Lincoln in the Bardo Page 16
In the Cleveland “Truth-Sentinel.”
We did not & will not Agree to fite for the Neygar, for whom we do not give a wit.
In “Forgotten Voices of the Civil War,” edited by J. B. Strait, letter from a New York infantryman to Lincoln.
You have seized the reins, made yourself dictator, established a monolithic new form of government which must dominate over the rights of the individual. Your reign presages a terrible time when all of our liberties shall be lost in favor of the rights of the monolith. The founders look on in dismay.
In “The Villain Lincoln,” by R. B. Arnolds, account of Darrel Cumberland.
So we have the dilemma put to us, What to do, when his power must continue two years longer and when the existence of our country may be endangered before he can be replaced by a man of sense. How hard, in order to save the country, to sustain a man who is incompetent.
In “Lincoln Reconsidered,” by David Herbert Donald, letter from George Bancroft to Francis Lieber.
If Abe Lincoln should be re-elected for another term of four years of such wretched administration, we hope that a bold hand will be found to plunge the dagger into the tyrant’s heart for the public welfare.
In the “La Crosse Democrat.”
Old Abe Lincoln
God damn your god damned old Hellfired god damned soul to hell god damn you and goddam your god damned family’s god damned hellfired god damned soul to hell and god damnation god damn them and god damn your god damn friends to hell god damn their god damned souls to damnation god damn them.
Holzer, op. cit.
LXXI.
Well, what of it.
No one who has ever done anything worth doing has gone uncriticized. As regards the matter at hand (as regards him), I am, at least, above any—
Thus thought Mr. Lincoln.
But then his (our) eyes shut, in a slow remembering sorrow-wince.
hans vollman
LXXII.
Harsh whispers made the rounds in those dreadful days, intimating that all that would have been needed to spare the boy’s life was the basic restraining influence of a parent.
In “The Prairie Torment: Lincoln’s Psychology,” by James Spicer.
Willie was so delighted with a little pony, that he insisted on riding it every day. The weather was changeable, and exposure resulted in a severe cold, which deepened into fever.
Keckley, op. cit.
Why, some asked, was a child riding a pony about in the pouring rain, without a coat?
Spicer, op. cit.
Those of us who knew the Lincoln children personally, and saw them running around the White House like a pair of wild savages, will attest to the fact that this was a household in a state of perpetual bedlam, where indiscriminate permission was confused with filial love.
In “Accidental Jehovah: Will, Focus, and the Great Deed,” by Kristen Toles, account of B. Milbank.
[Lincoln] exercised no government of any kind over his household. His children did much as they pleased. Many of their antics he approved, and he restrained them in nothing. He never reproved them or gave them a fatherly frown.
In “Life of Lincoln,” by William H. Herndon and Jesse W. Weik.
He always said “It [is my] pleasure that my children are free—happy & unrestrained by parental tyranny. Love is the chain whereby to Lock a child to its parents.”
In “Herndon’s Informants,” edited by Douglas L. Wilson and Rodney O. Davis, account of Mary Lincoln.
These children would take down the books—Empty ash buckets—coal ashes—inkstand—papers—gold pens—letters &c. &c in a pile and then dance on the pile. Lincoln would say nothing, so abstracted was he and so blinded to his children’s faults. Had they s—–t in Lincoln’s hat and rubbed it on his boots, he would have laughed and thought it smart.
In “Herndon on Lincoln: Letters,” edited by Douglas L. Wilson and Rodney O. Davis, letter to Jesse K. Weik.
They could have raced past him into a shooting match and he would not have glanced up from his work. For Lincoln (all subsequent hagiography aside) was an ambitious man––nearly monomaniacally so.
In “They Knew Him,” edited by Leonora Morehouse, account of Theodore Blasgen.
[Any] man who thinks that Lincoln calmly gathered his robes about him, waiting for the people to call him, has a very erroneous knowledge of Lincoln. He was always calculating, and always planning ahead. His ambition was a little engine that knew no rest.
In “The Inner World of Abraham Lincoln,” by Michael Burlingame, account of William H. Herndon.
One like myself, who long ago made the decision to put aside worldly aspirations for the gentler pleasures of home and family, and to accept, as part of the bargain, a commensurately less glorious public life, can only imagine the dark cloud that must descend upon one’s head at the thought of what might have happened, had all of one’s attention been, as appropriate, on the essential hearthside matters.
In “Wise Words and Collected Letters from a Grandfather” (unpublished manuscript, edited by Simone Grand, used by permission), by Norman G. Grand.
When a child is lost there is no end to the self-torment a parent may inflict. When we love, and the object of our love is small, weak, and vulnerable, and has looked to us and us alone for protection; and when such protection, for whatever reason, has failed, what consolation (what justification, what defense) may there possibly be?
None.
Doubt will fester as long as we live.
