“Bartleby” said I, “are you aware that you are the cause of great
tribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being
dismissed from the office?”
No answer.
“Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something,
or something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you
like to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some
one?”
“No; I would prefer not to make any change.”
“Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?”
“There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a
clerkship; but I am not particular.”
“Too much confinement,” I cried, “why you keep yourself confined all
the time!”
“I would prefer not to take a clerkship,” he rejoined, as if to settle
that little item at once.
“How would a bar-tender’s business suit you? There is no trying of the
eye-sight 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 anything definite
about that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.”
“Stationary you shall be, then,” I cried, now losing all patience, and,
for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him, fairly
flying into a passion. “If you do not go away from these premises
before night, I shall feel bound—indeed, I _am_ bound—to—to—to quit the
premises myself!” I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what
possible threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance.
Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him,
when a final thought occurred to me—one which had not been wholly
unindulged before.
“Bartleby,” said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such
exciting circumstances, “will you go home with me now—not to my office,
but my dwelling—and remain there till we can conclude upon some
convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now,
right away.”
“No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.”
I answered nothing; but, effectually dodging every one by the
suddenness and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up
Wall street towards Broadway, and, jumping into the first omnibus, was
soon removed from pursuit. As soon as 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 Bartleby,
and shield him from rude persecution, I now strove to be entirely
care-free and quiescent; and my conscience justified me in the attempt;
though, indeed, it was not so successful as I could have wished. So
fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord and
his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers, for
a few days, I drove about the upper part of the town and through the
suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and
paid fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact, I almost
lived in my rockaway for the time.
When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon
the desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that the
writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as
a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he
wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the
facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was
indignant; but, at last, almost approved. The landlord’s energetic,
summary disposition, had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not
think I would have decided upon myself; and yet, as a last resort,
under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.
As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be
conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but, in his
pale, unmoving way, silently acquiesced.
Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and
headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent
procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of
the roaring thoroughfares at noon.
The same day I received the note, I went to the Tombs, or, to speak
more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I
stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I
described was, indeed, within. I then assured the functionary that
Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated,
however unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew and closed by
suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement
as possible, till something less harsh might be done—though, indeed, I
hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon,
the alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview.
Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all
his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison,
and, especially, in the inclosed grass-platted 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.
“Bartleby!”
“I know you,” he said, without looking round—“and I want nothing to say
to you.”
“It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,” said I, keenly pained
at his implied suspicion. “And to you, this should not be so vile a
place. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it
is not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and
here is the grass.”
“I know where I am,” he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I
left him.
As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron,
accosted me, and, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, said—“Is that
your friend?”
“Yes.”
“Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare,
that’s all.”
“Who are you?” asked I, not knowing what to make of such an
unofficially speaking person in such a place.
“I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to
provide them with something good to eat.”
“Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey.
He said it was.
“Well, then,” said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man’s hands
(for so they called him), “I want you to give particular attention to
my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must
be as polite to him as possible.”
“Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me with an
expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity
to give a specimen of his breeding.
Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and,
asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.
“Bartleby, this is a friend; 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; nice
grounds—cool apartments—hope you’ll stay with us some time—try to make
it agreeable. What will you have for dinner to-day?”
“I prefer not to dine to-day,” said Bartleby, turning away. “It would
disagree with me; I am unused to dinners.” So saying, he slowly moved
to the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the
dead-wall.
“How’s this?” said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of
astonishment. “He’s odd, ain’t he?”
“I think he is a little deranged,” said I, sadly.
“Deranged? deranged is it? Well, now, upon my word, I thought that
friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale, and
genteel-like, them forgers. I can’t help pity ’em—can’t help it, sir.
Did you know Monroe Edwards?” he added, touchingly, and paused. Then,
laying his hand piteously on my shoulder, sighed, “he died of
consumption at Sing-Sing. So you weren’t acquainted with Monroe?”
“No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot
stop longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will
see you again.”
Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and
went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding
him.
“I saw him coming from his cell not long ago,” said a turnkey, “may be
he’s gone to loiter in the yards.”
So I went in that direction.
“Are you looking for the silent man?” said another turnkey, passing me.
“Yonder he lies—sleeping in the yard there. ’Tis not twenty minutes
since I saw him lie down.”
The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common
prisoners. The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all
sounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon
me with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under 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
Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him;
stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed
profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his
hand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my
feet.
The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. “His dinner is
ready. Won’t he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?”
“Lives without dining,” said I, and closed the eyes.
“Eh!—He’s asleep, ain’t he?”
“With kings and counselors,” murmured I.
There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history.
Imagination will readily supply the meagre recital of poor Bartleby’s
interment. But, ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this
little narrative has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity
as to who Bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the
present narrator’s making his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in
such curiosity I fully share, but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet
here I hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor,
which came to my ear a few months after the scrivener’s decease. Upon
what basis it rested, I could never ascertain; and hence, how true it
is I cannot now tell. But, inasmuch as this vague report has not been
without a certain suggestive interest to me, however sad, it may prove
the same with some others; and so I will briefly mention it. The report
was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter
Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a
change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, hardly can
I express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not sound
like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone to a
pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten it
than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assorting
them for the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned.
Sometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring—the
finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note
sent in swiftest charity—he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers
any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died
unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved
calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.
Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!