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- 909
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:34.136Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 845
- text
- “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.
- title
- Chunk 2