Chapter: BARTLEBY.


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
law-copyists, 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 Bartleby, who was a scrivener, the
strangest I ever saw, or heard of. While, of other law-copyists, I might
write the complete life, of Bartleby 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. Bartleby 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 Bartleby, _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 _employes_, 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 bonds, and mortgages, and title-deeds. All who know me,
consider me an eminently _safe_ man. The late John Jacob Astor, a
personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in
pronouncing my first grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do
not speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not
unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which,
I admit, I love to repeat; for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to
it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not
insensible to the late John Jacob Astor's good opinion.

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 New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred
upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly
remunerative. I seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in
dangerous indignation at wrongs and outrages; but, I must be permitted
to be rash here, and declare, that I consider the sudden and violent
abrogation of the office of Master in Chancery, by the new Constitution,
as a ---- premature act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a life-lease of
the profits, whereas I only received those of a few short years. But
this is by the way.

My chambers were up stairs, at No. ---- Wall street. At one end, they
looked upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious skylight shaft,
penetrating the building from top to bottom.

This view might have been considered rather tame than otherwise,
deficient in what landscape painters call "life." But, if so, the view
from the other end of my chambers offered, at least, a contrast, if
nothing more. In that direction, my windows commanded an unobstructed
view of a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade; which
wall required no spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but, for
the benefit of all near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten
feet of my window panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding
buildings, and my chambers being on the second floor, the interval
between this wall and mine not a little resembled a huge square cistern.

At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons
as copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy.
First, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem names,
the like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth, they
were nicknames, mutually conferred upon each other by my three clerks,
and were deemed expressive of their respective persons or characters.
Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman, of about my own age--that is,
somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say, his face
was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o'clock, meridian--his dinner
hour--it blazed like a grate full of Christmas coals; and continued
blazing--but, as it were, with a gradual wane--till six o'clock, P.M.,
or thereabouts; after which, I saw no more of the proprietor of the
face, which, gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed to set with it,
to rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with the like
regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular coincidences
I have known in the course of my life, not the least among which was the
fact, that, exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red
and radiant countenance, just then, too, at that critical moment, began
the daily period when I considered his business capacities as seriously
disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not that he was
absolutely idle, or averse to business, then; far from it. The
difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic. There was a
strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty recklessness of activity about him.
He would be incautious in dipping his pen into his inkstand. All his
blots upon my documents were dropped there after twelve o'clock,
meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless, and sadly given to
making blots in the afternoon, but, some days, he went further, and was
rather noisy. At such times, too, his face flamed with augmented
blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on anthracite. He made an
unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in mending his
pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them on the floor
in a sudden passion; stood up, and leaned over his table, boxing his
papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an
elderly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most
valuable person to me, and all the time before twelve o'clock,
meridian, was the quickest, steadiest creature, too, accomplishing a
great deal of work in a style not easily to be matched--for these
reasons, I was willing to overlook his eccentricities, though, indeed,
occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however,
because, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of
men in the morning, yet, in the afternoon, he was disposed, upon
provocation, to be slightly rash with his tongue--in fact, insolent.
Now, valuing his morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose
them--yet, at the same time, made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways
after twelve o'clock--and being a man of peace, unwilling by my
admonitions to call forth unseemly retorts from him, I took upon me, one
Saturday noon (he was always worse on Saturdays) to hint to him, very
kindly, that, perhaps, now that he was growing old, it might be well to
abridge his labors; in short, he need not come to my chambers after
twelve o'clock, but, dinner over, had best go home to his lodgings, and
rest himself till tea-time. But no; he insisted upon his afternoon
devotions. His countenance became intolerably fervid, as he
oratorically assured me--gesticulating with a long ruler at the other
end of the room--that if his services in the morning were useful, how
indispensable, then, in the afternoon?

"With submission, sir," said Turkey, on this occasion, "I consider
myself your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my
columns; but in the afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly
charge the foe, thus"--and he made a violent thrust with the ruler.

"But the blots, Turkey," intimated I.

