This transcript was automatically generated and might contain errors.

[0:01] Josh Johnston: Welcome to Radio Play Revival. Yes, you're on the right frequency. No, I am not your usual introduction voice. For you see, that voice, our very own Sam Tsoutsouvas, adapted, performed, and recorded a short story during the early years of the pandemic that we are featuring here as a bonus episode.

[0:30] Josh Johnston: New York City, 1853. An elderly lawyer reflects on an employee he had 30 years prior, and the havoc that his passive resistance inflicted upon everyone around him.

[0:45] Josh Johnston: Groundswell Theatricals & Josh Johnston present a Radio Play Revival production of Bartleby, The Scrivener, A Story of Wall Street by Herman Melville. Starring, in order of speaking, Sam Tsoutsouvas, performing all the roles.

[1:15] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I am a rather elderly man. For the last thirty years the nature of my profession has brought me into contact with an interesting and somewhat singular set of men. I mean the law copyists, or scriveners. I have known very many of them, but the strangest I ever saw or heard of was Bartleby.

[1:39] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Bartleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable. What my own astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except one vague report I'll tell you about later. I should make some mention of myself, my employees, and my business.

[1:59] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never address a jury, but in the cool tranquility of a snug retreat do a snug business among rich men's bonds and mortgages and title deeds.

[2:15] Sam Tsoutsouvas: At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, my offices were upstairs on Wall Street. I had two copyists in my employment and an office boy—Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut. These were nicknames mutually conferred upon each other.

[2:35] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Turkey was a little Englishman about my own age, who in the morning was the quickest, steadiest creature. But after twelve noon and his midday meal, his face blazed like a furnace, and he became possessed of a reckless energy that caused him to blot his documents, split his pens, and hurl his papers about.

[3:00] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Nevertheless, he was very valuable to me. So I kindly hinted that now that he was growing old he need not come back after twelve o'clock, but go home for the rest of the day. No, he insisted on his afternoon attendance.

[3:17] Sam Tsoutsouvas: But the blots—Turkey. True, but with submissions, sir. Behold these hairs. Old age, even if it blots the page, is honourable. With submissions, sir, we are both getting old.

[3:39] Sam Tsoutsouvas: This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted, so I made up my mind to let him stay. Nippers was a rather piratical-looking young man of twenty-five. He suffered from an occasional nervous testiness, causing his teeth to audibly grind together when he made mistakes in copying.

[4:01] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Amid the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would sometimes impatiently rise from his seat and, stooping over his table, spread his arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it and jerk it with a grim grinding motion on the floor to accompany the grinding of his teeth.

[4:23] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Nevertheless, like his compatriot Turkey, he was very useful to me. But unlike Turkey, his irritability and nervousness were mainly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon he was comparatively mild.

[4:40] Sam Tsoutsouvas: So that Turkey's paroxysms only coming on about twelve o'clock, I never had to deal with their eccentricities at the same time. Their fits relieved each other, like guards. When Nippers was on, Turkey was off, and vice versa.

[4:58] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Ginger Nut, the office boy, was a promising lad of twelve years old, who got his name from a fondness for those small round spicy cookies. Now my business was increasing to the point where I must have additional help.

[5:15] Sam Tsoutsouvas: In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning stood upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can see that figure now, pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn. It was Bartleby.

[5:40] Sam Tsoutsouvas: After a few words touching his qualifications, I hired him, glad to have among my corps of copyists a man so sedate, who I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of Turkey and the fiery one of Nippers.

[5:58] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I should have said before that folding doors divided my premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the other by myself. I put Bartleby in a corner by the folding doors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man within easy call.

[6:20] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I placed his desk close up to a small side window, which looked out on a brick wall, and to provide us both some privacy, surrounded him with a high folding screen.

[6:33] Sam Tsoutsouvas: At first Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if famished for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my documents. I would have been quite delighted had he been cheerfully industrious, but he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically.

