Old Bobby Lee

So I'm reading Killer Angels and feeling a lot of anger towards Robert E. Lee. Who, as everybody knows, I once painted in a manner so perfect as to inspire tears:



I tell you what. When I sold it, I sobbed.

Like Longstreet sitting on that fence, watching half his army march to their doom?
Exactly.

Wow! That's a painting. But what's that stuff on his forehead? I don't remember that.

Perhaps it's a physical manifestation of the guilt he felt for sending Pickett up that hill against Longstreet's strong resistance.
You mean like hives or something?
Yeah.
Possibly.

Anyway, I'm at the point in the book when Longstreet and Lee are debating what would later be known at Pickett's Charge. And I keep hoping that Lee will see reason, but I can promise you (based on years of experience comparing what you wish had happened with what actually did happen) that he will not. And those Rebel boys, la belle fleur du Virginia, are gonna get their asses blown to bits on that wide grassy meadow.

That's why I never read history. Too frustrating.
I know, right?
They should have court-martialed Stuart.
Yeah. I'm angry at him too.

And, ironically, they're playing Crimson and Clover on Pandora. By Tommy James and the Shondells, if you can believe that. Which could have been the theme song for Pickett's Charge.

It's upsetting to think about.
Yes it is. I'm making a list of paintings I wish I still had.
That's a mistake, my friend.
The Fallen Prince.
No good will come of this.
Old Bobby Lee.
I love the button right at the bottom.
It's a beautiful button, isn't it.
It's a general's button.
Elena in the Morning.
Stop it right now!
The Annotated Fed.
I loved the look in his eyes.
That was wonderful, wasn't it?
It was.
That goddam Fuld painting.
That would be money in the bank, wouldn't it?
Yes it would.

Just for the record, these are George Pickett's eyes:



In some corners of these United States, Lee is still called Bobby the Butcher.