i believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continuedwith me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarksobtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. butthus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wearsout at last the best resolves of the more generous. though to be sure,when i reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering myoffice should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountablebartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observationsconcerning him. sometimes an attorney having business with me, andcalling at my office and finding no one but the scrivener there, wouldundertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touchingmy whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, bartleby would remainstanding immovable in the middle of the room. so after contemplatinghim in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiserthan he came.
also, when a reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers andwitnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legalgentleman present, seeing bartleby wholly unemployed, would request himto run round to his (the legal gentleman's) office and fetch some papersfor him. thereupon, bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remainidle as before. then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn tome. and what could i say? at last i was made aware that all throughthe circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder wasrunning round, having reference to the strange creature i kept at myoffice. this worried me very much. and as the idea came upon me of hispossibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers,and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizingmy professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over thepremises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings(for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhapsoutlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetualoccupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more andmore, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks uponthe apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. i resolvedto gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of thisintolerable incubus.
ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, ifirst simply suggested to bartleby the propriety of his permanentdeparture. in a calm and serious tone, i commended the idea to hiscareful and mature consideration. but having taken three days tomeditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determinationremained the same; in short, that he still preferred to abide with me.
what shall i do? i now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the lastbutton. what shall i do? what ought i to do? what does conscience say i_should_ do with this man, or rather ghost. rid myself of him, i must;go, he shall. but how? you will not thrust him, the poor, pale,passive mortal,--you will not thrust such a helpless creature out ofyour door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? no, i willnot, i cannot do that. rather would i let him live and die here, andthen mason up his remains in the wall. what then will you do? for allyour coaxing, he will not budge. bribes he leaves under your ownpaperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefersto cling to you.
then something severe, something unusual must be done. what! surely youwill not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocentpallor to the common jail? and upon what ground could you procure sucha 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. novisible means of support: there i have him. wrong again: forindubitably he _does_ support himself, and that is the only unanswerableproof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. nomore then. since he will not quit me, i must quit him. i will changemy offices; i will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if ifind him on my new premises i will then proceed against him as a commontrespasser.
acting accordingly, next day i thus addressed him: "i find thesechambers 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 requireyour services. i tell you this now, in order that you may seek anotherplace."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 idirected to be removed the last thing. it was withdrawn; and beingfolded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a nakedroom. i stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something fromwithin 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 thefloor, and then,--strange to say--i tore myself from him whom i had solonged 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 myrooms after any little absence, i would pause at the threshold for aninstant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. but these fearswere needless. bartleby never came nigh me.
i thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visitedme, inquiring whether i was the person who had recently occupied roomsat no.--wall-street.
full of forebodings, i replied that i was.
"then sir," said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, "you are responsiblefor the man you left there. he refuses to do any copying; he refuses todo any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit thepremises.""i am very sorry, sir," said i, with assumed tranquility, but an inwardtremor, "but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me--he is norelation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible forhim.""in mercy's name, who is he?""i certainly cannot inform you. i know nothing about him. formerly iemployed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for sometime past.""i shall settle him then,--good morning, sir."several days passed, and i heard nothing more; and though i often felt acharitable prompting to call at the place and see poor bartleby, yet acertain squeamishness of i know not what withheld me.
all is over with him, by this time, thought i at last, when throughanother week no further intelligence reached me. but coming to my roomthe day after, i found several persons waiting at my door in a highstate of nervous excitement.
"that's the man--here he comes," cried the foremost one, whom irecognized as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone.
"you must take him away, sir, at once," cried a portly person amongthem, advancing upon me, and whom i knew to be the landlord ofno.--wall-street. "these gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it anylonger; mr. b--" pointing to the lawyer, "has turned him out of hisroom, and he now persists in haunting the building generally, sittingupon the banisters of the stairs by day, and sleeping in the entry bynight. every body is concerned; clients are leaving the offices; somefears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and that withoutdelay."aghast at this torrent, i fell back before it, and would fain havelocked myself in my new quarters. in vain i persisted that bartleby wasnothing to me--no more than to any one else. in vain:--i was the lastperson known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to theterrible account. fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as oneperson present obscurely threatened) i considered the matter, and atlength said, that if the lawyer would give me a confidential interviewwith the scrivener, in his (the lawyer's) own room, i would thatafternoon strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of.
going up stairs to my old haunt, there was bartleby silently sittingupon 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 greattribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after beingdismissed 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 youlike to engage in? would you like to re-engage in copying for someone?""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 aclerkship; but i am not particular.""too much confinement," i cried, "why you keep yourself confined all thetime!""i would prefer not to take a clerkship," he rejoined, as if to settlethat little item at once.
"how would a bar-tender's business suit you? there is no trying of theeyesight in that.""i would not like it at all; though, as i said before, i am notparticular."his unwonted wordiness inspirited me. i returned to the charge.
"well then, would you like to travel through the country collectingbills 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 younggentleman with your conversation,--how would that suit you?""not at all. it does not strike me that there is any thing definiteabout that. i like to be stationary. but i am not particular.""stationary you shall be then," i cried, now losing all patience, andfor the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairlyflying into a passion. "if you do not go away from these premisesbefore night, i shall feel bound--indeed i _am_ bound--to--to--to quitthe premises myself!" i rather absurdly concluded, knowing not withwhat possible threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance.
despairing of all further efforts, i was precipitately leaving him, whena final thought occurred to me--one which had not been wholly unindulgedbefore.