[6:57] Sam Tsoutsouvas: It was on the third day of his being with me when I called to him,

[7:02] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Imagine my surprise when, without moving from his privacy, Bartleby replied,

[7:09] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I would prefer not to.

[7:13] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I sat a while in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties.

[7:20] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Bartleby, I said, would you please come here?

[7:24] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I would prefer not to.

[7:28] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I crossed to the screen with a single stride.

[7:32] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Prefer not to? What do you mean?

[7:35] Sam Tsoutsouvas: What do you mean? Are you moonstruck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here. Take it.

[7:42] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I would prefer not to.

[7:46] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I stood gazing at him a while, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk.

[7:58] Sam Tsoutsouvas: This is very strange. What should I do?

[8:03] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Bad business was pressing, so I decided to forget the matter for the present.

[8:09] Sam Tsoutsouvas: A few days after this, Bartleby concluded quadruplicates of a lengthy document.

[8:16] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I called Turkey, Nippers, and Gingernut from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I would read from the original.

[8:26] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Accordingly, Turkey, Nippers, and Gingernut took their seats in a row, each with his document in hand.

[8:35] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Bartleby, quick! I'm waiting.

[8:38] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.

[8:47] Sam Tsoutsouvas: What is wanted?

[8:49] Sam Tsoutsouvas: The copies. The copies. We're going to examine them. Here.

[8:53] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I would prefer not to, and he gently disappeared behind the screen.

[9:01] Sam Tsoutsouvas: For a few moments, I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of clerks.

[9:10] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Why do you refuse?

[9:12] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I would prefer not to.

[9:15] Sam Tsoutsouvas: With any other man, I would have flown into a dreadful passion.

[9:20] Sam Tsoutsouvas: But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me.

[9:34] Sam Tsoutsouvas: These are your own copies we are about to examine.

[9:38] Sam Tsoutsouvas: It is labor-saving to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers.

[9:44] Sam Tsoutsouvas: It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not so?

[9:52] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Will you not speak? Answer!

[9:56] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I prefer not to.

[9:59] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Turkey, what do you think of this? Am I not right?

[10:04] Sam Tsoutsouvas: With submissions, I think that you are.

[10:08] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Nippers, what do you think of it?

[10:11] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I think I should kick him out of the office.

[10:14] Sam Tsoutsouvas: You will notice that it being morning, Turkey is polite, but Nippers ill-tempered.

[10:21] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Ginger Nut, what do you think of it?

[10:24] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I think, sir, he is a little loony.

[10:28] Sam Tsoutsouvas: You hear what they say? Come out and do your job!

[10:33] Sam Tsoutsouvas: But he made no reply.

[10:36] Sam Tsoutsouvas: His remarkable conduct led me to observe him carefully.

[10:41] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I noticed that he never went to lunch.

[10:44] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Never went anywhere.

[10:46] Sam Tsoutsouvas: As yet, I had never known him to be outside of my office.

[10:50] Sam Tsoutsouvas: He was a perpetual sentry in the corner.

[10:54] Sam Tsoutsouvas: At about eleven o'clock, though, in the morning, I saw that Ginger Nut would advance toward the opening in Bartleby's screen,

[11:03] Sam Tsoutsouvas: as if silently beckoned by a gesture invisible to me where I sat.

[11:09] Sam Tsoutsouvas: The boy would then leave the office, jingling a few pennies,

[11:13] Sam Tsoutsouvas: and reappear with a handful of ginger nuts, which he delivered to Bartleby,

[11:19] Sam Tsoutsouvas: receiving two of the cookies for his trouble.

[11:22] Sam Tsoutsouvas: He lives, then, on ginger nuts?

[11:26] Sam Tsoutsouvas: He never eats lunch.

[11:29] Sam Tsoutsouvas: He must be a vegetarian.

[11:32] Sam Tsoutsouvas: But no, he never even eats vegetables.

[11:35] Sam Tsoutsouvas: He eats nothing but ginger nuts.

[11:39] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Poor fellow.

[11:42] Sam Tsoutsouvas: He means no mischief.

[11:45] Sam Tsoutsouvas: It's plain he intends no insolence.

