Lincoln in the Bardo(54)
LXXXIV.
The stained-glass windows responded dully but substantially to the dim moonlight shining through them.
hans vollman
Suffusing all with a bluish tint.
roger bevins iii All but the first few rows of chairs had been removed since the previous day’s service, and these were somewhat disordered.
hans vollman
Mr. Lincoln sat facing forward, legs thrown out before him, hands clasped in his lap, head lowered.
For a moment I thought he might be sleeping.
But then, as if intuiting our entry, he roused himself and looked around.
roger bevins iii Curious individuals from across the premises were pouring in through the chapel walls like water through a bad mud dam.
Go in, I said to the lad.
hans vollman
The boy blinked twice.
Went in.
roger bevins iii By making to sit in his father’s lap.
hans vollman
As he must often have done in that previous place.
roger bevins iii Seated one inside the other now, they occupied the same physical space, the child a contained version of the man.
hans vollman
LXXXV.
(Father Here I am
What should I
If you tell me to go I will If you tell me stay I will I wait upon your advice Sir) I listened for Father’s reply The moonlight swelled All became more blue ish Father’s mind was blank blankblankblank And then I cannot believe all of this has actually He began remembering Reviewing Certain things About me Concerning my illness What was the name of that woman whose daughter was struck by lightning. In Ponce’s hayfield. Just before, walking through, the two of them had been talking about peaches. The different varieties of peaches. Which kind each preferred. For nights after, they found her wandering Ponce’s, mumbling about peaches, searching for that juncture of the conversation at which she might jump the breach of time and go back, push the girl aside, take the fatal bolt herself. She could not accept that it had happened, but must go over it and over it.
Now I understand.
That afternoon he brought in five rocks on a tray. Meant to try to find the scientific name of each. The rocks are on that tray yet. In the hallway windowsill near his room. (I believe I shall never be able to move them.) Toward dusk I found him sitting on the stairs, tray on his knees.
Well, I don’t feel so good today, he said.
I put my hand on his head.
Burning.
willie lincoln
LXXXVI.
The fever, which had been diagnosed as a cold, developed into typhoid.
Leech, op. cit.
Typhoid works slowly and cruelly over a period of weeks, depriving the victim of digestive function, perforating the bowels, causing hemorrhaging and peritonitis.
Epstein, op. cit.
The debilitating symptoms of his illness took their toll—high fever, diarrhea, painful cramps, internal hemorrhage, vomiting, profound exhaustion, delirium.
Goodwin, op. cit.
Paregoric may ease the racking abdominal pain; delirium may take the child into a haven of sweet dreams, or it may deliver him into a labyrinth of nightmares.
Epstein, op. cit.
The patient was wandering of mind and did not recognize the distracted loving face of the tall man who bent over him.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
The President would come in from his work for the country and pace about the room, head in his hands at the agonized moans his poor boy was making.
Flagg, op. cit.
“Kind little words, which are of the same blood as great and holy deeds,” flowed from his lips constantly.
In “Lincoln as I Knew Him,” by Harold Holzer, account of Elizabeth Todd Grimsley.
Lincoln had the tenderest heart for any one in distress, whether man, beast, or bird.
Holzer, ibid., account of Joshua Fry Speed.
He had a great kindness of heart. His mind was full of tender sensibilities; he was extremely humane.
Wilson and Davis, op. cit., account of Leonard Swett.
I never in my life associated with a man who seemed so ready to serve another.
Holzer, op. cit., account of John H. Littlefield.
He was certainly a very poor hater.
In “Abraham Lincoln: The True Story of a Great Life,” by William H. Herndon and Jesse W. Weik.
How that beloved boy’s sufferings must have tormented one so naturally sympathetic.
Flagg, op. cit.
Willie Lincoln thrashed and moaned and nothing at all could be done.
Hilyard, op. cit., account of D. Strumphort, butler.
The burning cheeks, the frantically roving eyes, the low moans of despair, seemed to signal a great torment within and a corresponding desire to escape it, and be himself again, a happy little fellow.
Hohner, op. cit.
In his thrashing young Willie kicked off the gold and purple bedspread. It lay in a heap on the floor.
Sternlet, op. cit.
The yellow trimmings, gold tassels and fringes did not relieve the gloominess of the regal décor, but instead reminded visitors that darkness and death came even to princes.
Epstein, op. cit.
Now the eyes went dim, all that restless motion came to a halt. That stillness seemed the most terrifying thing of all. He was on his own now. None could help or hinder him on the profound journey which, it seemed, had now begun.