest houses in Norfolk; he has written to Lord Dunmore, describing his experiments and begging permission to visit with his ex-slave Octavian Nothing; and he received a written pass, that he might spend one hour with me this evening under the pretext that my lessons must continue, if his philosophic endeavors are not to founder through disuse. He was merry, and we sate in an office in the warehouse while he feigned instruction and I feigned learning.
Serjeant Clippinger could not conceal his distaste and jealous suspicion of this connection, and scrutizined Dr. Trefusis for all the marks of a spy. Throughout the time of our discourse, he paced past us, frowning.
Our hour was spent pleasantly. I wished to speak to him of my silence; of my name, Buckra; but he was so giddy, his hands strapped about his knees, rocking, that I could not.
Dr. Trefusis informed me that he is become marvelous familiar with various of the local gentry and the officers, and has been entertained in parlors of the most gracious rank, having merited introduction by the rumor that in his youth he was in attendance at Versailles and Sanssouci.
The principle pleasure of these audiences, says Dr. Trefusis, lies in referring to royalty without either revealing or denying the closeness of his connection, viz. “You know, sir, His Majesty, Frederick of Prussia, once said after supper . . .”; or “Philippe d’Orléans, of course, was no enemy to flatulence; I recall Louis XIV used to jest about how his late brother held contests in after-dinner eructation en famille,” which careless talk greatly discomfited his hosts, who wished to determine the rank of the man to whom they spake.
“Am I tramp or baron?” mused Dr. Trefusis. “My wig saith baron, but my odor saith tramp.”
“’Sdeath,” Serjeant Clippinger interrupted, “you’re to be teaching the Negro somewhat, sir, yea? Or absent from military property, if y’please.”
“I am indeed teaching him,” Dr. Trefusis insisted. “About odor, which is what Locke would call a secondary quality of bodies. What is unexpected is that time has a smell, Octavian; how else might we explain that old men exude the scent of years?” He held his wrist to his nose. “’Tis startling when one acquires it oneself.”
I inquired, “Is it not surprising, sir, that despite its long continuance and your constant intimacy with it, you can smell it still?”
“Passing over your delightfully clumsy reference to the extremity of my age, it is indeed surprising. The human primarily observes change; those things which remain unchanging become invisible to us. A smell to which we are long accustomed ceases to be a smell; objects hung upon the wall for years no longer garner interest.”
I remarked that I had thought the same of a shackle (when I was sitting enchained) or a bit in the mouth.
Dr. Trefusis, noting that Serjeant Clippinger had passed on, asked intently, “What mean you?”
I said, “A shackle on the wrist the first day is an outrage; after weeks or months, it belongs to one, and one would feel nakedness without it.”
For a long while, Dr. Trefusis regarded me warily. Said he, “Indeed. Indeed. One forgets that one is shackled. One forgets that one smells. This focus is necessary for our operation: Did we see every brick and tree anew each time we saw it, did we encounter every personage we met as an infant does, were we sensible of every outrage every moment, perception had disordered us to so great a degree we should not be able to carry on the business of life. So what the senses notice is primarily that which doth change.
“And yet,” he mused, patting at his waistcoat, “the change from youth into age one perceiveth not. You awake one morning, and find you have smelled of old man for some time. You have been deceived by the passing sameness of days; they have accumulated upon you like powder. A vaguely”— he sniffed —“moth-scented powder.”
“D’ye say,” said Serjeant Clippinger, returned with sarcasm heavy in his voice, “that this lesson is to make a better soldier of him?”
“Indeed, Serjeant. It improves him.”
“He don’t need improvement,” said Clippinger. “He’s a private.”
“I would think,” said Trefusis, “that to make a man a good soldier, you first must make a man worth losing.”