Lincoln in the Bardo

by George Saunders

  The diamond doors crashed shut.

  It was my turn.

  How did you live? asked the being on the right.

  Seen from this close, he took on the aspect of Mr. Prindle from my old school, whose thin lips used to purse sadistically as he flogged us precisely.

  Tell it truthfully, the other warned, in the voice of my sodden Uncle Gene (always so harsh with me, who had once, drunk, hurled me down the stairs of the granary), as from either side they bumped their heads to mine.

  I endeavored to let them fully in; to hold nothing back, to hide nothing; to provide as true an accounting of my life as was in my power.

  They recoiled even more fiercely than before, and the smaller versions of themselves rushed forward with even larger gray stone pots, into which my yellow-footed judges began to vomit spasmodically.

  I looked at the Christ-emissary.

  His eyes were cast down.

  May we confirm? said the being on the left. From the right came the feces-mirror. From the left the scale.

  Quick check, the Christ-emissary said.

  I turned and ran.

  I was not pursued. I do not know why. They could have caught me easily. Of course they could! As I ran, whips of fire flew past my ears, and I understood, from whispers delivered therefrom, the whips to be saying:

  Tell no one about this.

  Or it will be worse upon your return.

  (Upon my return? I thought, and a splinter of terror entered my heart, and is lodged there still.)

  I ran for days, weeks, months, back up the trail, until one night, stopping to rest, I fell asleep and woke up…here.

  Here again.

  And grateful, so deeply grateful.

  I have been here since and have, as instructed, refrained from speaking of any of this, to anyone.

  What would be the point? For any of us here, it is too late for any alteration of course. All is done. We are shades, immaterial, and since that judgment pertains to what we did (or did not do) in that previous (material) realm, correction is now forever beyond our means. Our work there is finished; we only await payment.

  I have thought long and hard on what might have caused me to merit that terrible punishment.

  I do not know.

  I did not kill, steal, abuse, deceive; was not an adulterer, always tried to be charitable and just; believed in God and endeavored, at all times, to the best of my ability, to live according to His will.

  And yet was damned.

  Was it my (occasional) period of doubt? Was it that I sometimes lusted? Was it my pride, when I had resisted my lust? Was it the timidity I showed by not following my lust? Was it that I wasted my life fulfilling outward forms? Did I, in my familial affairs, commit some indiscretion, oversight, or failing that now escapes my memory? Was it my hubris (utter!) in believing that I, living there (confined by mind and body), could possibly imagine what was going to occur here? Was it some sin so far beyond my ability to comprehend it that even now I remain unaware of it, ready to commit it again?

  I do not know.

  Many times I have been tempted to blurt out the truth to Mr. Bevins and Mr. Vollman: A terrible judgment awaits you, I long to say. Staying here, you merely delay. You are dead, and shall never regain that previous place. At daybreak, when you must return to your bodies, have you not noticed their disgusting states? Do you really believe those hideous wrecks capable of bearing you anywhere ever again? And what is more (I would say, if permitted): you shall not be allowed to linger here forever. None of us shall. We are in rebellion against the will of our Lord, and in time must be broken, and go.

  But, as instructed, I have remained silent.

  This is perhaps the worst of my torments: I may not tell the truth. I may speak, but never about the essential thing. Bevins and Vollman consider me an arrogant hectoring pedant, a droning old man; they roll their eyes when I offer counsel, but little do they know: my counsel is infused with bitter and excellent experience.

  And so I cower and stall, hiding here, knowing all the while (most dreadful) that, though I remain ignorant of what sin I committed, my ledger stands just as it did on that awful day. I have done nothing to improve it since. For there is nothing to do, in this place where no action can matter.

  Terrible.

  Most terrible.

  Is it possible that another person’s experience might differ from mine? That he might proceed to some other place? And have there some entirely divergent experience? Is it possible, that is, that what I saw was only a figment of my mind, my beliefs, my hopes, my secret fears?

  No.

  It was real.

  As real as the trees now swaying above me; as real as the pale gravel trail below; as real as the fading, webbed boy breathing shallowly at my feet, banded down snugly across his chest like a captive of the wild Indians, a victim of my negligence (lost in the above recollections, I had long ago ceased laboring on his behalf); as real as Mr. Vollman and Mr. Bevins, who now came run-skimming up the path, looking happier (far happier) than I had ever before seen them.

  We did it! said Vollman. We actually did it!

  It was us! said Bevins.

  We entered and persuaded the fellow! said Vollman.

  Propelled by mutual joy, they vaulted in tandem on to the roof.

  And indeed: miracle of miracles, they had brought the gentleman back. He entered the clearing below us, holding a lock: the lock to the door of the white stone home, which (though bent in grief) he was tossing up and down in one hand, like an apple.