[11:49] Sam Tsoutsouvas: His eccentricities are involuntary.

[11:53] Sam Tsoutsouvas: He is useful to me.

[11:56] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I can get along with him.

[11:58] Sam Tsoutsouvas: If I turn him away, chances are he will fall in with some less indulgent employer,

[12:05] Sam Tsoutsouvas: and then he will be rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably to starve.

[12:12] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Yes, here I can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval.

[12:19] Sam Tsoutsouvas: To befriend Bartleby, to humor him in his strange willfulness, will cost me little or nothing,

[12:27] Sam Tsoutsouvas: while I lay up in my soul a sweet morsel for my conscience.

[12:32] Sam Tsoutsouvas: But this mood was not invariable with me.

[12:37] Sam Tsoutsouvas: The passiveness of Bartleby sometimes irritated me.

[12:42] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I felt strangely goaded on to elicit some angry spark from him equal to my own.

[12:49] Sam Tsoutsouvas: But I might as well have tried to strike fire from a bar of soap.

[12:55] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Nevertheless, one afternoon the evil impulse mastered me. "'Bartleby, when those papers are all copied, I will compare them with you.' "'I would prefer not to.' "'How? Surely you don't mean to persist in this mulish behavior?' No answer. I threw open the folding doors nearby. "'He says for a second time he won't examine his papers. What do you think of it, Turkey?' "'It was afternoon, remember. Turkey sat glowing like a brass boiler, his bald head steaming, his hands reeling among his blotted papers. "'Think of it. I think I'll just step behind his screen and black his eyes for him. "'Sit down, Turkey. What do you think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justified in immediately dismissing Bartleby?

Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct quite unusual and indeed unjust as regards Turkey and myself, but it may only be a passing whim. "'Ah, you have strangely changed your mind then.' I closed the doors. I burned to be rebelled against. I remembered that Bartleby never left the office. "'Bartleby, Ginger Nut has gone out. Just step around to the post-office, won't you, and see if there is anything for me?' "'I would prefer not to.' "'You will not?' "'I prefer not.' I staggered to my desk. "'Bartleby! Bartleby! Bartleby!' Like a ghost, obedient to the laws of magical invocation, at the third summons he appeared. "'Go to the next room and tell Nippers to come to me.' "'I prefer not to.'

And he mildly disappeared. "'Very good, Bartleby.' Shall I confess it? The conclusion of this whole business was that it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers that a pale young scrivener by the name of Bartleby had a desk there, that he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a page, but was permanently exempt from any other duties. As the days passed I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His steadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry, except when he chose to throw himself into a standing reverie behind his screen—his great stillness—all made him a valuable acquisition. One major thing was this—he was always there, first in the morning, continually through the day, and the last at night.

I had a singular confidence in his honesty. I felt my most precious papers perfectly safe in his hands. Sometimes, to be sure, I could not for the life of me avoid falling into sudden spasmodic passions with him, but every additional "'I prefer not to' tended to lessen the probability of my repeating any request.

[21:00] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church to hear a celebrated preacher, and being rather early, I thought I would walk around to my office for a while. But when I put my key in the lock, I found it resisted by something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out, when to my consternation the key was turned from within, and thrusting his lean visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the apparition of Bartleby appeared, in his shirt-sleeves and strangely tattered underclothes. I am sorry, but I am deeply engaged just now, and I prefer not admitting you at present. Perhaps you had better walk round the block two or three times, and by that time I will probably have concluded my affairs.

Now, the utterly unexpected appearance of Bartleby in my office on a Sunday morning had such a strange effect upon me, that I slunk away from my own door. What could he be doing there? Copying? Full of a restless curiosity, at last I returned. I inserted my key, and this time it opened. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked round anxiously, peeped behind his screen, but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon closer examination, I concluded that for an indefinite period Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my office. Immediately then the thought came sweeping over me. What miserable friendlessness and loneliness! His poverty is great, but his solitude! How horrible! Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby's desk.

