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who eats hero sandwiches and chews bubble gum. Why does she wear that brunette bouffant and those silver high-heel boots? She looks like a laundromat attendant. Old frowzy dough-faced thing. Queens accent. Ever think about taking her to the Spa? And why does she send those midnight telegrams to the Herald Tribune after drinking God knows what? And there’s another thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Lincoln.”
    “What is that, Mr. Swille?”
    “Do you think it appropriate for the President of the United States to tell such lewd jokes to the boys in the telegraph room? The one about the cow and the farmer. The traveling salesmen and the milkmaid. The whole scabrous repertoire.”
    “How did you know that, Mr. Swille?”
    “Never you mind. And you think it’s befitting your exalted office to go about mouthing the sayings of that hunchback Aesop? No wonder the Confederate cartoonists are beginning to depict you as a nigger. They’re calling you a Black Republican down here, and I’ve heard some weird talk from the planters. Some strange ugly talk. I want you to read that book they’re all reading down here. Uncle Robin! Give Lanky that book they’re all reading down here.”
    Robin goes to the shelf. “ Idylls of the King, Mr. Swille?”
    “Yes, that’s the one.”
    Robin removes the book from the shelf and gives it to Lincoln.
    “This book tells you about aristocratic rule, Lincoln. How to deal with inferiors. How to handle the help. How the chief of the tribes is supposed to carry himself. You’re not the steadiest man for the job; you’d better come on and get this Camelot if you know what’s good for you. You, too, can have a wife who is jaundiced and prematurely buried. Skin and bones. Got her down to seventy-five pounds. She’s a good sufferer but not as good as Vivian, she …” Swille gazes toward the oil portrait of his sister.
    “What … Anything wrong?” Lincoln says, beginning to rise from his chair.
    Robin starts toward Swille.
    “No, nothing. Where was I, Robin?”
    “You were telling Mr. Lincoln about Camelot, sir.”
    “Look, Lincoln, if you don’t want to be a duke, it’s up to you. I need a man like you up in my Canadian mills. You can be a big man up there. We treat the Canadians like coons. I know you used to chop wood. You can be a powerful man up there. A powerful man. Why, you can be Abe of the Yukon. Why don’t you resign and call it quits, Lincoln? You won’t have to sneak into the Capitol disguised any more. What ya say, pal?”
    “Look, Mr. Swille, maybe I ought to tell you why I came down here. Then we can cut this as short and sweet as an old woman’s dance.”
    “All right, Abe. But before you tell me, look, Abe, I don’t want to get into politics, but, well, why did you up and join such a grotesque institution as that party that …”
    “We call ourselves the Republican party, Mr. Swille, but don’t look at me. I didn’t name it.”
    “A far-out institution if there ever was one. Free Soilers, whacky money people, Abolitionists. Can’t you persuade some of those people to wear a tie? Transcendentalists, Free Lovers, Free Farmers, Whigs, Know-Nothings, and those awful Whitmanites always running about hugging things.”
    “Look, Mr. Swille,” Lincoln says in his high-pitched voice, “I didn’t come here to discuss my party, I came to discuss how we could win this war, Mr. Swille; end this conflict,” he says, pounding the table. “We are in a position to give the South its death-knell blow.”
    “ ‘Death-knell blow.’ There you go again with that corn-pone speech, Lincoln. ‘Death-knell blow.’ Why don’t you shave off that beard and stop putting your fingers in your lapels like that. You ought to at least try to polish yourself, man. Go to the theatre. Get some culture. If you don’t, I’ll have to contact my general; you know, there’s always one of our people keeping an eye on things in your … your cabinets. Why, under the Crown