"True; but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old.
Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be severely
urged against gray hairs. Old age--even if it blot the page--is
honorable. With submission, sir, we _both_ are getting old."

This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all
events, I saw that go he would not. So, I made up my mind to let him
stay, resolving, nevertheless, to see to it that, during the afternoon,
he had to do with my less important papers.

Nippers, 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 of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get this
table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits
of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite
adjustment, by final pieces of folded blotting-paper. But no invention
would answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table
lid at a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote, there like a
man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk, then he declared
that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table
to his waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore
aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew
not what he wanted. Or, if he wanted anything, it was to be rid of a
scrivener's table altogether. Among the manifestations of his diseased
ambition was a fondness he had for receiving visits from certain
ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats, whom he called his clients.
Indeed, I was aware that not only was he, at times, considerable of a
ward-politician, but he occasionally did a little business at the
Justices' courts, and was not unknown on the steps of the Tombs. I have
good reason to believe, however, that one individual who called upon him
at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he insisted was his client,
was no other than a dun, and the alleged title-deed, a bill. But, with
all his failings, and the annoyances he caused me, Nippers, like his
compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man to me; wrote a neat, swift
hand; and, when he chose, was not deficient in a gentlemanly sort of
deportment. Added to this, he always dressed in a gentlemanly sort of
way; and so, incidentally, reflected credit upon my chambers. Whereas,
with respect to Turkey, I had much ado to keep him from being a reproach
to me. His clothes were apt to look oily, and smell of eating-houses. He
wore his pantaloons very loose and baggy in summer. His coats were
execrable; his hat not to be handled. But while the hat was a thing of
indifference to me, inasmuch as his natural civility and deference, as a
dependent Englishman, always led him to doff it the moment he entered
the room, yet his coat was another matter. Concerning his coats, I
reasoned with him; but with no effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a
man with so small an income could not afford to sport such a lustrous
face and a lustrous coat at one and the same time. As Nippers once
observed, Turkey's money went chiefly for red ink. One winter day, I
presented Turkey with a highly respectable-looking coat of my own--a
padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth, and which buttoned
straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would appreciate
the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons.
But no; I verily believe that buttoning himself up in so downy and
blanket-like a coat had a pernicious effect upon him--upon the same
principle that too much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a
rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat.
It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed.

Though, concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey, I had my own
private surmises, yet, touching Nippers, 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.
When I consider how, amid the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would
sometimes impatiently rise from his seat, and stooping over his table,
spread his arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk
it, with a grim, grinding motion on the floor, as if the table were a
perverse voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him, I plainly
perceive that, for Nippers, brandy-and-water were altogether
superfluous.

It was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar
cause--indigestion--the irritability and consequent nervousness of
Nippers were mainly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon he
was comparatively mild. So that, Turkey's paroxysms only coming on about
twelve o'clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities at one time.
Their fits relieved each other, like guards. When Nippers's was on,
Turkey's was off; and _vice versa_. This was a good natural arrangement,
under the circumstances.

Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad, some twelve years old. His,
father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of
a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office, as student at law,
errand-boy, cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week. He
had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon
inspection, the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various
sorts of nuts. Indeed, to this quick-witted youth, the whole noble
science of the law was contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among the
employments of Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the
most alacrity, was his duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey and
Nippers. Copying law-papers being proverbially a dry, husky sort of
business, my two scriveners were fain to moisten their mouths very often
with Spitzenbergs, to be had at the numerous stalls nigh the Custom
House and Post Office. Also, they sent Ginger Nut very frequently for
that peculiar cake--small, flat, round, and very spicy--after which he
had been named by them. Of a cold morning, when business was but dull,
Turkey would gobble up scores of these cakes, as if they were mere
wafers--indeed, they sell them at the rate of six or eight for a
penny--the scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of the crisp
particles in his mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders and flurried
rashnesses of Turkey, was his once moistening a ginger-cake between his
lips, and clapping it on to a mortgage, for a seal. I came within an
ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified me by making an oriental
bow, and saying--

"With submission, sir, it was generous of me to find you in stationery
on my own account."

