In my early days here, I only now recalled, I had, yes, for a brief period, understood myself to be—
roger bevins iii
But then you saw the truth. Saw that you moved around, and spoke, and thought, and that, therefore, must be merely sick, with some previously unknown malady, and could not possibly be—
hans vollman
It gave me pause.
roger bevins iii
I was good, the lad said. Or tried to be. I want to do good now. And go where I should. Where I should have gone in the first place. Father will not return here. And none of us will ever be allowed back to that previous place.
hans vollman
He was hopping with joy now, like a toddler too full of water.
Look, join me, he said. Everyone! Why stay? There’s nothing to it. We’re done. Don’t you see?
roger bevins iii
Purdy, Bark, and Ella Blow, within the window casement, went, in a triply blinding blast of the matterlightblooming phenomenon.
hans vollman
Followed quickly by Verna Blow, there below, unwilling to endure (as she had been made to endure, for so long, in that previous place) an existence without her mother.
roger bevins iii
I knew it! the lad shouted. I knew something was off with me!
hans vollman
His flesh seemed thin as parchment; tremors ran through his body.
roger bevins iii
His form (as sometimes happens to those about to go) began flickering between the various selves he had been in that previous place: purple newborn, squalling naked infant, jelly-faced toddler, feverish boy on sick-bed.
hans vollman
Then, with no change in size at all (i.e., while still child-sized), he displayed his various future-forms (forms he had, alas, never succeeded in attaining):
Nervous young man in wedding-coat;
Naked husband, wet-groined with recent pleasure;
Young father leaping out of bed to light a candle at a child’s cry;
Grieving widower, hair gone white;
Bent ancient fellow with an ear trumpet, athwart a stump, swatting at flies.
roger bevins iii
All the while seeming quite innocent of these alterations.
hans vollman
Oh, it was nice, he said sadly. So nice there. But we can’t go back. To how we were. All we can do is what we should.
roger bevins iii
Then, drawing a deep breath, closing his eyes—
hans vollman
He went.
roger bevins iii
The lad went.
hans vollman
Never before had Mr. Vollman or I been so proximate to the matterlightblooming phenomenon and its familiar, but always bone-chilling, firesound.
roger bevins iii
The resulting explosion knocked us off our feet.
hans vollman
Squinting up from the floor, we caught a brief last glimpse of the pale baby-face, a pair of anticipation-fisted hands, an arched little back.
roger bevins iii
And he was gone.
hans vollman
His little gray suit lingering behind for the briefest instant.
roger bevins iii
XCII.
I am Willie I am Willie I am even yet
Am not
Willie
Not willie but somehow
Less
More
All is Allowed now All is allowed me now All is allowed lightlightlight me now
Getting up out of bed and going down to the party, allowed
Candy bees, allowed
Chunks of cake, allowed!
Punch (even rum punch), allowed!
Let that band play louder!
Swinging from the chandelier, allowed; floating up to ceiling, allowed; going to window to have a look out, allowed allowed allowed!
Flying out window, allowed, allowed (the entire laughing party of guests happily joining behind me, urging me to please, yes, fly away) (saying oh, he feels much better now, he does not seem sick at all!)!
Whatever that former fellow (willie) had, must now be given back (is given back gladly) as it never was mine (never his) and therefore is not being taken away, not at all!
As I (who was of willie but is no longer (merely) of willie) return
To such beauty.
willie lincoln
XCIII.
There in his seat, Mr. Lincoln startled.
roger bevins iii
Like a schoolboy jolting suddenly awake in class.
hans vollman
Looked around.
roger bevins iii
Momentarily unsure, it seemed, of where he was.
hans vollman
Then got to his feet and made for the door.
roger bevins iii
The lad’s departure having set him free.
hans vollman
So quickly did he move that he passed through us before we could step aside.
roger bevins iii
And again, briefly, we knew him.
hans vollman
XCIV.
His boy was gone; his boy was no more.
hans vollman
His boy was nowhere; his boy was everywhere.
roger bevins iii
There was nothing here for him now.
hans vollman
His boy was no more here than anyplace else, that is. There was nothing special, anymore, about this place.
roger bevins iii
His continued presence here was wrong; was wallowing.
hans vollman
His having come here at all a detour and a weakness.
roger bevins iii
His mind was freshly inclined toward sorrow; toward the fact that the world was full of sorrow; that everyone labored under some burden of sorrow; that all were suffering; that whatever way one took in this world, one must try to remember that all were suffering (none content; all wronged, neglected, overlooked, misunderstood), and therefore one must do what one could to lighten the load of those with whom one came into contact; that his current state of sorrow was not uniquely his, not at all, but, rather, its like had been felt, would yet be felt, by scores of others, in all times, in every time, and must not be prolonged or exaggerated, because, in this state, he could be of no help to anyone and, given that his position in the world situated him to be either of great help or great harm, it would not do to stay low, if he could help it.
