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.”