And yet all things may be borne.
roger bevins iii
Quite so.
Although I confess I was not of that mind at the time. At that time, there on the sick-cart, as yet unbound, I found I could briefly leave my sick-box, darting out and causing little duststorms, and even cracked a vase, a vase on the porch. But my wife and that physician, earnestly discussing my injury, did not notice. I could not abide it. And threw a bit of a tantrum, I admit, and sent the dogs yipping away, by passing through them and inducing in each a dream of a bear. I could do that then! Those were the days! Now I could no more induce a dream of a bear in a dog than I could take our silent young friend here out to dinner!
(He does appear young, doesn’t he, Mr. Bevins? In his contours? His posture?) In any event, I returned to my sick-box, weeping in that way that we have—have you come to know this yet, young fellow? When we are newly arrived in this hospital-yard, young sir, and feel like weeping, what happens is, we tense up ever so slightly, and there is a mildly toxic feeling in the joints, and little things inside us burst. Sometimes we might poop a bit if we are fresh. Which is just what I did, out on the cart that day: I pooped a bit while fresh, in my sick-box, out of rage, and what was the result? I have kept that poop with me all this time, and as a matter of fact—I hope you do not find this rude, young sir, or off-putting, I hope it does not impair our nascent friendship—that poop is still down there, at this moment, in my sick-box, albeit much dryer!
Goodness, are you a child?
He is, isn’t he?
hans vollman
I believe so. Now that you mention it.
Here he comes.
Nearly fully formed now.
roger bevins iii
My apologies. Good God. To be confined to a sick-box while still a child—and have to listen to an adult detailing the presence of a dried poop in his sick-box—is not exactly the, uh, ideal way to make one’s entree into a new, ah— A boy. A mere lad. Oh dear.
Many apologies.
hans vollman
II.
“You know,” Mrs. Lincoln said to me, “The President is expected to give a series of state dinners every winter, and these dinners are very costly. If I give three large receptions, the state dinners can be scratched from the programme. If I can make Mr. Lincoln take the same view of the case, I shall not fail to put the idea into practice.”
“I believe you are right,” said the President. “You argue your point well. I think that we shall have to decide upon the receptions.”
The question was decided, and arrangements were made for the first reception.
In “Behind the Scenes or Thirty Years a Slave and Four Years in the White House,” by Elizabeth Keckley.
Abolitionists criticized the merry-making at the White House and many declined to attend. Ben Wade’s regrets were said to have been harshly worded: “Are the President and Mrs. Lincoln aware that there is a civil war? If they are not, Mr. and Mrs. Wade are, and for that reason decline to participate in feasting and dancing.”
In “Reveille in Washington, 1860–1865,” by Margaret Leech.
The children, Tad and Willie, were constantly receiving presents. Willie was so delighted with a little pony, that he insisted on riding it every day. The weather was changeable, and exposure resulted in a severe cold, which deepened into fever.
Keckley, op. cit.
Willie was burning with fever on the night of the fifth, as his mother dressed for the party. He drew every breath with difficulty. She could see that his lungs were congested and she was frightened.
In “Twenty Days,” by Dorothy Meserve Kunhardt and Philip B. Kunhardt Jr.
III.
[The Lincolns’] party had been savagely attacked, but all the important people had come to it.
Leech, op. cit.
A clear sightline could not be obtained for the crush; one moved dazed through a veritable bazaar of scents, colognes, perfumes, fans, hairpieces, hats, grimacing faces, mouths held open in sudden shrieks, whether joyful or terrified it was difficult to say.
In “All This Did I See: Memories of a Terrible Time,” by Mrs. Margaret Garrett.
Exotic flowers from the presidential greenhouse were in vases every few yards.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
The diplomatic corps made a brilliant group—Lord Lyons, M. Mercier, M. Stoeckl, M. von Limburg, Senor Tassara, Count Piper, Chevalier Bertinatti, and the rest.
Leech, op. cit.
Multitiered chandeliers illuminated the East Room, above carpets of sea-foam green.
In “Rise to Greatness,” by David Von Drehle.
A patter of languages sounded in the Blue Room, where General McDowell, conversing in perfect French, was made much of by the Europeans.
Leech, op. cit.
Every nation, race, rank, age, height, breadth, voice-pitch, hairstyle, posture, and fragrance seemed represented: a rainbow come to life, calling out in manifold accents.