L2-1-4

When I entered my office later, I found a message for me.

Bartleby had been taken to prison.

I found him there.

And when he saw me, he said,

I know you, and I have nothing to say to you.

But I didn't put you here, Bartleby.

I was deeply hurt.

I told him I gave the prison guard money to buy him a good dinner.

I do not want to eat today, he said.

I never eat dinner.

Days passed, and I went to see Bartleby again.

I was told he was sleeping in the prison yard outside.

Sleeping?

The thin Bartleby was lying on the cold stones.

I stooped to look at the small man,

lying on his side with his knees against his chest.

I walked closer and looked down at him.

His eyes were open.

He seemed to be in a deep sleep.

Won't he eat today either?

Or does he live without eating?

The guard asked.

Lives without eating, I answered, and closed his eyes.

Ah, he is asleep, doesn't he?

The guard said, with kings and lawyers, I answered.

One little story came to me, some days after Bartleby died.

I learned he had worked for many years in the post office.

He was in a special office that opened all the nation's letters that never reached the person they were written to.

It is called the dead letter office.

The letters are not written clearly, so the mailmen cannot read the addresses.

Well, poor Bartleby had to read the letters to see if anyone's name was written clearly so they could be sent.

Think of it.

From one letter a wedding ring fell.

The finger it was bought for, perhaps lies rotting in the grave.

Another letter has money to help someone long since dead.

Letters filled with hope for those who died without hope.

Poor Bartleby.

He himself had lost all hope.

His job had killed something inside him.

Ah, Bartleby.

Ah, humanity.