  The moon shone down brightly, allowing me a first good look at his face.

  And what a face it was.

  the reverend everly thomas

  LXII.

  The nose heavy and somewhat Roman, the cheeks thin and furrowed, the skin bronzed, the lips full, the mouth wide.

  In “Personal Recollections of Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War,” by James R. Gilmore.

  His eyes dark grey, clear, very expressive, and varying with every mood.

  In “The Life of Abraham Lincoln,” by Isaac N. Arnold.

  His eyes were bright, keen, and a luminous gray color.

  In “Lincoln’s Photographs: A Complete Album,” by Lloyd Ostendorf, account of Martin P. S. Rindlaub.

  Gray-brown eyes sunken under thick eyebrows, and as though encircled by deep and dark wrinkles.

  In “Personal Recollections of Mr. Lincoln,” by the Marquis de Chambrun.

  His eyes were a bluish-brown.

  In “Herndon’s Informants,” edited by Douglas L. Wilson and Rodney O. Davis, account of Robert Wilson.

  His eyes were blueish-gray in color—always in deep shadow, however, from the upper lids, which were unusually heavy.

  In “Six Months in the White House: The Story of a Picture,” by F. B. Carpenter.

  Kind blue eyes, over which the lids half dropped.

  In “With Lincoln from Washington to Richmond in 1865,” by John S. Barnes.

  I would say, that the eyes of Prest. Lincoln, were of blueish-grey or rather greyish-blue; for, without being positive, the blue ray was always visible.

  In papers of Ruth Painter Randall, account of Edward Dalton Marchant.

  The saddest eyes of any human being that I have ever seen.

  In “Lincoln’s Melancholy: How Depression Challenged a President and Fueled His Greatness,” by Joshua Wolf Shenk, account of John Widmer.

  None of his pictures do him the slightest justice.

  In the Utica “Herald.”

  The pictures we see of him only half represent him.

  Shenk, op. cit., account of Orlando B. Ficklin.

  In repose, it was the saddest face I ever knew. There were days when I could scarcely look at it without crying.

  Carpenter, op. cit.

  But when he smiled or laughed…

  Ostendorf, op. cit., account of James Miner.

  It brightened, like a lit lantern, when animated.

  In “Lincoln the Man,” by Donn
Piatt, account of a journalist.

  There were more differences between Lincoln dull & Lincoln animated, in facial expression, than I ever saw in any other human being.

  In Wilson and Davis, op. cit., account of Horace White.

  His hair was dark brown, without any tendency to baldness.

  In “The True Story of Mary, Wife of Lincoln,” by Katherine Helm, account of Senator James Harlan.

  His hair was black, still unmixed with gray.

  In “Chiefly About War Matters,” by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

  His hair, well silvered, though the brown then predominated; his beard was more whitened.

  In “A Wisconsin Woman’s Picture of President Lincoln,” by Cordelia A. P. Harvey, in “The Wisconsin Magazine of History.”

  His smile was something most lovely.

  In “A Recollection of the Civil War: With the Leaders at Washington and in the Field in the Sixties,” by Charles A. Dana.

  His ears were large and malformed.

  In “Abraham Lincoln: A Medical Appraisal,” by Abraham M. Gordon.

  When he was in a good humour I always expected him to flap with them like a good-natured elephant.

  In “Ten Years of My Life,” by Princess Felix Salm-Salm.

  His nose was not relatively oversized, but it looked large because of his thin face.

  In “Abraham Lincoln’s Philosophy of Common Sense,” by Edward J. Kempf.

  His nose is rather long but he is rather long himself, so it is a Necessity to keep the proportion complete.

  In “Mary Lincoln: Biography of a Marriage,” by Ruth Painter Randall, account of a soldier.

  His Way of Laughing two was rearly funney and Such awkward Jestures belonged to No other Man they actracted Universal attention from the old Sedate down to the School Boy then in a few Minnets he was as Calm & thoughtful as a Judge on the Bench.

  Wilson and Davis, op. cit., account of Abner Ellis.

  I thought him about the ugliest man I had ever seen.

  In Francis F. Browne, “The Every-Day Life of Abraham Lincoln: A Biography of the Great American President from an Entirely New Standpoint, with Fresh and Invaluable Material,” account of Rev. George C. Noyes.

  The first time I saw Mr. Lincoln I thought him the homeliest man I had ever seen.

  In “My Day and Generation,” by Clark E. Carr.

  The ugliest man I have ever put my eyes on.

  In “The Photographs of Abraham Lincoln,” by Frederick Hill Meserve and Carl Sandburg, account of Colonel Theodore Lyman.

  The homeliest man I ever saw.

  Piatt, op. cit.

  Not only is the ugliest man I ever saw, but the most uncouth and gawky in his manners and appearance.

