Thursday, July 15th, 1999
Luke Interviews Brandy Alexandre
Luke: "Your thoughts on the Free Speech Coalition's Night of the Stars dinner dance Saturday evening, July 10?"
Brandy: "It was nice except for the attitudes of a couple of the recipients... Richard Pacheco chiefly. He spent most of his time spewing vulgarity at the people who were not being quiet to listen to the pearls of wisdom that dropped from his lips. I don't think you can take a bunch of porn people and put them in a room and expect them to know which fork to use, much less to be quiet. Perhaps Night of the Stars is better served as a dinner in honor of, without the [lengthy] presentation for Lifetime Achievement.
"I saw lots of old friends... Nina [Hartley], Keisha... My date wanted to meet Keisha. And every time she went by, I couldn't get her attention or I didn't try because I didn't think she'd remember me. Then as soon as he went to the restroom, Keisha came by and sat down in his chair and said, 'I know you. Who are you?' And we chatted for five minutes. I kept waiting for him to come back. He never did. After she left, he came back... I told him Keisha was here and he thought I was fibbing. So I had a fan boy with me."
Luke: "Don't you always?"
Brandy: "No, I'm always alone. I was at open seating last year. I didn't know who any of my dinner mates were. They were doing the XRCO's Legends of Erotica. What a flop that was! It's poorly planned. They have 20 chairs set up expecting all these stars to show up to receive a medal from Jim Holliday... Many of the recipients did not show up. Others showed up and then left because they thought they were not going to be doing the program."
Luke: "What's the progress report on your book?"
Brandy: "It's stalled at the moment. I'm struggling through the last couple of chapters, the ones where I have to think... My agent is shopping it around..."
Luke: "Do you care to share any reflections on how your involvement in the industry has affected you?"
Brandy, in tears: "I'm almost to the point of regret. And I don't want to regret that I've been in porn. And unless the world can accept that porn exists and that people come and go, and that when they go, they need to work, it's likely there will be a lot more regret."
Because of internet feuding and flaming, Brandy lost her job at the Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale in May when her porn past came to the attention of higher-ups.
John Bone's Dog Cleo Writes
"My master won't get off my back. He constantly wants sex. He coerced me the first time saying that he needed to hit for the cycle. For my own safety, I tried to get away with just giving him a blowjob...but this guy is a real animal. He now says that unless I give up my backdoor, he'll sick his employee Gene Ross.com on me."
Paul Fishbein's two dogs complain: "Our owner rides us unmercifully... Unless we blow him every day, he has Gene Ross come over and expose himself to us... It's awful. The shock, the humiliation..."
Marc Star writes www.geneross.com: "Judging by the tone of Ford's post today, it seems the pressure is chipping him away. He sounds more disjointed and irate each passing day. I'll be more than happy to be a character witness when his irresponsible practice draws him before the judge."
AVN Threatens Luke
Wednesday afternoon Luke finally received his latest legal threat from Adult Video News and its publisher Paul Fishbein. Typically incompetent, his law firm Strook & Strook & Lavan LLP initially sent the threat to both the wrong fax number and the wrong address. For future threats, Mr. Fishbein, please fax to 603-908-6362 and mail to Luke F-rd, 264 S. La Cienega Blvd. #1417 BH, CA 90211. Or better yet, just come over to my swank pad in Beverly Hills and suck on my dick.
The fax contained this warning: "The information contained in this facsimile message is privileged and confidential, and is intended only for the use of the individual named above... If the recipient is not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any dissemination, distribution or copying of this communication is strictly prohibited..."
The fax was sent to Luke, and "Mr. Craig Vassilof, Fantastic, 136 Yorkville Avenue, 3rd Fl., Toronton, Ontario, M5R1C2."
Need I point out the misspellings above (it's Craig Vasiloff and Toronto). These goof balls can't even fax straight, let alone write up a competent legal threat. But at least Fishbein's lawyers don't work with the mob, unlike those of Stevie Hirsch's Vivid Video. But they can all still blow me if they think that I am going to accord their slimy dealings any respect. As though I can learn about libel and the First Amendment from a bunch of pimps, whores and mafia.
Deborah Drooz, Esq.