And when one occasion of doubt has been addressed, another and then another will arise in its place.
Milland, op. cit.
LXXIII.
Blame and Guilt are the furies that haunt houses where death takes children like Willie Lincoln; and in this case there was more than enough blame to go around.
Epstein, op. cit.
Critics accused the Lincolns of heartlessness, for planning a party while Willie was ill.
Brighney, op. cit.
In retrospect, the memory of that triumphant evening must have been blotted with anguish.
Leech, op. cit.
Finding that Willie continued to grow worse, Mrs. Lincoln determined to withdraw her cards of invitation and postpone the reception. Mr. Lincoln thought that the cards had better not be withdrawn.
Keckley, op. cit.
Willie was burning with fever on the night of the fifth, as his mother dressed for the party. He drew every breath with difficulty. She could see that his lungs were congested and she was frightened.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
At least [Lincoln] advised that the doctor be consulted before any steps were taken. Accordingly Dr. Sloan was called in. He pronounced Willie better, and said that there was every reason for an early recovery.
Keckley, op. cit.
The doctor assured Lincoln that Willie would recover.
In “The President’s Hippocrates,” by Deborah Chase, M.D., account of Joshua Freewell.
The house swelled with the triumphant swaggering music supplied by the Marine Band, which fell on the boy’s feverish mind like the taunts of a healthy playmate.
Sloane, op. cit.
If the party did not hasten the boy’s end it must certainly have exacerbated his suffering.
Mays, op. cit.
A cartoon appeared in a Washington rag called the “Gab & Joust,” showing Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln throwing back glasses of champagne as the boy (with tiny Xs for his eyes) climbed into an open grave, inquiring, “Father, a Glass Before I Go?”
In “The Rudderless Ship: When Presidents Flounder,” by Maureen H. Hedges.
The noise, the revelry, the manic drunken laughter late into the night, the little boy lying there with his high fever, feeling utterly alone, fighting to stave off the presence of the hooded figure near the door!
Spicer, op. cit.
“Father, a Glass Before I Go?”
“Father, a Glass Before I Go?”
“Father, a Glass Befo
re I Go?”
Hedges, op. cit.
The doctor assured Lincoln that Willie would recover.
Chase, op. cit., account of Joshua Freewell.
Lincoln heeded the doctor’s advice.
Stragner, op. cit.
Lincoln failed to overrule the doctor.
Spicer, op. cit.
Electing not to err on the side of caution, the President advised that the party proceed.
Hedges, op. cit.
The party went ahead with the President’s blessing, the little boy suffering horribly upstairs.
Chase, op. cit., account of Joshua Freewell.
LXXIV.
Outside, an owl shrieked.
I became aware of the smell rising up off our suit: linen, sweat, barley.
I had thought not to come here again.
Thus thought Mr. Lincoln.
Yet here I am.
One last look.
And dropped into a country-squat before the sick-box.
His little face again. Little hands. Here they are. Ever will be. Just so. No smile. Ever again. The mouth a tight line. He does not (no) look like he is sleeping. He was an open-mouthed sleeper and many expressions would play across his face as he dreamed and he would sometimes mumble a few silly words.
If there ever really was a Lazarus, there should be nothing preventing the conditions that pertained at that time to pertain here and now.
Then it was quite something: Mr. Lincoln tried to get the sick-form to rise. By making his mind quiet and then opening it up to whatever might exist that he did not know about that might be able to let the (make the) sick-form rise.
Feeling foolish, not truly believing such a thing was even—
Still, it is a vast world and anything might happen.
He stared down at the sick-form, at one finger upon one hand, waiting for the slightest—
Please please please.
But no.
That is superstition.
Will not do.
(Come around, sir, to good sense.)
I was in error when I saw him as fixed and stable and thought I would have him forever. He was never fixed, nor stable, but always just a passing, temporary energy-burst. I had reason to know this. Had he not looked this way at birth, that way at four, another way at seven, been made entirely anew at nine? He had never stayed the same, even instant to instant.
He came out of nothingness, took form, was loved, was always bound to return to nothingness.
Only I did not think it would be so soon.
Or that he would precede us.
Two passing temporarinesses developed feelings for one another.
Two puffs of smoke became mutually fond.
I mistook him for a solidity, and now must pay.
I am not stable and Mary not stable and the very buildings and monuments here not stable and the greater city not stable and the wide world not stable. All alter, are altering, in every instant.
(Are you comforted?)
No.
(It is time.
To go.)
So distracted was I by the intensity of Mr. Lincoln’s musings that I had entirely forgotten my purpose.
But recalled it now.
Stay, I thought. It is imperative that you stay. Let Manders go back alone. Sit on the floor now and be comfortable, and we will usher the boy into you, and who knows what positive outcome may result from this reunion, a reunion which both of you so ardently desire.
