Lincoln in the Bardo(9)
roger bevins iii
And opened it.
hans vollman
Kneeling before the box, the man looked down upon that which— the reverend everly thomas
He looked down upon the lad’s supine form in the sick-box.
hans vollman
Yes.
the reverend everly thomas
At which point, he sobbed.
hans vollman
He had been sobbing all along.
roger bevins iii
He emitted a single, heartrending sob.
hans vollman
Or gasp. I heard it as more of a gasp. A gasp of recognition.
the reverend everly thomas
Of recollection.
hans vollman
Of suddenly remembering what had been lost.
the reverend everly thomas
And touched the face and hair fondly.
hans vollman
As no doubt he had many times done when the boy was— roger bevins iii
Less sick.
hans vollman
A gasp of recognition, as if to say: Here he is again, my child, just as he was. I have found him again, he who was so dear to me.
the reverend everly thomas
Who was still so dear.
hans vollman
Yes.
roger bevins iii
The loss having been quite recent.
the reverend everly thomas
XVII.
Willie Lincoln was wasting away.
Epstein, op. cit.
The days dragged wearily by, and he grew weaker and more shadow-like.
Keckley, op. cit.
Lincoln’s secretary, William Stoddard, recalled the question on everyone’s lips: “Is there no hope? Not any. So the doctors say.”
In “Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln,” by Doris Kearns Goodwin.
At about 5 o’clock this afternoon, I was lying half asleep on the sofa in my office, when his entrance aroused me. “Well, Nicolay,” said he choking with emotion, “my boy is gone—he is actually gone!” and bursting into tears, turned and went into his own office.
In “With Lincoln in the White House,” by John G. Nicolay, edited by Michael Burlingame.
The death was only moments ago. The body lay upon the bed, the coverlet thrown back. He wore the pale blue pajamas. His arms lay at his sides. The cheeks were still enflamed. Three pillows lay in a heap on the floor. The small side table was askew, as if roughly pushed aside.
In “Eyewitness to History: The Lincoln White House,” edited by Stone Hilyard, account of Sophie Lenox, maid.
I assisted in washing him and dressing him, and then laid him on the bed, when Mr. Lincoln came in. I never saw a man so bowed down with grief. He came to the bed, lifted the cover from the face of his child, gazed at it long and lovingly, and earnestly, murmuring, “My poor boy, he was too good for this earth. God has called him home. I know that he is much better off in heaven, but then we loved him so. It is hard, hard to have him die!”
Keckley, op. cit.
He was his father’s favorite. They were intimates—often seen hand in hand.
Keckley, op. cit., account of Nathaniel Parker Willis.
He was his father over again both in magnetic personality and in all his gifts and tastes.
In “Lincoln’s Sons,” by Ruth Painter Randall.
He was the child in whom Lincoln had invested his fondest hopes; a small mirror of himself, as it were, to whom he could speak frankly, openly, and confidingly.
In “Reckoning: An Insider’s Memories of Difficult Times,” by Tyron Philian.
Will was the true picture of Mr. Lincoln, in every way, even to carrying his head slightly inclined toward his left shoulder.
Burlingame, op. cit., account of a Springfield neighbor.
One feels such love for the little ones, such anticipation that all that is lovely in life will be known by them, such fondness for that set of attributes manifested uniquely in each: mannerisms of bravado, of vulnerability, habits of speech and mispronouncement and so forth; the smell of the hair and head, the feel of the tiny hand in yours—and then the little one is gone! Taken! One is thunderstruck that such a brutal violation has occurred in what had previously seemed a benevolent world. From nothingness, there arose great love; now, its source nullified, that love, searching and sick, converts to the most abysmal suffering imaginable.
In “Essay Upon the Loss of a Child,” by Mrs. Rose Milland.
“This is the hardest trial of my life,” he confessed to the nurse, and in a spirit of rebellion this man, overweighted with care and sorrows, cried out: “Why is it? Why is it?”
In “Abraham Lincoln: The Boy and the Man,” by James Morgan.
Great sobs choked his utterance. He buried his head in his hands, and his tall frame was convulsed with emotion. I stood at the foot of the bed, my eyes full of tears, looking at the man in silent, awe-stricken wonder. His grief unnerved him, and made him a weak, passive child. I did not dream that his rugged nature could be so moved. I shall never forget those solemn moments—genius and greatness weeping over love’s lost idol.
Keckley, op. cit.
XVIII.
Willie Lincoln was the most lovable boy I ever knew, bright, sensible, sweet-tempered and gentle-mannered.
In “Tad Lincoln’s Father,” by Julia Taft Bayne.
He was the sort of child people imagine their children will be, before they have children.