Bartleby, the Scrivener
A Story of Wall-Street
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 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 employees, 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 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 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 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 execable; 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' 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 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 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 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, 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'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 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 wilfulness, 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 minutes' 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, 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
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 customs 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 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 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 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
saving's 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 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 wold put certain
calm questions to him the next morning, touching his history,
&c., 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, 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 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 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 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 ascendency, 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
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 constructing 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 ``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 all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like
me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought
I; I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless
as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as
when I know you are here. At least I see it, I feel it; I penetrate
to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am content. Others may
have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this world, Bartleby,
is to furnish you with office-room for such period as you may see
fit to remain.

I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued
with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks
obtruded upon me by 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 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, 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 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. 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 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 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 help 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 the eyes.

``Eh!-He's asleep, aint he?''

``With kings and counsellors,'' 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 strange suggestive
interest to me, however said, 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.