  In “Lincoln,” by David Herbert Donald, account of a soldier.

  He was never handsome, indeed, but he grew more and more cadaverous and ungainly month by month.

  In “Lincoln’s Washington: Recollections of a Journalist Who Knew Everybody,” by W. A. Croffut.

  After you have been five minutes in his company you cease to think that he is either homely or awkward.

  In the Utica “Herald.”

  Regarding a face & carriage so uniquely arranged by Nature, one’s opinion of it seemed to depend more than usual on the predisposition of the Observer.

  In “Letters of Sam Hume,” edited by Crystal Barnes.

  He never appeared ugly to me, for his face, beaming with boundless kindness and benevolence towards mankind, had the stamp of intellectual beauty.

  Salm-Salm, op. cit.

  The good humor, generosity, and intellect beaming from it, makes the eye love to linger there until you almost fancy him good-looking.

  In “Way-Side Glimpses, North and South,” by Lillian Foster.

  The neighbors told me that I would find that Mr. Lincoln was an ugly man, when he is really the handsomest man I ever saw in my life.

  In “Reminiscences of Abraham Lincoln by Distinguished Men of His Time,” by Allen Thorndike Rice.

  I never saw a more thoughtful face, I never saw a more dignified face.

  Rice, op. cit., account of David Locke.

  Oh, the pathos of it!—haggard, drawn into fixed lines of unutterable sadness, with a look of loneliness, as of a soul whose depth of sorrow and bitterness no human sympathy could ever reach. The impression I carried away was that I had seen, not so much the President of the United States, as the saddest man in the world.

  Browne, op. cit.

  LXIII.

  Each motion seeming to require a terrible effort on his part, Mr. Lincoln took hold of the chain and hung the lock upon it.

  roger bevins iii

  The door being ajar, however, and his boy’s sick-form within, it seemed he could not resist making one final entry.

  the reverend everly thomas

  Vaulting down from the roof, we followed him in.

  hans vollman

  The sick-form’s proximity seeming to jar Mr. Lincoln loose from some prior resolution, he slid the box out of the wall-slot and lowered it to the floor.

  the reverend everly thomas

  This, it seemed, was as far as he meant to go.

  roger bevins iii

  (He had not meant even to go this far.)

  the reverend everly thomas

  Except then he knelt.

  hans vollman

  Kneeling there, it seemed he could not resist opening the box one last time.

  the reverend everly thomas

  He opened it; looked in; sighed.

  roger bevins iii

  Reached in, tenderly rearranged the forelock.

  hans vollman

  Made a slight adjustment to the pale crossed hands.

  roger bevins iii

  The lad cried out from the roof.

  hans vollman

  We had forgotten about him entirely.

  roger bevins iii

  I stepped out, vaulted back up, worked for some time to get him free. He was in rough shape: stunned speechless, banded-down good.

  Then it occurred to me: if I could not pull him up, perhaps he could be pushed down.

  And I was quite right: he had not been impaired at all yet beneath his back.

  Working my hands in through the pulpy, still-forming carapace until I felt his chest, I gave him a good shove there, and down he went, with a cry of pain, through the roof, into the white stone home.

  hans vollman

  The boy came through the ceiling and landed on the floor beside his father.

  Followed closely by Mr. Vollman.

  roger bevins iii

  Who, from his knees, urged the boy forward.

  Go in, listen well, he said. You may learn something useful.

  We have recently heard your father express a certain wish, said Mr. Bevins.

  Of where he hopes you are, said Mr. Vollman.

  In some bright place, said Mr. Bevins.

  Free of suffering, said Mr. Vollman.

  Resplendent in a new mode of being, said Mr. Bevins.

  Go in, said Mr. Vollman.

  Be thus guided, said Mr. Bevins. See what he would have you do.

  the reverend everly thomas

  The lad got weakly to his feet.

  hans vollman

  Greatly compromised by his affliction.

  roger bevins iii

  In the gait of an old man, he hobbled toward his father.

  the reverend everly thomas

  He had not entered the man intentionally before, but inadvertently.

  hans vollman

  And seemed reluctant to do so now.

  roger bevins iii

  LXIV.

  All this time the crowd had been reassembling around the white stone home.

  roger bevins iii

  Word of this second visitation having spread rapidly.

  the reverend everly thomas

  With more individuals arriving every moment.

  hans vollman

  Such was their
eagerness to be in attendance at this extraordinary event.

  roger bevins iii

  All craved the slightest participation in the transformative moment that must be imminent.

  hans vollman

  They had abandoned any pretext of speaking one at a time, many calling out desperately from where they stood, others darting brazenly up to the open door to shout their story in.

  roger bevins iii

  The result was cacophony.

  the reverend everly thomas

  LXV.

  It was me started that fire.