310-556-5867
Strook & Strook & Lavan LLP
2029 Century Park East
Los Angeles, CA, 90067-3086
Re: Defamatory Posting on "l-keford.com"
Gentlemen:
As Mr. Ford well knows, this office represents Adult Video News Publications, Inc. ("AVN") and its president, Paul Fishbein. Only weeks ago, we contacted Mr. Ford to demand the retraction of false, defamatory and highly offensive statements concerning AVN and Mr. Fishbein which Mr. Ford irresponsibly posted on his Website. After momentarily feigning resistance to our demand, Mr. Ford acknowledged that he could offer no legitimate proof of his charges against our clients. Not only did he retract his libels, but he apologized publicly for having posted them in the first instance.
Our clients refrained from taking legal action against Mr. Ford at that time because they were confident that he had profited from the humbling experience of withdrawing and apologizing for his false accusations. It now appears that this experience had no effect whatsoever upon Mr. Ford - except perhaps to encourage him to publish more falsehoods about our clients in the misguided belief that his wrongdoing can be absolved by an expedient retraction. Mr. Ford, you couldn't be more mistaken.
Your recent publication of the outrageous and totally unsubstantiated charge that Mr. Fishbein is planning a magazine that features child pornography, and your publication of a vulgar quotation that you falsely attributed to Mr. Fishbein are, without doubt, the most offensive libels this writer has ever encountered. The language that you chose does more than convey a false and injurious message. It provides irrefutable evidence that you published the defamatory statements with reckless disregard for the truth and with a clear intent to harm our clients.
Although you are not entitled to avail yourself of the protections afforded by Civil Code 48 (a) (California Retraction Statue), demand is hereby made that you immediately post an unequivocal retraction of the libelous statements referred to above. A concurrent apology is also demanded.
This letter shall serve to put Mr. Vassilot [sic] and his company on notice that Mr. Ford has repeatedly libeled our clients on his Website. Please be advised that your affiliation with or sponsorship of Mr. Ford and/or "l-keford.com" exposes you to liability for his defamatory statements. So too does your knowing republication or dissemination of the defamatory material.
The demands set forth herein must be met no later than Friday, July 16, 1999, in order to have any mitigating effect on the incalculable harm Mr. Ford's statements have caused our clients. Naturally, Mr. Fishbein and AVN reserve their rights to exercise any and all legal remedies that are available to them. Any questions you may have regarding the foregoing should be addressed to the undersigned.
Luke: Here are some of my pieces which have annoyed the powers that be:
FSC to USA - 'Eat s--- and Die'
As the level of moral pollution in America increased last year to record levels, the Free Speech Coalition (porn's trade group) today released a statement saying the country could "eat s--- and die."
Speaking for the entire industry, Vivid owner Steve Hirsch said that based on his background in economics he knew "that while society must bear the huge costs of a flourishing porn industry, the benefits are concentrated in the hands of a few" like himself and Edward Wedelstedt.
FSC executive director Jeffrey Douglas said that the industry group will be lobbying Congress to reduce the age of consent to nine.
"Why should a picture of an eleven year old's split beaver be any less valid a form of expression than a Jane Austen novel," asked Adult Video News publisher Paul Fishbein, who's planning a new magazine called Barely Pubescent. Moving downmarket to compete with Larry Flynt Publications and l-keford.com, Paul's new book will display graphic genitalia shots of the youngest pussy possible.
While America chokes in the fumes of an increasingly perverse sex industry, leading pornographers like Sin City's Matt Taylor say they just want to be left alone to pimp confused young women.
"I hate it when anybody tells me what to do," said Taylor, while pumping dozens of toxic videos into the quivering vulnerable American soul. "The IRS can blow me."
Justice Department Cracks Down
FBI agents swarmed across the San Fernando Valley this morning, arresting leading members of the American porn industry for anti-trust violations that include price fixing. At arraignment this morning, Vivid impressario Steve Hirsch wore a tasteful purple chiffon gown which accentuated all his curves.
Graced by his favorite black fishnet stockings and high dominatrix heels, Paul Fishbein stood quietly in a pink foofi dress. In an unusual move, the Los Angeles district attorney placed a placard around the neck of the AVN publisher which read "King of the Jews," and planted upon his head a crown of thorns.
"If you're truly the son of god, then save yourself," said the DA.
Fishbein replied in a quiet but firm voice, "I am the way, the truth and the life. No porner comes to the godfather but through me."
The only porner at arraignment dressed like a man was Free Speech Coalition president Gloria Leonard, but this came as no surprise to distinguished observers of adult entertainment.
In a statement just released by the White House, President Clinton declared Russ Hampshire, Lenny Friedlander and company "very naughty boys who needed to be spanked."
