Bartleby, The Scrivener



A STORY OF WALL-STREET.



by Herman Melville









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 of 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 employés, 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 tranquility 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 sky-light 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

6 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 easy 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 teatime. 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 any thing, 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 of 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’ 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, and 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 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

back-yards 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 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 flute-like 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 conclusions; 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, with 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’ 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’) 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 every thing 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 any

where. 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 in an excited manner—



“He says, a second time, 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 round to the Post

Office, won’t you? (it was but a three minute walk,) and see if there

is any thing 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, and 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, one 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 pointblank.



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 around 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 dishabille, 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 any thing 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 rickety 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

scrivener’s 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. Every thing 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 any

where 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 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 any thing 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 _any thing_ 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

offices, 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 means.



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 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 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 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 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 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.



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, every thing 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-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, 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 any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses

to quit the premises.”



“I am very sorry, sir,” said I, with assumed tranquility, 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. Every body 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 any thing 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

eyesight 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 any thing 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 tranquility 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 yard 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 seemed 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 Mr. Cutlets; 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;—spacious grounds—cool apartments, sir—hope you’ll stay with us

some time—try to make it agreeable. May Mrs. Cutlets and I have the

pleasure of your company to dinner, sir, in Mrs. Cutlets’ private

room?”



“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, aint 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 pity’em—can’t help it, sir. Did you

know Monroe Edwards?” he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his

hand pityingly 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 his eyes.



“Eh!—He’s asleep, aint he?”



“With kings and counselors,” murmured I.





There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history.

Imagination will readily supply the meager 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 certain strange 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, I cannot

adequately 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!