hans vollman
All were in sorrow, or had been, or soon would be.
roger bevins iii
It was the nature of things.
hans vollman
Though on the surface it seemed every person was different, this was not true.
roger bevins iii
At the core of each lay suffering; our eventual end, the many losses we must experience on the way to that end.
hans vollman
We must try to see one another in this way.
roger bevins iii
As suffering, limited beings—
hans vollman
Perennially outmatched by circumstance, inadequately endowed with compensatory graces.
roger bevins iii
His sympathy extended to all in this instant, blundering, in its strict logic, across all divides.
hans vollman
He was leaving here broken, awed, humbled, diminished.
roger bevins iii
Ready to believe anything of this world.
hans vollman
Made less rigidly himself through this loss.
roger bevins iii
Therefore quite powerful.
hans vollman
Reduced, ruined, remade.
roger bevins iii
Merciful, patient, dazzled.
hans vollman
And yet.
roger bevins iii
And yet.
He was in a fight. Although those he foug
ht were also suffering, limited beings, he must—
hans vollman
Obliterate them.
roger bevins iii
Kill them and deny them their livelihood and force them back into the fold.
hans vollman
He must (we must, we felt) do all we could, in light of the many soldiers lying dead and wounded, in open fields, all across the land, weeds violating their torsos, eyeballs pecked out or dissolving, lips hideously retracted, rain-soaked/blood-soaked/snow-crusted letters scattered about them, to ensure that we did not, as we trod that difficult path we were now well upon, blunder, blunder further (we had blundered so badly already) and, in so blundering, ruin more, more of these boys, each of whom was once dear to someone.
Ruinmore, ruinmore, we felt, must endeavor not to ruinmore.
Our grief must be defeated; it must not become our master, and make us ineffective, and put us even deeper into the ditch.
roger bevins iii
We must, to do the maximum good, bring the thing to its swiftest halt and—
hans vollman
Kill.
roger bevins iii
Kill more efficiently.
hans vollman
Hold nothing back.
roger bevins iii
Make the blood flow.
hans vollman
Bleed and bleed the enemy until his good sense be reborn.
roger bevins iii
The swiftest halt to the thing (therefore the greatest mercy) might be the bloodiest.
hans vollman
Must end suffering by causing more suffering.
roger bevins iii
We were low, lost, an object of ridicule, had almost nothing left, were failing, must take some action to halt our fall, and restore ourselves to ourselves.
hans vollman
Must win. Must win the thing.
roger bevins iii
His heart dropped at the thought of the killing.
hans vollman
Did the thing merit it. Merit the killing. On the surface it was a technicality (mere Union) but seen deeper, it was something more. How should men live? How could men live? Now he recalled the boy he had been (hiding from Father to read Bunyan; raising rabbits to gain a few coins; standing in town as the gaunt daily parade drawled out the hard talk hunger made; having to reel back when one of those more fortunate passed merrily by in a carriage), feeling strange and odd (smart too, superior), long-legged, always knocking things over, called names (Ape Lincoln, Spider, Ape-a-ham, Monstrous-Tall), but also thinking, quietly, there inside himself, that he might someday get something for himself. And then, going out to get it, he had found the way clear—his wit was quick, people liked him for his bumbling and his ferocity of purpose, and the peach orchards and haystacks and young girls and ancient wild meadows drove him nearly mad with their beauty, and strange animals moved in lazy mobs along muddy rivers, rivers crossable only with the aid of some old rowing hermit who spoke a language barely English, and all of it, all of that bounty, was for everyone, for everyone to use, seemingly put here to teach a man to be free, to teach that a man could be free, that any man, any free white man, could come from as low a place as he had (a rutting sound coming from the Cane cabin, he had looked in through the open door and seen two pairs of still-socked feet and a baby toddling past, steadying herself by grasping one of the rutters’ feet), and even a young fellow who had seen that, and lived among those, might rise, here, as high as he was inclined to go.
And that, against this: the king-types who would snatch the apple from your hand and claim to have grown it, even though what they had, had come to them intact, or been gained unfairly (the nature of that unfairness perhaps being just that they had been born stronger, more clever, more energetic than others), and who, having seized the apple, would eat it so proudly, they seemed to think that not only had they grown it, but had invented the very idea of fruit, too, and the cost of this lie fell on the hearts of the low (Mr. Bellway rushing his children off their Sangamon porch as he and Father slumped past with that heavy bag of grain drooping between them).
