Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you
will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent
pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such
a thing to be done?--a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer,
who refuses to budge? It is because he will _not_ be a vagrant, then,
that you seek to count him _as_ a vagrant. That is too absurd. No
visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for
indubitably he _does_ support himself, and that is the only unanswerable
proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No
more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change
my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I
find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common
trespasser.
Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: "I find these
chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word,
I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require
your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another
place."
He made no reply, and nothing more was said.
On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers,
and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours.
Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I
directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being
folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked
room. I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something from
within me upbraided me.
I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket--and--and my heart in my mouth.
"Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going--good-bye, and God some way bless you;
and take that," slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the
floor, and then,--strange to say--I tore myself from him whom I had so
longed to be rid of.
Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked,
and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my
rooms after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an
instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears
were needless. Bartleby never came nigh me.
I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited
me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms
at No.--Wall-street.
Full of forebodings, I replied that I was.
"Then sir," said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, "you are responsible
for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to
do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the
premises."
"I am very sorry, sir," said I, with assumed tranquility, but an inward
tremor, "but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me--he is no
relation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for
him."
"In mercy's name, who is he?"
"I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I
employed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some
time past."
"I shall settle him then,--good morning, sir."
Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I often felt a
charitable prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet a
certain squeamishness of I know not what withheld me.
All is over with him, by this time, thought I at last, when through
another week no further intelligence reached me. But coming to my room
the day after, I found several persons waiting at my door in a high
state of nervous excitement.
"That's the man--here he comes," cried the foremost one, whom I
recognized as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone.
"You must take him away, sir, at once," cried a portly person among
them, advancing upon me, and whom I knew to be the landlord of
No.--Wall-street. "These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it any
longer; Mr. B--" pointing to the lawyer, "has turned him out of his
room, and he now persists in haunting the building generally, sitting
upon the banisters of the stairs by day, and sleeping in the entry by
night. Every body is concerned; clients are leaving the offices; some
fears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and that without
delay."
Aghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain have
locked myself in my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was
nothing to me--no more than to any one else. In vain:--I was the last
person known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the
terrible account. Fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as one
person present obscurely threatened) I considered the matter, and at
length said, that if the lawyer would give me a confidential interview
with the scrivener, in his (the lawyer's) own room, I would that
afternoon strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of.
Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting
upon the banister at the landing.
"What are you doing here, Bartleby?" said I.
"Sitting upon the banister," he mildly replied.
I motioned him into the lawyer's room, who then left us.
"Bartleby," said I, "are you aware that you are the cause of great
tribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being
dismissed from the office?"
No answer.
"Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something,
or something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you
like to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some
one?"
"No; I would prefer not to make any change."
"Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?"
"There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a
clerkship; but I am not particular."
"Too much confinement," I cried, "why you keep yourself confined all the
time!"
"I would prefer not to take a clerkship," he rejoined, as if to settle
that little item at once.
"How would a bar-tender's business suit you? There is no trying of the
eyesight in that."
"I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not
particular."
His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge.
"Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting
bills for the merchants? That would improve your health."
"No, I would prefer to be doing something else."
"How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young
gentleman with your conversation,--how would that suit you?"
"Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing definite
about that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular."
"Stationary you shall be then," I cried, now losing all patience, and
for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly
flying into a passion. "If you do not go away from these premises
before night, I shall feel bound--indeed I _am_ bound--to--to--to quit
the premises myself!" I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with
what possible threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance
Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him, when
a final thought occurred to me--one which had not been wholly unindulged
before.
"Bartleby," said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such
exciting circumstances, "will you go home with me now--not to my office,
but my dwelling--and remain there till we can conclude upon some
convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now,
right away."
"No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all."
I answered nothing; but effectually dodging every one by the suddenness
and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-street
towards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removed
from pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived
that I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the
demands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own
desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude
persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and
my conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so
successful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again
hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that,
surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the
upper part of the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed
over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to
Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact I almost lived in my rockaway for
the time.
When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon
the desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that the
writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as
a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he
wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the
facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was
indignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord's energetic,
summary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not
think I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, under
such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.
As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be
conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his
pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced.
Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and
headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent
procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the
roaring thoroughfares at noon.
The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more
properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the
purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was
indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a
perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however
unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by
suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement as
possible till something less harsh might be done--though indeed I hardly
knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the
alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview.
Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all
his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and
especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found
him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face
towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail
windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and
thieves.
"Bartleby!"
"I know you," he said, without looking round,--"and I want nothing to
say to you."
"It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby," said I, keenly pained at
his implied suspicion. "And to you, this should not be so vile a place.
Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not
so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is
the grass."
"I know where I am," he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I
left him.
As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron,
accosted me, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder said--"Is that your
friend?"
"Yes."
"Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare,
that's all."
"Who are you?" asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially
speaking person in such a place.
"I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to
provide them with something good to eat."
"Is this so?" said I, turning to the turnkey.
He said it was.
"Well then," said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man's hands (for
so they called him). "I want you to give particular attention to my
friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be
as polite to him as possible."
"Introduce me, will you?" said the grub-man, looking at me with an
expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to
give a specimen of his breeding.
Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and
asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.
"Bartleby, this is Mr. Cutlets; you will find him very useful to you."
"Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant," said the grub-man, making a low
salutation behind his apron. "Hope you find it pleasant here,
sir;--spacious grounds--cool apartments, sir--hope you'll stay with us
some time--try to make it agreeable. May Mrs. Cutlets and I have the
pleasure of your company to dinner, sir, in Mrs. Cutlets' private room?"
"I prefer not to dine to-day," said Bartleby, turning away. "It would
disagree with me; I am unused to dinners." So saying he slowly moved to
the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the
dead-wall.
"How's this?" said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of
astonishment. "He's odd, aint he?"
"I think he is a little deranged," said I, sadly.
"Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that
friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and
genteel-like, them forgers. I can't pity'em--can't help it, sir. Did
you know Monroe Edwards?" he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying
his hand pityingly on my shoulder, sighed, "he died of consumption at
Sing-Sing. So you weren't acquainted with Monroe?"
"No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot
stop longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I
will see you again."
Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and
went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding
him.
"I saw him coming from his cell not long ago," said a turnkey, "may be
he's gone to loiter in the yards."
So I went in that direction.
"Are you looking for the silent man?" said another turnkey passing me.
"Yonder he lies--sleeping in the yard there. 'Tis not twenty minutes
since I saw him lie down."
The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common
prisoners. The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all
sounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon
me with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under food. The
heart of the eternal pyramids, it seemed, wherein, by some strange
magic, through the clefts, grass-seed, dropped by birds, had sprung.
Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying
on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted
Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him;
stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed
profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his
hand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my feet.
The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. "His dinner is
ready. Won't he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?"
"Lives without dining," said I, and closed his eyes.
"Eh!--He's asleep, aint he?"
"With kings and counselors," murmured I.
* * * * * * * *
There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history.
Imagination will readily supply the meager recital of poor Bartleby's
interment. But ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this
little narrative has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity as
to who Bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the present
narrator's making his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in such
curiosity I fully share, but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet here I
hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor, which
came to my ear a few months after the scrivener's decease. Upon what
basis it rested, I could never ascertain; and hence, how true it is I
cannot now tell. But inasmuch as this vague report has not been without
certain strange suggestive interest to me, however sad, it may prove the
same with some others; and so I will briefly mention it. The report was
this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter
Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a
change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, I cannot
adequately express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it
not sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone
to a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten
it than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assorting
them for the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned.
Sometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring:--the
finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note
sent in swiftest charity:--he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor
hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those
who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved
calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.
Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!
