George Saunders - Lincoln in The Bardo: A Novel

Speaking to her softly, I told her my heart: she was beautiful; I was old, ugly, used up; this match was strange, had its roots not in love but expedience; her father was poor, her mother ill. That was why she was here. I knew all of this very well. And would not dream of touching her, I said, when I could see her fear andthe word I used was distaste. She assured me she did not feel distaste even as I saw her (fair, flushed) face distort with the lie. I proposed that we should befriends.

Should behave outwardly, in all things, as if we had consummated our arrangement. She should feel relaxed and happy in my home and endeavor to make it her own. I would expect nothing more of her. And that is how we lived. We became friends. Dear friends.

That was all. And yet that was so much. We laughed together, made decisions about the householdshe helped me bear the servants more in mind, speak to them less perfunctorily. She had a fine eye and accomplished a successful renovation of the rooms at a fraction of the expected cost. To see her brighten when I came in, find her leaning into me as we discussed some household matter, improved my lot in ways I cannot adequately explain. I had been happy, happy enough, but now I often found myself uttering a spontaneous prayer that went, simply: She is here, still here. It was as if a rushing river had routed itself through my house, which was pervaded now by a freshwater scent and the awareness of something lavish, natural, and breathtaking always moving nearby.

At dinner one evening, unprompted, before a group of my friends, she sang my praisessaid I was a good man: thoughtful, intelligent, kind. As our eyes met I saw that she had spoken in earnest. Next day, she left a note on my desk. Although shyness prevented her from expressing this sentiment in speech or action, the note said, my kindness to her had resulted in an effect much to be desired: she was happy, was indeed comfortable in our home, and desired, as she put it, to expand the frontiers of our happiness together in that intimate way to which I am, as yet, a stranger. She requested that I guide her in this as I had guided her in so many other aspects of adulthood. I read the note, went in to supperfound her positively aglow.

We exchanged frank looks there in front of the servants, delighted by this thing we had somehow managed to make for ourselves from such unpromising materials. That night, in her bed, I was careful not to be other than I had been: gentle, respectful, deferential. We did littlekissed, held one anotherbut imagine, if you will, the richness of this sudden indulgence. We both felt the rising tide of lust (yes, of course) but undergirded by the slow, solid affection we had built: a trustworthy bond, durable and genuine. I was not an inexperienced manhad been wild when young; had spent sufficient time (I am ashamed to say) in Marble Alley, at the Band-box, at the dreadful Wolfs Den; had been married once before, and healthily sobut the intensity of this feeling was altogether new to me. It was tacitly understood that, next night, we would further explore this new continent, and I went to my printing offices in the morning fighting the gravitational pull that bid me stay home.

And that dayalaswas the day of the beam. Yes, yes, what luck! A beam from the ceiling came down, hitting me just here, as I sat at my desk. And so our plan must be deferred, while I recovered. Per the advice of my physician, I took to my A sort of sick-box was judgedwas judged to be hans vollman Efficacious. roger bevins iii Efficacious, yes. hans vollman Always a pleasure. roger bevins iii There I lay, in my sick-box, feeling foolish, in the parlor, the very parlor through which we had recently (gleefully, guiltily, her hand in mine) passed en route to her bedroom. roger bevins iii There I lay, in my sick-box, feeling foolish, in the parlor, the very parlor through which we had recently (gleefully, guiltily, her hand in mine) passed en route to her bedroom.

Then the physician returned, and his assistants carried my sick-box to his sick-cart, and I saw thatI saw that our plan must be indefinitely delayed. What a frustration! When, now, would I know the full pleasures of the marriage-bed; when behold her naked form; when would she turn to me in that certain state, mouth hungry, cheeks flushed; when would her hair, loosened in a wanton gesture, fall at last around us? Well, it seemed we must wait until my recovery was complete. A vexing development indeed. hans vollman And yet all things may be borne. roger bevins iii Quite so. Although I confess I was not of that mind at the time.