Envy of the Enviable
What John remembers most of Philadelphia's fetid, filthy, enervating, exciting summer isn't the power of finally being heard. It's the sight of Jefferson's hands on the bow of his violin, ink-stained, fiddling "Les Petite Demoiselles" far into the night.
These are forbidden memories, the touch of a hand placed too long upon the thigh, a stare of too many seconds, a trace of black ink upon the inside of his thigh, the back of his neck or the tip of his nose. These are the secrets that are his alone to be divined. He sees Jefferson with Martha again and feels a sting so sharp he must hide his disapproval in further bluster.
(Much later, in France, when he meets Abigail, Jefferson will look at him with as much envy, and John will feel a thrill of pompous energy race through him. There are days when he believes that to be envied by the enviable is the most worthy of goals.)