Across the sea fat kings watched and were gleeful, that something begun so well had now gone off the rails (as down South similar kings watched), and if it went off the rails, so went the whole kit, forever, and if someone ever thought to start it up again, well, it would be said (and said truly): The rabble cannot manage itself.
Well, the rabble could. The rabble would.
He would lead the rabble in managing.
The thing would be won.
roger bevins iii
Our Willie would not wish us hobbled in that attempt by a vain and useless grief.
hans vollman
In our mind the lad stood atop a hill, merrily waving to us, urging us to be brave and resolve the thing.
roger bevins iii
But (we stopped ourselves short) was this not just wishful thinking? Weren’t we, in order to enable ourselves to go on, positing from our boy a blessing we could not possibly verify?
Yes.
Yes we were.
hans vollman
But we must do so, and believe it, or else we were ruined.
roger bevins iii
And we must not be ruined.
hans vollman
But must go on.
roger bevins iii
We saw all of this in the instant it took Mr. Lincoln to pass through us.
hans vollman
And then he was out the door, and into the night.
roger bevins iii
XCV.
We black folks had not gone into the church with the others.
Our experience having been that white people are not especially fond of having us in their churches. Unless it is to hold a baby, or prop up or hand-fan some old one.
Then here came that tall white man out the door, right at me.
I held my ground as he passed through and got something along the lines of I will go on, I will. With God’s help. Though it seems killing must go hard against the will of God. Where might God stand on this. He has shown us. He could stop it. But has not. We must see God not as a Him (some linear rewarding fellow) but an IT, a great beast beyond our understanding, who wants something from us, and we must give it, and all we may control is the spirit in which we give it and the ultimate end which the giving serves. What end does IT wish served? I do not know. What IT wants, it seems, for now, is blood, more blood, and to alter things from what they are, to what IT wills they should be. But what that new state is, I do not know, and patiently wait to learn, even as those three thousand fallen stare foul-eyed at me, working dead hands anxiously, asking, What end might this thing yet attain, that will make our terrible sacrifice worthwh—
Then he was through me and I was glad.
Near the front gate stood Mr. Havens, square in that white man’s path, as I had been, but doing, then, something I had not the nerve (nor desire) to do.
mrs. francis hodge
XCVI.
I don’t know what came over me. Never, in that previous place, had I been a rash person. What need had I to be? Mr. Conner, and his good wife, and all of their children and grandchildren were like family to me. Never was I separated from my own wife or children. We ate well, were never beaten. They had given us a small but attractive yellow cottage. It was a happy arrangement, all things considered.
So I don’t know what came over me.
As that gentleman passed through, I felt a kinship.
And decided to stay a bit.
Therein.
So there we were, moving along together, me matching him step for step. Which was not easy. His legs were long. I extended my legs, to match his, and extended all of myself, and we were the same size, and out, upon horseback and (forgive me) the thrill of once again riding a horse was too much, and I—I stayed. Therein. What a thrill it was! To be doing what I wished. Without having been ordered to do so, without having sought anyone’s permission. The ceiling of a
lifelong house flew off, if I may put it that way. I knew, of the instant, vast tracts of Indiana and Illinois (full towns in their complete layout and the nature of the hospitality of specific houses therein, though I had never been in either of those places), and came to feel that this fellow—well, my goodness, I will not say what office it seemed to me that he held. I began to feel afraid, occupying someone so accomplished. And yet, I was comfortable in there. And suddenly, wanted him to know me. My life. To know us. Our lot. I don’t know why I felt that way but I did. He had no aversion to me, is how I might put it. Or rather, he had once had such an aversion, still bore traces of it, but, in examining that aversion, pushing it into the light, had somewhat, already, eroded it. He was an open book. An opening book. That had just been opened up somewhat wider. By sorrow. And—by us. By all of us, black and white, who had so recently mass-inhabited him. He had not, it seemed, gone unaffected by that event. Not at all. It had made him sad. Sadder. We had. All of us, white and black, had made him sadder, with our sadness. And now, though it sounds strange to say, he was making me sadder with his sadness, and I thought, Well, sir, if we are going to make a sadness party of it, I have some sadness about which I think someone as powerful as you might like to know. And I thought, then, as hard as I could, of Mrs. Hodge, and Elson, and Litzie, and of all I had heard during our long occupancy in that pit regarding their many troubles and degradations, and called to mind, as well, several others of our race I had known and loved (my Mother; my wife; our children, Paul, Timothy, Gloria; Rance P., his sister Bee; the four little Cushmans), and all the things that they had endured, thinking, Sir, if you are as powerful as I feel that you are, and as inclined toward us as you seem to be, endeavor to do something for us, so that we might do something for ourselves. We are ready, sir; are angry, are capable, our hopes are coiled up so tight as to be deadly, or holy: turn us loose, sir, let us at it, let us show what we can do.