I then supplied the most precise mental images I could conjure, of him staying: sitting; being content to sit; sitting comfortably, finding peace via the process of staying, etc., etc.
Time to go.
Thought Mr. Lincoln.
Rising up a bit on his haunches in a pre-leaving way.
When, toddling along, he went down, I swept him up and kissed away his tears. When none were playing with him in Prester’s Lot I came over with an apple and cut it up. For all.
That did the trick.
That and his natural way.
Soon he was bossing and leading.
And now I am to leave him, unhelped, in this awful place?
(You wallow. He is beyond your help. Old Mr. Grasse in Sangamon went to his wife’s grave forty days in a row. At first it seemed admirable but before long we were joking about him and his store went to ruin.)
Therefore, resolved:
Resolved: we must, we must now—
(Cause yourself to have such thoughts, however harsh, as will lead you to do what you know to be right. Look.
Look down.
At him.
At it.
What is it? Frankly investigate that question.
Is it him?)
It is not.
(What is it?)
It is that which used to bear him around. The essential thing (that which was borne, that which we loved) is gone. Though this was part of what we loved (we loved the way he, the combination of spark and bearer, looked and walked and skipped and laughed and played the clown), this, this here, is the lesser part of that beloved contraption. Absent that spark, this, this lying here, is merely—
(Think it. Go ahead. Allow yourself to think that word.)
I would rather not.
(It is true. It will help.)
I need not say it, to feel it, and act upon it.
(It is not right to make a fetish of the thing.)
I will go, I am going, I need no further convincing.
(Say it, though, for truth. Say the word rising up in you.)
Oh my little fellow.
(Absent that spark, this lying here, is merely—
Say it.)
Meat.
An unfortunate—
A most unfortunate conclusion.
I tried again, giving it my all:
Stay, I beseeched. He is not beyond your help. Not at all. You may yet do him much good. Indeed, you may be of more help to him now than you ever were in that previous place.
For his eternity hangs in the balance, sir. If he stays, the misery that will overtake him is quite beyond your imagining.
So: Linger, tarry, do not rush off, sit a spell, make yourself at home, dawdle, and, settling in, be thee content.
I implore you.
I had thought this helpful. It is not. I need not look upon it again. When I need to look upon Willie, I will do so in my heart. As is proper. There where he is yet intact and whole. If I could confer with him, I know he would approve; would tell me it is right that I should go, and come back no more. He was such a noble spirit. His heart loved goodness most.
So good. Dear little chap. Always knew the right thing to do. And would urge me to do it. I will do it now. Though it is hard. All gifts are temporary. I unwillingly surrender this one. And thank you for it. God. Or world. Whoever it was gave it to me, I humbly thank you, and pray that I did right by him, and may, as I go ahead, continue to do right by him.
Love, love, I know what you are.
hans vollman
LXXV.
We had succeeded in hacking our way nearly through the waist-belt with our nails and a sharp stone we had found nearby.
the reverend everly thomas
Almost there! I called in to Mr. Vollman.
roger bevins iii
But it was too late.
the reverend everly thomas
Mr. Lincoln closed the sick-box.
(My heart sank.)
roger bevins iii
Lifted the box, carried it back to the wall-slot, slid it in.
(All was lost.)
the reverend everly thomas
And walked out the door.
roger bevins iii
LXXVI.
Into the now-hushed crowd.
the reverend everly thomas
Which parted meekly to let him through.
roger bevins iii
Gone? the boy cried out.
We had him free now. He pushed out from the wall and, staggering a few steps away, sat on the floo
r.
the reverend everly thomas
Where the tendrils immediately began to take him again.
roger bevins iii
LXXVII.
Come, I said to Mr. Bevins. I, alone, was insufficient. I think we must both try. To stop him.
hans vollman
Reverend, Mr. Bevins said to me. Will you join us? Even one additional mind may make the difference.
Especially a mind as powerful as yours, said Mr. Vollman.
Many years ago, I had joined my friends in performing l’occupation upon an estranged young couple who had snuck into this place after-hours. We had, on that occasion, caused the young people to fornicate. And become re-engaged. A year or so after that reconciliation, the young husband returned to this place, seeking the site of that assignation. Curious, we performed l’occupation again, and found that those causes for dissension which had initially sundered their engagement had, in the fecund climate of marriage, grown and festered, leading, recently, to the self-destruction, by poison, of his young wife.
Our interference on that occasion had, it must be said, left blood on our hands.
I had vowed, there and then, never again to participate in that practice.
But my affection for the boy, and my sense that my earlier inattention had compromised him, caused me now to renounce that oath, and join my friends.
the reverend everly thomas
Dashing out of the white stone home, run-skimming as fast as we could, the three of us closed rapidly on Mr. Lincoln.
roger bevins iii
Then leapt.
hans vollman