"bartleby," said i, in the kindest tone i could assume under suchexciting circumstances, "will you go home with me now--not to my office,but my dwelling--and remain there till we can conclude upon someconvenient 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 suddennessand rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up wall-streettowards broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removedfrom pursuit. as soon as tranquility returned i distinctly perceivedthat i had now done all that i possibly could, both in respect to thedemands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my owndesire and sense of duty, to benefit bartleby, and shield him from rudepersecution. i now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; andmy conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not sosuccessful as i could have wished. so fearful was i of being againhunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that,surrendering my business to nippers, for a few days i drove about theupper part of the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossedover to jersey city and hoboken, and paid fugitive visits tomanhattanville and astoria. in fact i almost lived in my rockaway forthe time.
when again i entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay uponthe desk. i opened it with trembling hands. it informed me that thewriter had sent to the police, and had bartleby removed to the tombs asa vagrant. moreover, since i knew more about him than any one else, hewished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of thefacts. these tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. at first i wasindignant; but at last almost approved. the landlord's energetic,summary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which i do notthink i would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, undersuch peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.
as i afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must beconducted to the tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in hispale unmoving way, silently acquiesced.
some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; andheaded by one of the constables arm in arm with bartleby, the silentprocession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of theroaring thoroughfares at noon.
the same day i received the note i went to the tombs, or to speak moreproperly, the halls of justice. seeking the right officer, i stated thepurpose of my call, and was informed that the individual i described wasindeed within. i then assured the functionary that bartleby was aperfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, howeverunaccountably eccentric. i narrated all i knew, and closed bysuggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement aspossible till something less harsh might be done--though indeed i hardlyknew what. at all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, thealms-house must receive him. i then begged to have an interview.
being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in allhis ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, andespecially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. and so i foundhim there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his facetowards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jailwindows, i thought i saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers andthieves.
"bartleby!""i know you," he said, without looking round,--"and i want nothing tosay to you.""it was not i that brought you here, bartleby," said i, keenly pained athis 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 notso sad a place as one might think. look, there is the sky, and here isthe grass.""i know where i am," he replied, but would say nothing more, and so ileft 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 yourfriend?""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 unofficiallyspeaking person in such a place.
"i am the grub-man. such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me toprovide 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 (forso they called him). "i want you to give particular attention to myfriend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. and you must beas polite to him as possible.""introduce me, will you?" said the grub-man, looking at me with anexpression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity togive a specimen of his breeding.
thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, i acquiesced; andasking 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 lowsalutation behind his apron. "hope you find it pleasant here,sir;--spacious grounds--cool apartments, sir--hope you'll stay with ussome time--try to make it agreeable. may mrs. cutlets and i have thepleasure of your company to dinner, sir, in mrs. cutlets' private room?""i prefer not to dine to-day," said bartleby, turning away. "it woulddisagree with me; i am unused to dinners." so saying he slowly moved tothe other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting thedead-wall.
"how's this?" said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare ofastonishment. "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 thatfriend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale andgenteel-like, them forgers. i can't pity'em--can't help it, sir. didyou know monroe edwards?" he added touchingly, and paused. then, layinghis hand pityingly on my shoulder, sighed, "he died of consumption atsing-sing. so you weren't acquainted with monroe?""no, i was never socially acquainted with any forgers. but i cannotstop longer. look to my friend yonder. you will not lose by it. iwill see you again."some few days after this, i again obtained admission to the tombs, andwent through the corridors in quest of bartleby; but without findinghim.
"i saw him coming from his cell not long ago," said a turnkey, "may behe'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 minutessince i saw him lie down."the yard was entirely quiet. it was not accessible to the commonprisoners. the surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off allsounds behind them. the egyptian character of the masonry weighed uponme with its gloom. but a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. theheart of the eternal pyramids, it seemed, wherein, by some strangemagic, through the clefts, grass-seed, dropped by birds, had sprung.
strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lyingon his side, his head touching the cold stones, i saw the wastedbartleby. but nothing stirred. i paused; then went close up to him;stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemedprofoundly sleeping. something prompted me to touch him. i felt hishand, 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 isready. 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'sinterment. but ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if thislittle narrative has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity asto who bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the presentnarrator's making his acquaintance, i can only reply, that in suchcuriosity i fully share, but am wholly unable to gratify it. yet here ihardly know whether i should divulge one little item of rumor, whichcame to my ear a few months after the scrivener's decease. upon whatbasis it rested, i could never ascertain; and hence, how true it is icannot now tell. but inasmuch as this vague report has not been withoutcertain strange suggestive interest to me, however sad, it may prove thesame with some others; and so i will briefly mention it. the report wasthis: that bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the dead letteroffice at washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by achange in the administration. when i think over this rumor, i cannotadequately express the emotions which seize me. dead letters! does itnot sound like dead men? conceive a man by nature and misfortune proneto a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heightenit than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assortingthem for the flames? for by the cart-load they are annually burned.
sometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring:--thefinger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-notesent in swiftest charity:--he whom it would relieve, nor eats norhungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for thosewho died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelievedcalamities. on errands of life, these letters speed to death.
ah bartleby! ah humanity!
the end
