- end_line
- 2085
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1996
- text
- 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.
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- Chunk 12