Everything was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeonholes were deep, and removing the files of documents I groped inside. I felt something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings bank. I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I remembered that he never spoke but to answer, that I had never seen him reading—no, not even a newspaper—that for long periods he would stand looking out at his pale window behind the screen upon the dead brick wall. He never went anywhere in particular that I could learn, never went out for a walk—unless indeed that was the case at present—that he had refused to tell who he was, or where he came from, or whether he had any relatives in the world.

That those so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health. And above all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I put it?—of pallid haughtiness, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the Scrivener was the victim of an innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body, but his body did not pain him. It was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach. I walked home thinking, thinking, what do I do with Bartleby?

[25:00] Sam Tsoutsouvas: The Next Morning Bartleby, come here. I am not going to ask you to do anything you would prefer not to do. I simply wish to speak to you. He noiselessly slid into view. Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born? I would prefer not to. Will you tell me anything about yourself? I would prefer not to. What reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly towards you. He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his eye fixed upon my bust of Cicero, which was directly behind me some six inches above my head. What is your answer, Bartleby? At present I prefer to give no answer, and he retired into his hermitage. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my office, nevertheless I felt something superstitious knocking at my heart and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain, if I dare to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind.

Bartleby, never mind then about revealing your history, but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say now you will help to examine papers—tomorrow or next day—that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable. Say so, Bartleby. At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable. Just then the folding doors opened and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from severer indigestion than usual. He overheard those final words of Bartleby. Prefer not, eh? I'd prefer him if I were you, sir. I'd prefer him. I'd give him preferences, the stubborn mule. What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now? Mr. Nippers, I'd prefer that you would withdraw for the present.

Somehow of late I had got into the habit of involuntarily using this word prefer upon all sorts of not-exactly-suitable occasions, and I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already seriously affected me in a mental way. As Nippers was departing, Turkey deferentially approached. With submission, sir, yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby here, and I think that if he would prefer to take a quart of good ale every day, it would do much towards mending him and enabling him to assist in examining his papers. So you have got the word too. With submission, what word, sir? To which Bartleby replied, This is my private space. I would prefer to be left alone here. That's the word, Turkey.

That's it. Oh, prefer. Oh, yes, queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I was saying, if he would but prefer. Turkey, you will please withdraw. Oh, certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should. The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window in his dead-wall reverie. Why do you not write? I've decided to do no more writing. How now? What next? Do no more writing? No more. And what is the reason? Do you not see the reason for yourself?

[25:51] Sam Tsoutsouvas: He remained a fixture in my office. What was to be done? He would do nothing. Why should he stay there? He had now become a millstone, an affliction to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. He seemed so alone, absolutely alone in the universe, a bit of wreck in the Mid-Atlantic. As decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days' time he must unconditionally leave the office. I offered to assist him, if he himself would take the first step. And when you finally quit me, Bartleby, I shall see that you go away not entirely unprovided. Six days from this hour, remember. At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo! Bartleby was there. The time has come. You must quit this place. I am sorry for you. Here is money. But you must go.

[27:03] Bartleby: I would prefer not.

[27:05] Sam Tsoutsouvas: You must. Bartleby, I owe you twelve dollars on account. Here are thirty-two. The odd twenty are yours. Will you take it? I'll leave them here, then, on my desk. After you have removed your things, Bartleby, you will, of course, lock the door, since everyone is now gone for the day but you. And, if you please, slip your key underneath the mat, so that I may have it in the morning. I shall not see you again, so good-bye to you. If I can be of any service to you, do not fail to write me. Good-bye, Bartleby. And fare you well. But he answered not a word. Like the last column of some ruined temple, he remained standing mute and solitary in the otherwise deserted room. As I walked home, my vanity got the better of my pity. I had to congratulate myself on my masterly management in getting rid of Bartleby. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts.