While watching videotape of a chiffon-less Hirsch taking it up the ass from a strap-on wielding Janine, Dutch pornographer Charlie Geerts said the arrests did not interest him nearly as much as the rumor that Marc Davis and Kobe Tai had split up.
Interviewed by NBC's Today show, Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward explained that the Justice Department crackdown was inevitable given the climate of hatred and hysteria whipped up by l-keford.com.
Legal observers expect porners to adopt the innovative strategy successfully used by Goalie Entertainment head Edward Wedelstedt who has long explained his five years in prison for dealing in stolen property as "a harmless expression of constitutionally protected free speech."
Luke Replies to Fishbein's Threat
Is this the same Paul Fishbein who describes himself as a First Amendment absolutist but now he wants to go after me for poking fun of him? Is this the same guy who says two main guys blazed the trail for him, Al Goldstein of Screw and Hustler's Larry Flynt? Have I written anything more defamatory than either of these two have published?
Isn't Paul Fishbein the guy who gave Hustler's Larry Flynt a lifetime achievement award at the 1999 AVN Awards for his contributions to Free Speech? Doesn't Fishbein applaud Larry's cartoon of Moral Majority leader Jerry Fallwell having sex with his money in an outhouse? Doesn't Fish support how Flynt appealed his conviction for defamation all the way to the US Supreme Court?
These porners pour out their toxic product and feel that they should be legally free to defame any public figure they want. But if you turn some of their own satire back on them, they threaten you.
Pornographers like Fishbein have a commitment to their own free speech, and to their own freedom to make oodles of money pumping out morally obnoxious product. But others should not have the right to make fun of them. Well, blow me!
Typically, porners want the freedom to sell pussy and perversion, but feel that others should limit their own expression (for instance, not using the real names of porners).
Funny thing that Paul Fishbein didn't feel the need to restrict Eddie Wedelstedt's free speech when the big porner threatened, at the AVN Cancun Conference in May, to murder me.
Paul didn't feel any need to censor his own expression of having Mafia Home Video aka Metro Home Video cosponsor his flop of an AVN Expo last week.
And if Deborah Drooz has never read a more shocking slander than what I did to Fishbein above, she ought to read more widely. I suggest she begin with the Christian New Testament which accuses the Jews of being children of the Devil who murdered God. And then segway into a few back issues of Hustler and Screw magazines.
If porners are going to push America, through organizations like Adult Video News and the Free Speech Coalition, to allow a maximum of expression, than they are going to have to learn to live with it when that free expression turns back around on them. Email Paul Fishbein and Gene Ross about their hypocrisy: paul@avn.com, gene@avn.com.
NiceJewishGirl writes: "Dear Mr. Fistbein: you gotta be kiddin'! You're in charge of free speech, yet when someone is critical of you you want to sue them? How hypocritical is that? You support Larry Flynt and Hustler magazine, yet while I was growing up I recall they had that cartoon "Chester The Molester". Do you remember this cartoon Mr. Fistbein? How would you like have a daughter growing up at that time and having boys thinking it was funny and couldn't wait to show her the latest issue, and guffawing especially about this cartoon, and just as damaging, show her the chix with dix that were especially prevalent in that magazine at that time? And yet your daughter's a beautiful Jewish girl in pigtails, she wonders why boys would show her these pictures, why do they feel these sick pictures are funny, and she feels she her psyche is becoming extremely damaged. Yet you are a fan of the infamous Mr. Free Speech, Larry Flynt, this same guy whose own daughter says that he molested her. You are threatening to sue Luke F-rd, yet he is only saying things in a satirical way. I believe that the First Amendment applies to satire Mr. Fist-fine. It applies to Larry Flynt, and the heinous Chester the Molester, and especially to Luke F-rd."
Mr. Fnord writes: Being a long term reader (supporter?) of you and you site, I love watching the infighting and "blame" they are now putting on you. In a business that promotes fantasy, you are the slight jolt of reality that they can not deal with.
I remember the good "old" days when porn was funny, and fun to watch. The stylish films of today are good, but more of an art film. The "other" mainstream films of the day are harsh, degrading and really REALLY pushing the line. I subscribe the the big 3 mags (Playboy, Hustler, Penthouse) and have watched the latter go both "arty" and XXX. I soon will be sending you my $30.00 for an autographed copy of your book. It will be good reading while sitting in the summer sun and drinking a beer (or Gin and Tonic of you prefer). I may not want to see the reality of the porn business, but with you normal flair, it should be fun. Keep up the good work.
