"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 Bartleby, 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 form 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 Bartleby 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."
"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, Bartleby 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 Bartleby'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 Bartleby 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, Bartleby," 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!
Bartleby 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.
"Bartleby," 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,
Bartleby, 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,
Bartleby, and fare you well."
But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple,
he remained standing mute and solitary in the 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 Bartleby. 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 Bartleby to bundle himself
off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly
bidding Bartleby depart--as an inferior genius might have done--I
_assumed_ the ground that depart he must; and upon that 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 Bartleby's departure; but, after all,
that assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby'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
Bartleby 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 Bartleby, 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 Broadway 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 Bartleby 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 Bartleby.
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 a
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
ascendancy, for all my chafling, 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 Bartleby
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 Bartleby 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 Bartleby 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.
"Bartleby," said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe
expression, "I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had
thought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly
organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would have
suffice--in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why,"
I added, unaffectedly starting, "you have not even touched that money
yet," pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.
He answered nothing.
"Will you, or will you not, quit me?" I now demanded in a sudden
passion, advancing close to him.
"I would prefer _not_ to quit you," 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.
Bartleby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate
Adams and the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the
latter; and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and
imprudently permitting himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares
hurried into his fatal act--an act which certainly no man could possibly
deplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my
ponderings upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in
the public street, or at a private residence, it would not have
terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a
solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by
humanizing domestic associations--an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a
dusty, haggard sort of appearance;--this it must have been, which
greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt.
But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me
concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by
recalling the divine injunction: "A new commandment give I unto you,
that ye love one another." Yes, this it was that saved me. 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. Bartleby, 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 began to glow in the face, overturn his
inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into
quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby
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 "Edwards on the Will," and "Priestly on Necessity." 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 Bartleby was
billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all-wise Providence,
which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby,
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, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for such period as
you may see fit to remain.
I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued
with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks
obtruded upon me by me 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
Bartleby, 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, Bartleby 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 Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him
to run round to his (the legal gentleman's) office and fetch some papers
for him. Thereupon, Bartleby 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 Bartleby 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.