Now my original business--that of a conveyancer and title hunter, and
drawer-up of recondite documents of all sorts--was considerably
increased by receiving the master's office. There was now great work for
scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I must
have additional help.

In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning stood
upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can
see that figure now--pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably
forlorn! It was Bartleby.

After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to
have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an aspect,
which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of
Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers.

I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my
premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the
other by myself. According to my humor, I threw open these doors, or
closed them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the
folding-doors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man
within easy call, in case any trifling thing was to be done. I placed
his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a
window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy
backyards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections,
commanded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within
three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far
above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a
dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured a high
green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from my
sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner,
privacy and society were conjoined.

At first, Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long
famishing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my
documents. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night
line, copying by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been quite
delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully industrious. But
he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically.

It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener's business to
verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or
more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this
examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original.
It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily
imagine that, to some sanguine temperaments, it would be altogether
intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet,
Byron, would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law
document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand.

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 Bartleby 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 Bartleby. 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, Bartleby
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, Bartleby, 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 Bartleby
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, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being
quadruplicates of a week's testimony taken before me in my High Court of
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 his hand, when I called to
Bartleby to join this interesting group.

"Bartleby! 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 Bartleby 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 flutelike 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, in 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. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But
once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the
consideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little
trouble we made out to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at
every page or two Turkey deferentially dropped his opinion, that this
proceeding was quite out of the common; while Nippers, twitching in his
chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out, between his set teeth,
occasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn oaf behind the
screen. And for his (Nippers's) part, this was the first and the last
time he would do another man's business without pay.

Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to everything but his
own peculiar business there.

Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy
work. His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his ways narrowly. I
observed that he never went to dinner; indeed, that he never went
anywhere. As yet I had never, of my personal knowledge, known him to be
outside of my office. He was a perpetual sentry in the corner. At about
eleven o'clock though, in the morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would
advance toward the opening in Bartleby's screen, as if silently beckoned
thither by a gesture invisible to me where I sat. The boy would then
leave the office, jingling a few pence, and reappear with a handful of
ginger-nuts, which he delivered in the hermitage, receiving two of the
cakes for his trouble.

He lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinner, properly
speaking; he must be a vegetarian, then; but no; he never eats even
vegetables, he eats nothing but ginger-nuts. My mind then ran on in
reveries concerning the probable effects upon the human constitution of
living entirely on ginger-nuts. Ginger-nuts are so called, because they
contain ginger as one of their peculiar constituents, and the final
flavoring one. Now, what was ginger? A hot, spicy thing. Was Bartleby
hot and spicy? Not at all. Ginger, then, had no effect upon Bartleby.
Probably, he preferred it should have none.

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 Bartleby 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
Bartleby; to humor him in his strange willfulness, 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 Bartleby 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:

"Bartleby," said I, "when those papers 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 and
Nippers, exclaimed:

"Bartleby a second time says, he won't examine his papers. What do you
think of it, Turkey?"

It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey 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 Bartleby?"

"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 Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey," I replied;
"pray, put up your fists."

I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I felt
additional incentives tempting me to my fate. I burned to be rebelled
against again. I remembered that Bartleby never left the office.

"Bartleby," said I, "Ginger Nut is away; just step around to the Post
Office, won't you? (it was but a three minutes' walk), and see if there
is anything 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?

"Bartleby!"

No answer.

"Bartleby," in a louder tone.

No answer.

"Bartleby," 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 Nippers to come to me."

"I prefer not to," he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly
disappeared.

"Very good, Bartleby," 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 scrivener,
by the name of Bartleby, had a desk there; that he copied 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, out of compliment, doubtless, to
their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby 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 Bartleby. 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_--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
Bartleby's part under which he remained in my office. Now and then, in
the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would inadvertently
summon Bartleby, 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.

Here it must be said, that according to the custom of most legal
gentlemen occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, there
were several keys to my door. One was kept by a woman residing in the
attic, which person weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my
apartments. Another was kept by Turkey for convenience sake. The third I
sometimes carried in my own pocket. The fourth I knew not who had.

Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a
celebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground I
thought I would walk round to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had my
key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by
something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when
to my consternation a key was turned from within; and thrusting his lean
visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the apparition of Bartleby
appeared, in his shirt sleeves, and otherwise in a strangely tattered
deshabille, saying quietly that he was sorry, but he was deeply engaged
just then, and--preferred not admitting me at present. In a brief word
or two, he moreover added, that perhaps I had better walk round the
block two or three times, and by that time he would probably have
concluded his affairs.

Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my
law-chambers of a Sunday 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 Bartleby could possibly be doing in my office
in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition of a
Sunday morning. Was anything amiss going on? Nay, that was out of the
question. It was not to be thought of for a moment that Bartleby was an
immoral person. But what could he be doing there?--copying? Nay again,
whatever might be his eccentricities, Bartleby 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 Sunday; and there was something
about Bartleby that forbade the supposition that he 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. Bartleby 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 Bartleby 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. Yes, thought I, it is evident enough that Bartleby
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 Sunday, Wall-street 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 Sunday is forlorn.
And here Bartleby 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 Bartleby
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
Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The
scriveners pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers,
in its shivering winding sheet.

Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby'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. Everything 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
anywhere 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 Bartleby 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 Trinity Church 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
Bartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this--I would put certain calm
questions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if he
declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (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.

"Bartleby," said I, gently calling to him behind his screen.

No reply.

"Bartleby," said I, in a still gentler tone, "come here; I am not going
to ask you to do anything you would prefer not to do--I simply wish to
speak to you."

Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.

"Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?"

"I would prefer not to."

"Will you tell me _anything_ 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, Bartleby," 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 calm
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: "Bartleby, 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, Bartleby."

"At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable," was his
mildly cadaverous reply.

Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed
suffering from an unusually bad night's rest, induced by severer
indigestion than common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby.

"_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?"

Bartleby 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 measures.

As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly
and deferentially approached.

"With submission, sir," said he, "yesterday I was thinking about
Bartleby 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 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 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 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 impared 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-by 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-by, 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 find 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
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 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 anything 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
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 anything 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 anything; 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 "Priestley 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 allwise 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 last 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 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
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 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 forever 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 commanded 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 paper-weight 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, everything 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-by, Bartleby; I am going--good-by, 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. Bartleby 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. ---- Wall street.

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 anything; 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 Bartleby, 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. ----
Wall street. "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.
Everybody 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 Bartleby was
nothing to me--no more than to any one else. In vain--I was the last
person known to have anything 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 Bartleby silently sitting
upon the banister at the landing.

"What are you doing here, Bartleby?" said I.

"Sitting upon the banister," he mildly replied.

I motioned him into the lawyer's room, who then left us.

"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!