Don't get smacked around again or at least keep close to friends and people you can trust. I still like the old down and dirty web site you had. This is almost too slick for you and your writings. If you can add something it's more of behind the scenes pix of you (nude?) and the girls, guys and those who make what we hold so dear...
I AM a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations for the last thirty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom as yet nothing that I know of has ever been written:--I mean the porn journalists or scriveners. I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and if I pleased, could relate divers histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners for a few passages in the life of Luke F-rd, who was a scrivener the strangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other porn journalists I might write the complete life, of Luke F-rd nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Ford was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the original sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own astonished eyes saw of Ford, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel.
Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I make some mention of myself, my employées, my business, my chambers, and general surroundings; because some such description is indispensable to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be presented. Imprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury, or in any way draws down public applause; but in the cool tranquillity of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men's porn ads and awards and title-deeds. All who know me consider me an eminently safe man.
Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my avocations had been largely increased. The good old office, now extinct in the State of California, of a Publisher of Adult Video News, had been conferred upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly remunerative.
At the period just preceding the advent of Luke F-rd, I had two persons as copyists in my employment, and a promising lass Lisa Love as an office-boy. First, Turkey Kernes; second, Nippers Ross; third, Mark "Ginger Nut" Logan.
Nippers aka Gene Ross, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the whole, rather piratical-looking young man of about five and twenty. I always deemed him the victim of two evil powers--ambition and indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the duties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly professional affairs, such as the original drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasional nervous testiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind together over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions, hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and especially by a continual discontent with the height of the table where he worked.
Though concerning the self-indulgent habits of Ross I had my own private surmises, yet touching Ross I was well persuaded that whatever might be his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a temperate young man. But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his vintner, and at his birth charged him so thoroughly with an irritable, brandy-like disposition, that all subsequent potations were needless.
Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing Ford so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Luke. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Luke might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay.
In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do--namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Ford in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, "I would prefer not to."
I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Ford had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume.
But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, "I would prefer not to."
"Prefer not to," echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. "What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here--take it," and I thrust it towards him.
"I would prefer not to," said he.
I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined.
A few days after this, Ford concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates of a week's testimony taken before me in my High Court of Porno Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats in a row, each with his document in hand, when I called to Ford to join this interesting group.
"Ford! quick, I am waiting."
I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage.
"What is wanted?" said he mildly.
"The copies, the copies," said I hurriedly. "We are going to examine them. There"--and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate.
"I would prefer not to," he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen.
For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct.
"Why do you refuse?"
"I would prefer not to."
With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Ford that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him.
"These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!"
"I prefer not to," he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible conclusion; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did.
"You are decided, then, not to comply with my request--a request made according to common usage and common sense?"
He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible. It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind.
"Turkey," said I, "what do you think of this? Am I not right?"
"With submission, sir," said Turkey Kernes, with his blandest tone, "I think that you are."
"Nippers," said I, "what do you think of it?" "I think I should kick him out of the office."
(The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning, Turkey's answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nippers's ugly mood was on duty, and Turkey's off.)
"Ginger Nut," said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf, "what do you think of it?"
"I think, sir, he's a little luny," replied Ginger Nut, with a grin.
"You hear what they say," said I, turning towards the screen, "come forth and do your duty." But he vouchsafed no reply.
"Ford," I said, "Now that Reuben Sturman is dead, I am the godfather of porn. You have to do what I say. If you don't, and if you don't apologize for your slandering of me and my Vivid buddy Stevie, I will sue you. So stop your slander, right now."
Ford, in a firm quiet voice, replied "Paul, I would prefer not to."
Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive resistance. If the individual so resisted be of a not inhumane temper, and the resisting one perfectly harmless in his passivity; then, in the better moods of the former, he will endeavor charitably to construe to his imagination what proves impossible to be solved by his judgment. Even so, for the most part, I regarded Ford and his ways. Poor fellow! thought I, he means no mischief; it is plain he intends no insolence; his aspect sufficiently evinces that his eccentricities are involuntary. He is useful to me. I can get along with him. If I turn him away, the chances are he will fall in with some less indulgent employer, and then he will be rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably to starve. Yes. Here I can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval. To befriend Ford; to humor him in his strange wilfulness, will cost me little or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually prove a sweet morsel for my conscience. But this mood was not invariable with me. The passiveness of Ford sometimes irritated me. I felt strangely goaded on to encounter him in new opposition, to elicit some angry spark from him answerable to my own. But indeed I might as well have essayed to strike fire with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor soap. But one afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered me, and the following little scene ensued:
"Ford," said I, "when those porno press releases are all copied, I will compare them with you."