[28:22] After breakfast, I walked downtown, arguing the probabilities pro and con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby would be found at my office in his usual place. The next moment it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. At the corner of Broadway and Canal, I saw quite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation. I'll take odds he doesn't, said a voice as I passed. Doesn't go? Done, said I. Put up your money. I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket when I remembered that this was an election day. The words I overheard had no reference to Bartleby but to some candidate for mayor. In my intent frame of mind, I had imagined that all Broadway shared in my excitement and were debating the same question with me.

I passed on. I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob. The door was locked. It had worked like a charm. He had indeed vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this, I was almost sorry for my brilliant success.

[30:06] I was fumbling under the doormat for the key which Bartleby was to have left there for me when I accidentally knocked against a panel. Not yet. I am occupied. I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia by summer lightning. At his own warm open window he was killed and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon till someone touched him and he fell over. Not gone! But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the inscrutable Scrivener had over me and from which, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape I slowly went downstairs and out into the street and while walking round the block considered what I should do next in this unheard-of perplexity.

I might enter my office in a great hurry and, pretending not to see Bartleby at all, walk straight into him as if he were air. But on second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with him again.

[31:34] Bartleby, come here. I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had thought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly disposition that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would have sufficed. Why, you have not even touched that money yet. Will you or will you not leave?

[32:06] Bartleby: I would prefer not to leave.

[32:10] Sam Tsoutsouvas: What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you pay my taxes? Or is this property yours? Are you ready to go and work now? Could you copy a small paper for me this morning or help examine a few lines or step round to the post office? In a word, will you do anything at all to excuse your refusal to depart the premises? He silently retired into his hermitage. I was now in such a state that I thought it prudent to check myself from further demonstrations. But when resentment rose in me and tempted me, I recalled the divine injunction that ye love one another. Yes, this is what saved me. Men have committed murder for any number of reasons but never for sweet charity's sake.

Poor fellow. Poor fellow. Ah, he doesn't mean anything. And besides, he has seen hard times and ought to be indulged. Days passed. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener had all been predestined from eternity and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all-wise providence which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom.

[34:36] Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen. I shall persecute you no more. You are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs. I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see it. I feel it. I penetrate to the predestined purpose of my life. I am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact but my mission in this world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office room for such period as you may see fit to remain. I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind which you have continued with me had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks made by my professional friends. I became aware that all through the circle of my acquaintance a whisper of wonder was making the rounds having to do with the strange creature I kept at my office.

This worried me very much and as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man and keep occupying my chambers and denying my authority and perplexing my visitors and scandalizing my professional reputation and casting a general gloom over the premises and in the end perhaps outlive me and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy.

[36:05] As all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more and my friends continued their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room, a great change came over me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together and forever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Accordingly next day I said to him I find these chambers too far from the city hall and the air is unwholesome. In a word I propose to move 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 hired carts and men and having but little furniture everything was removed in a few hours. Throughout the scrivener remained standing behind the screen which I directed to be the last thing removed.

It was withdrawn and being folded up like a huge folio left him the motionless occupant of a naked room. I stood watching him a moment. Goodbye Bartleby. I'm going. Goodbye and God bless you. And take this. I slipped something into his hand but it dropped on the floor and then, strange to say, I tore myself from him whom I had so long to be rid of.

[37:44] Established in my new quarters for a day or two I jumped at every footfall in the passage but these fears were needless. Bartleby never came near 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 upstairs on Wall Street. I am. Then, sir, you were responsible for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying. He refuses to do anything. He says he prefers not to and he refuses to quit the premises. I am very sorry, sir, 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.

[38:45] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I know nothing about him. Formerly I employed him as a copyist, but he has done nothing for me now for some time. I shall settle him then. Good morning, sir. Several days passed, and I heard nothing more. And though I often felt an urge to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet a certain squeamishness held me back. When after another week no further news reached me, I thought, well, that's that. But coming to my office the day after, I found several persons waiting at my door in a high state of nervous excitement, led by my former landlord. These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it any longer. Your scrivener has been turned out, but now persists in haunting the building generally, sitting on the stairs by day and sleeping in the entry by night.

