George Saunders: Lincoln in the Bardo

Had no driver with him but had arrived alone on small horse which I was quite surprised at him being Pres and all and say his legs are quite long and his horse quite short so it appeared some sort of man-sized insect had attached itself to that poor unfortunate nag who freed of his burden stood tired and hangdog and panting as if thinking I will have quite the story to tell the other horsies upon my return if they are still awake at which time Pres requested key to Carroll crypt and accordingly I handed it over and watched him wander off across grounds wishing I’d had courtesy at least to offer him loan of lamp which he did not have one but went forth into that stygian dark like pilgrim going forward into a trackless desert Tom it was awful sad.

Tom here is the strange part he has been gone for ever so long. Is still gone as I write. Where is he Tom. Lost is he lost. Lost in there or fell and broke something lying there crying out.

Just now stepped out listened no cries.

Where is he at this time do not know Tom.

Maybe out there in woods somewhere recovering from visit indulging in solitary cry?

In watchman’s logbook, 1860–78, Oak Hill Cemetery, entry by Jack Manders, night of February 25, 1862, quoted by arrangement with Mr. Edward Sansibel.

It would be difficult to overstate the vivifying effect this visitation had on our community.

hans vollman

Individuals we had not seen in years walked out, crawled out, stood shyly wringing their hands in delighted incredulity.

the reverend everly thomas

Individuals we had never seen before, now made their anxious debuts.

roger bevins iii

Who knew Edenston to be a tiny man in green, wig askew? Who knew Cravwell to be a giraffe-like woman in spectacles, holding a book of light verse she had written?

hans vollman

Flattery, deference, smiles, ringing laughter, affectionate greetings were the order of the day.

roger bevins iii

Men milled about under that high February moon, complimenting each other’s suits, enacting familiar gestures: kicking at the dirt, throwing a stone, feigning a punch. Women held hands, faces upturned, calling one another lovely and dear, pausing beneath trees to exchange strange confidences withheld during many years of seclusion.

the reverend everly thomas

People were happy, that was what it was; they had recovered that notion.

hans vollman

It was the idea, the very idea, that someone—

roger bevins iii

From that other place—

hans vollman

That someone from that other place would deign to—

roger bevins iii

It was the touching that was unusual.

the reverend everly thomas

It was not unusual for people from that previous place to be around.

hans vollman

Oh, they were around often enough.

the reverend everly thomas

With their cigars, wreaths, tears, crepe, heavy carriages, black horses stamping at the gate.

roger bevins iii

Their rumors, their discomfort, their hissing of things having nothing at all to do with us.

the reverend everly thomas

Their warm flesh, steaming breath, moist eyeballs, chafing undergarments.

roger bevins iii

Their terrible shovels laid carelessly against our trees.

the reverend everly thomas

But the touching. My God!

hans vollman

Not that they didn’t sometimes touch us.

roger bevins iii

Oh, they’d touch you, all right. They’d wrangle you into your sick-box.

hans vollman

Dress you how they wanted you. Stitch and paint you as necessary.

roger bevins iii

But once they had you how they wanted you, they never touched you again.

hans vollman

Well, Ravenden.

the reverend everly thomas

They touched Ravenden again.

roger bevins iii

But that sort of touching—

hans vollman

No one wants that sort of touching.

the reverend everly thomas

The roof of his stone home was leaking. His sick-box had been damaged.

roger bevins iii

They hauled it into the daylight, threw open the lid.

the reverend everly thomas

It was autumn and leaves were falling all over the poor fellow. Proud type, too. Banker. Claimed to have owned a mansion on the—

hans vollman

They yanked him out of the box and dropped him — thump! — into a new one. Then asked, in jest, had it hurt, and, if so, did he wish to file a complaint? Then they enjoyed a lengthy smoke, poor Ravenden (half in and half out, head tilted at a most uncomfortable angle) calling out feebly all the while for them to kindly place him in a less unseemly—

the reverend everly thomas

That kind of touching—

roger bevins iii

No one wants that.

hans vollman

But this — this was different.

roger bevins iii

The holding, the lingering, the kind words whispered directly into the ear? My God! My God!

the reverend everly thomas

To be touched so lovingly, so fondly, as if one were still—

roger bevins iii

Healthy.

hans vollman

As if one were still worthy of affection and respect?

It was cheering. It gave us hope.

the reverend everly thomas

We were perhaps not so unlovable as we had come to believe.

roger bevins iii

Please do not misunderstand. We had been mothers, fathers. Had been husbands of many years, men of import, who had come here, that first day, accompanied by crowds so vast and sorrowful that, surging forward to hear the oration, they had damaged fences beyond repair. Had been young wives, diverted here during childbirth, our gentle qualities stripped from us by the naked pain of that circumstance, who left behind husbands so enamored of us, so tormented by the horror of those last moments (the notion that we had gone down that awful black hole pain-sundered from ourselves) that they had never loved again. Had been bulky men, quietly content, who, in our first youth, had come to grasp our own unremarkableness and had, cheerfully (as if bemusedly accepting a heavy burden), shifted our life’s focus; if we would not be great, we would be useful; would be rich, and kind, and thereby able to effect good: smiling, hands in pockets, watching the world we had subtly improved walking past (this empty dowry filled; that education secretly funded). Had been affable, joking servants, of whom our masters had grown fond for the cheering words we managed as they launched forth on days full of import. Had been grandmothers, tolerant and frank, recipients of certain dark secrets, who, by the quality of their unjudging listening, granted tacit forgiveness, and thus let in the sun. What I mean to say is, we had been considerable. Had been loved. Not lonely, not lost, not freakish, but wise, each in his or her own way. Our departures caused pain. Those who had loved us sat upon their beds, heads in hand; lowered their faces to tabletops, making animal noises. We had been loved, I say, and remembering us, even many years later, people would smile, briefly gladdened at the memory.

the reverend everly thomas

And yet.

roger bevins iii

And yet no one had ever come here to hold one of us, while speaking so tenderly.

hans vollman

Ever.

roger bevins iii

Before long a sea of us surrounded the white stone home.

the reverend everly thomas

And pushing forward, pressed the boy for details: How had it felt, being held like that? Had the visitor really promised to come again? Had he offered any hope for the alteration of the boy’s fundamental circumstance? If so, might said hope extend to us as well?

roger bevins iii