 The story is also sometimes called "Bartleby the Scrivener," and sometimes, "Bartleby the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street." It's one of the most famous, most critically acclaimed stories in all of American literature. So, you know, no pressure. The narrator is a somewhat elderly lawyer. He says he's going to tell y'all about the weirdest, most bizarre scrivener of all time, named Bartleby. Like the title of the story. By coincidence. Anyway, the narrator tells you that he likes to take things easy, so he works as a non-trial lawyer with mortgages and such. He has chambers on Wall Street, in a boring office that looks out on a wall. Before Bartleby showed up, the narrator had two copyists; Turkey, Nippers, and an office-boy named Ginger Nut. Turkey is around 60; he's a good worker in the morning, but in the afternoon his face gets ruddy and he becomes over-energetic and careless. The suggestion is that Turkey has too much to drink at lunch. He tries to get Turkey to take afternoons off, but he won't. The narrator's utter failure to discipline his office staff comes back to haunt him later. Foreshadowing. Nippers is an often irritated, ambitious man, who has debts. However, he works hard, and dresses well, as opposed to Turkey, who is a mess. Nippers' bad temper is caused by indigestion, and he's worse in the morning and usually better in the afternoon, as opposed to Turkey, who is the reverse. Ginger Nut is 12; his father is a carman and hopes that Ginger Nut will advance. Ginger Nut fetches things in the office, including snacks for Turkey and Nippers. So, characters all introduced...on to the plot! The plot is just about entirely composed of nothing happening, by the by Anyway, the narrator has too much work, so he needs to hire someone. And he hires Bartleby--pallid, pitiable Bartleby. Bartleby does a ton of work at first. Go, Bartleby, go. Even at the beginning, though, Bartleby writes so silently and morosely that the narrator is a little put out. Law copyists need to double check the copies against the original on occasion. This, the narrator says, is kind of boring. So the narrator asks Barlteby to help with comparing the copies. Bartleby says "I would prefer not to." The narrator is thunderstruck, but is too much in a hurry to confront Bartleby about it right away, so gets Nippers to copy the paper. A few days later they need to examine four copies of a single document. The narrator calls in Turkey and Nippers and Bartleby. But again, Bartleby says he would prefer not to do the checking. The narrator appeals to Turkey and Nippers to see if Bartleby is acting badly. They agree he is. But the narrator is again hurried by business, and is generally ineffectual, so they do the checking without Bartleby again. The narrator over time notices that Bartleby doesn't really seem to eat anything except the occasional ginger nut. The narrator feels pity for Bartleby, and decides to try to indulge him, since he's useful even if he won't check copied pages. But later he asks Bartleby to run an errand, and he prefers not to do that either. The narrator is mad...but then he decides he'll just go to dinner. Bartleby and the narrator are both indisposed to action of any sort. So Bartleby stays on. Then one day the narrator goes to his offices on Sunday, and finds the door locked. Bartleby is living there. The narrator is afflicted with melancholy at the thought of Bartleby in the office all alone. But that doesn't stop him from rifling through Bartleby's desk, and finding a bandanna with some money, Bartleby's savings. The next day the narrator tries to get Bartleby to tell him where Bartleby was born, or anything about himself. He won't though. The narrator notices that he himself, and others in the office, are using the word "prefer" in all sorts of situations. He finds this irritating and ominous. And after a bit Bartleby stops copying. He just stands in the office. The narrator thinks that maybe Bartleby's eyes are strained, though Bartleby doesn't really explain anything. He has given up copying he says. The narrator is as ineffectual as ever. He is sorry for Bartleby, and doesn't know what to do with him, so Bartleby just stays there, doing no work, taking up space. Eventually the narrator pays Bartleby off, and tells him to leave. The narrator leaves the office, feeling that he's finally triumphed, and gotten Bartleby to go. But has he? Spoiler Alert: No. The narrator gets back to the office, and Bartleby is still there. He argues with Bartleby again. He might as well argue with a blank thing that says "I prefer not to." But the narrator's still not willing to throw him out, either because of compassion or general ineffectualness, it's not clear. So Bartleby stays around doing nothing, just hanging out. And he would have just left him there, but various professional acquaintances of the narratornotice that Bartleby is there, and they get cranky about it. So...the narrator decides to abandon the offices to Bartleby, and move himself elsewhere. He does so, and then the person who rents the offices from him comes to him and says, what on earth is this Bartleby person doing in my new offices? The narrator says, hey, he's not my problem. But the new guy is more energetic, and tosses Barlteby out. But...the narrator learns a little later that Bartleby is now haunting the landing and the stairs and upsetting the people in the building. The narrator is prevailed on to go and try to get Bartleby to move. He asks him if he'd like to work as a clerk, or go to Europe, or come with the narrator to his house. Shocker: it doesn't work. So the narrator runs away. He finds out a few days later that Bartleby has finally been carted off by the police. The narrator goes to visit Bartleby in prison; Bartleby won't speak to him, and won't eat either. The narrator pays the grub man in prison to feed Bartleby. It doesn't seem to do much good. When the narrator comes back a few days later, the grub man says Bartleby won't eat. Bartleby seems to be sleeping--but in fact he's dead. The narrator says he's found nothing more about Bartleby, except that he may have been a clerk in the Dead Letter office of the post office. That's where undeliverable letters go. The narrator says that this job may have led Bartleby to be melancholy. He finished by expressing sympathy for Bartleby and all humanity. Like most of what the narrator does, this doesn't do anyone much good.