"I would prefer not to."
"How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary?"
No answer. I threw open the folding-doors near by, and turning upon Turkey Kernes and Nippers Ross, exclaimed in an excited manner-- "He says, a second time, he won't examine his papers. What do you think of it, Turkey?"
It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey Ross sat glowing like a brass boiler, his bald head steaming, his hands reeling among his blotted papers.
"Think of it?" roared Turkey; "I think I'll just step behind his screen, and black his eyes for him!"
So saying, Turkey rose to his feet and threw his arms into a pugilistic position. He was hurrying away to make good his promise, when I detained him, alarmed at the effect of incautiously rousing Turkey's combativeness after dinner.
"Sit down, Turkey," said I, "and hear what Nippers has to say. What do you think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justified in immediately dismissing Ford?"
"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," exclaimed I, "you have strangely changed your mind then--you speak very gently of him now."
"All beer," cried Turkey; "gentleness is effects of beer--Nippers and I dined together to-day. You see how gentle I am, sir. Shall I go and black his eyes?"
"You refer to Ford, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey," I replied; "pray, put up your fists."
I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Ford. I felt additional incentives tempting me to my fate. I burned to be rebelled against again. I remembered that Ford never left the office.
"Ford," said I, "Ginger Nut is away; just step round to the Post Office, won't you? (it was but a three minutes walk,) and see if there is any thing for me."
"I would prefer not to."
"You will not?"
"I prefer not."
I staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study. My blind inveteracy returned. Was there any other thing in which I could procure myself to be ignominiously repulsed by this lean, penniless wight?--my hired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he will be sure to refuse to do?
"Ford!"
No answer.
"Ford," in a louder tone. No answer.
"Ford," I roared.
Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the third summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.
"Go to the next room, and tell Gene "Nippers" Ross to blow me."
"I prefer not to," he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly disappeared.
"Very good, Ford," said I, in a quiet sort of serenely severe self-possessed tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible retribution very close at hand. At the moment I half intended something of the kind. But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my dinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the day, suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind.
Shall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was, that it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young journo, by the name of Ford, had a desk there; that he copied porno PR for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to Turkey and Nippers, one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness; moreover, said Ford was never on any account to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort; and that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would prefer not to--in other words, that he would refuse point-blank.
As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Ford. His steadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry (except when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his screen), his great stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all circumstances, made him a valuable acquisition.
One prime thing was this,--he was always there, in porno;--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 very soul of me, avoid falling into sudden spasmodic passions with him. For it was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities, privileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations on Ford's part under which he remained in my office.
Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would inadvertently summon Luke, in a short, rapid tone, to put his finger, say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about compressing some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the usual answer, "I prefer not to," was sure to come; and then, how could a human creature with the common infirmities of our nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming upon such perverseness--such unreasonableness. However, every added repulse of this sort which I received only tended to lessen the probability of my repeating the inadvertence.
Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Ford, tenanting my law-chambers of a Saturday morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly nonchalance, yet withal firm and self-possessed, had such a strange effect upon me, that incontinently I slunk away from my own door, and did as desired. But not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion against the mild effrontery of this unaccountable scrivener. Indeed, it was his wonderful mildness chiefly, which not only disarmed me, but unmanned me, as it were. For I consider that one, for the time, is a sort of unmanned when he tranquilly permits his hired clerk to dictate to him, and order him away from his own premises. Furthermore, I was full of uneasiness as to what Ford could possibly be doing in my office in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition of a Saturday morning. Was any thing amiss going on? Nay, that was out of the question. It was not to be thought of for a moment that Ford was an immoral person. But what could he be doing there?--copying? Nay again, whatever might be his eccentricities, Ford was an eminently decorous person. He would be the last man to sit down to his desk in any state approaching to nudity. Besides, it was Saturday; and there was something about Ford that forbade the supposition that we would by any secular occupation violate the proprieties of the day.
Nevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless curiosity, at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted my key, opened it, and entered. Ford was not to be seen. I looked round anxiously, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an indefinite period Ford must have ate, dressed, and slept in my office, and that too without plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat of a ricketty old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean, reclining form. Rolled away under his desk, I found a blanket; under the empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on a chair, a tin basin, with soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. Yet, thought I, it is evident enough that Ford has been making his home here, keeping bachelor's hall all by himself. Immediately then the thought came sweeping across me, What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His poverty is great; but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a Saturday, Valjean is deserted as Petra; and every night of every day it is an emptiness. This building too, which of week-days hums with industry and life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Saturday is forlorn. And here Ford makes his home; sole spectator of a solitude which he has seen all populous--a sort of innocent and transformed Marius brooding among the ruins of Carthage! For the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging melancholy seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not-unpleasing sadness. The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy!
For both I and Ford were sons of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day, in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay; but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancyings--chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain--led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of Ford. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener's pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding sheet.
Suddenly I was attracted by Ford's closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock.
I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently 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 though at intervals he had considerable time to himself, yet 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; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house; while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk, unless indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid--how shall I call it?--of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.
Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Ford grew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul be rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of 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 did not accomplish the purpose of going to Temple Beth Porno that morning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Ford. Finally, I resolved upon this;--I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touching his history, &c., and if he declined to answer then openly and reservedly (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer required; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply.
The next morning came.
"Ford," said I, gently calling to him behind his screen. No reply.
"Ford," said I, in a still gentler tone, "come here; I am not going to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do--I simply wish to speak to you."
Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.
"Will you tell me, Ford, where you were born?"
"I would prefer not to."
"Will you tell me any thing about yourself?"
"I would prefer not to."
"But 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 glance fixed upon my bust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six inches above my head.
"What is your answer, Ford?" said I, after waiting a considerable time for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth.
"At present I prefer to give no answer," he said, and retired into his hermitage.
It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me.
Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my office, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: "Ford, 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 to-morrow or next day: in short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:--say so, Ford."
"At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable," was his mildly cadaverous reply.
Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers Ross approached. He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night's rest, induced by severer indigestion than common. He overheard those final words of Ford.
"Prefer not, eh?" gritted Nippers--"I'd prefer him, if I were you, sir," addressing me--"I'd prefer him; I'd give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?"
Ford moved not a limb.
"Mr. Nippers," said I, "I'd prefer that you would withdraw for the present."
Somehow, of late I had got into the way 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 and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary means.
As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially approached.
"With submission, sir," said he, "yesterday I was thinking about Ford here, and I think that if he would but 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," said I, slightly excited.
"With submission, what word, sir," asked Turkey, respectfully crowding himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making me jostle the scrivener.
"What word, sir?"
"I would prefer to be left alone here," said Ford, as if offended at being mobbed in his privacy.
"That's the word, Turkey," said I--"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," interrupted I, "you will please withdraw." "Oh, certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should."
As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a glimpse of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent the word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled from his tongue. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission at once.
The next day I noticed that Ford did nothing but stand at his window in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said that he had decided upon doing no more writing. "Why, how now? what next?" exclaimed I, "do no more writing?"
"No more."
"The industry will go mad. Nippers Ross will go mad... And what is the reason?"
"Do you not see the reason for yourself," he indifferently replied. I looked steadfastly at him, and perceived that his eyes looked dull and glazed. Instantly it occurred to me, that his unexampled diligence in copying by his dim window for the first few weeks of his stay with me might have temporarily impaired his vision.
I was touched. I said something in condolence with him. I hinted that of course he did wisely in abstaining from writing for a while; and urged him to embrace that opportunity of taking wholesome exercise in the open air. This, however, he did not do. A few days after this, my other clerks being absent, and being in a great hurry to dispatch certain letters by the mail, I thought that, having nothing else earthly to do, Ford would surely be less inflexible than usual, and carry these letters to the post-office. But he blankly declined. So, much to my inconvenience, I went myself.
Still added days went by. Whether Ford's eyes improved or not, I could not say. To all appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked him if they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At all events, he would do no copying. At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had permanently given up copying.
"What!" exclaimed I; "suppose your eyes should get entirely well--better than ever before--would you not copy then?"
"I have given up copying," he answered, and slid aside. He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay--if that were possible--he became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be done? He would do nothing in the office: why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that, on his own account, he occasioned me uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length, necessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other considerations. Decently as I could, I told Ford that in six days' time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step towards a removal.