Everybody is concerned. Clients are leaving the offices. You must do something, and that without delay. Aghast at this torrent, I wanted to lock myself in my new quarters, but eventually said that I would talk to Bartleby and try my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of. Going up to my old haunt, there was Bartleby, sitting on the stairs. What are you doing here, Bartleby? Sitting on the stairs. Bartleby, are you aware that you are the cause of great trouble 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 job would you like to do?

Would you like to return to copying for someone? No, I would prefer not to make any change. Would you like to be a clerk in a dry goods store? There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like to be a clerk, but I am not particular. Too much confinement? Why, you keep yourself confined all the time. I would prefer not to be a clerk. How would a bartender's job suit you? I would not like it at all, though, as I said before, I am not particular. His unusual chattiness inspired me. 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 anything definite about that. I like to be stationary, but I am not particular. Bartleby, will you go home with me now, not to my office, but to my house, and remain there till we can come to some convenient arrangement for you? Come, let's start now, right away. No, at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.

[42:30] Sam Tsoutsouvas: I rushed from the building, and ran up Wall Street towards Broadway. As I caught my breath, I told myself I had done all that I possibly could. I now tried to be entirely carefree, but I was so fearful of being hunted out again by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that leaving Nippers in charge of my business for a few days, I drove my carriage around town and through the suburbs, crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to Manhattan and Astoria. In fact, I almost lived in my carriage for a time. When I eventually entered my office, a note from the landlord lay on my desk. I have sent to the police, and have had Bartleby removed to the tombs, the halls of justice, as a vagrant.

Since you know more about him than anyone else, please appear at that place and make a suitable statement of the facts. I afterwards learned that Bartleby, when told that he must be conducted to the tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his pale, unmoving ways 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, stated the purpose of my visit, and was informed that the individual I described was indeed there. I then assured them that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man and greatly to be pitied, however eccentric.

I told them all I knew, and suggested they make him as comfortable as possible till something less harsh might be done, though I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the almshouse must receive him. I then begged to have an interview. Since he was quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him to wander freely about the prison, and especially in the enclosed grass-planted yard. And so I found him there, standing all alone, his face towards a high wall, while all around from the narrow slits of the jail windows I thought I saw peering out at him the eyes of murderers and thieves.

[45:34] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Bartleby, I know you, and I have nothing to say to you. It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby. And look, 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. I was on the point of leaving when a broad, meat-like man in an apron accosted me. Is that your friend? Yes. Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison food, that's all. Who are you? I'm the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here hire me to provide them with some good to eat. Well then, here's something for your trouble. 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? Bartleby, this is a friend. You will find him very useful to you. Your servant, sir, your servant. 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. What will you have for dinner today? I prefer not to dine today. It would disagree with me. I am unused to dinners. How's this? He's odd, ain't he? I think he is a little deranged. Deranged? Deranged, is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that friend of yours was a gentleman forger. They are always pale and genteel like them forgers. I can't help pity him. Can't help it, sir. Did you know Monroe Edwards? He died of consumption at Sing Sing. So you weren't acquainted with Monroe? No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. Look to my friend, will you?

[48:19] Sam Tsoutsouvas: Some few days later I went again. The yard was entirely quiet. 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 up to him, stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open. Otherwise he seemed profoundly sleeping. Is dinner's ready? Won't he dine today, either? Or does he live without dining? Lives without dining? He's asleep, ain't he? With kings and counselors. One little rumor came to me a few months after the Scrivener's decease. How true it is, I cannot tell. But the report was 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 can hardly express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! Imagine 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 sorting them for the flames? For they are burned by the cartload. Sometimes from the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring, the finger it was meant for perhaps moulders in the grave. A banknote, sent in swiftest charity, is no longer looked for. 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!

[51:07] Josh Johnston: A Story of Wall Street by Herman Melville. Radio Play Revival is conceived and directed by Josh Johnston. This episode was edited by Richie Romaniello. The production assistant was Omar Prince. Theme music by Joseph Falcon. I'm Josh Johnston. Back to your usually scheduled voice next week, but until we meet again, good night and good health.