"And when you finally quit me, Ford," added I, "I shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from this hour, remember."
At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo! Ford was there. I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him, touched his shoulder, and said, "The time has come; you must quit this place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go."
"I would prefer not," he replied, with his back still towards me.
"You must."
He remained silent. Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man's common honesty. He had frequently restored to me sixpences and shillings carelessly dropped upon the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button affairs. The proceeding then which followed will not be deemed extraordinary.
"Ford," said I, "I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the odd twenty are yours.--Will you take it?" and I handed the bills towards him.
But he made no motion. "I will leave them here then," putting them under a weight on the table. Then taking my hat and cane and going to the door I tranquilly turned and added--"After you have removed your things from these offices, Ford, you will of course lock the door--since every one 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 hereafter in your new place of abode I can be of any service to you, do not fail to advise me by letter. Good-bye, Ford, 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 middle of the otherwise deserted room.
As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my pity. I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in getting rid of Ford. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to any dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the apartment, jerking out vehement commands for Ford to bundle himself off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly bidding Ford depart--as an inferior genius might have done--I assumed the ground that depart he must; and upon the assumption built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts,--I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever,--but only in theory. How it would prove in practice--there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have assumed Ford's departure; but, after all, that assumption was simply my own, and none of Ford's. The great point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions.
AFTER breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Ford would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal-street, 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 to produce my own, when I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore no reference to Ford, but to the success or non-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagined that all porndom shared in my excitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness. As I had intended, 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. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key, which Ford was to have left there for me, when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within--"Not yet; I am occupied."
It was Ford.
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 some one touched him, when he fell.
"Not gone!" I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which ascendency, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly went down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the block, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity. Turn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph over me,--this too I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if nothing could be done, was there any thing further that I could assume in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Ford would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he was. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Ford at all, walk straight against him as if he were air. Such a proceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was hardly possible that Ford could withstand such an application of the doctrine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with him again.
"Ford," said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe expression, "I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Ford. I had thought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would suffice--in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why," I added, unaffectedly starting, "you have not even touched the money yet," pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.
He answered nothing.
"Will you, or will you not, quit porn?" I now demanded in a sudden passion, advancing close to him.
"I would prefer not to quit," he replied, gently emphasizing the not.
"What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you pay my taxes? Or is this property yours?"
He answered nothing.
"Are you ready to go on and write now? Are your eyes recovered? 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 any thing at all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?"
He silently retired into his hermitage. I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but prudent to check myself at present from further demonstrations. Ford and I were alone.
Aside from higher considerations, charity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle--a great safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy's sake, and anger's sake, and hatred's sake, and selfishness' sake, and spiritual pride's sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity's sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don't mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be indulged. I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him, Ford, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no.
Half-past twelve o'clock came; Turkey Kernes began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers Ross abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Ford remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him.
Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little into "Hustler Erotic Video Guide," and "Adam Film World." Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Ford 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. Yes, Ford, stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At least I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this world, Ford, 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 would have continued with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out 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 my office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable Ford, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my office, and finding no one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Ford would remain standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than he came.
Also, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman present, seeing Ford wholly unemployed, would request him to run round to his (the legal gentleman's) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon, Ford would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to 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; 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 perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus.
Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Ford the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained 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 last button.
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 of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you.
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, Ford; 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. Ford 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. -- Valjean.
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 tranquillity, 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 Ford, 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. -- Valjean.
"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 Ford 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 Ford silently sitting upon the banister at the landing.
"What are you doing here, Ford?" said I.
"Sitting upon the banister," he mildly replied.
I motioned him into the lawyer's room, who then left us.
"Ford," 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.
"Ford," 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 Valjean towards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removed from pursuit. As soon as tranquillity 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 Ford, 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 Ford 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 Ford, 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 Ford 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 yards 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.
"Ford!"
"I know you," he said, without looking round,--"and I want nothing to say to you."
"It was not I that brought you here, Ford," 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 Ford.
"Ford, 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 Ford, 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.
Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and went through the corridors in quest of Ford; 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 foot. 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 Ford. 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 the eyes. "Eh!--He's asleep, aint he?"
"With kings and counsellors," murmured I.
* * * * * * * * There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history. Imagination will readily supply the meagre recital of poor Ford'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 Ford 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 a 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 Ford 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 Ford! Ah humanity!