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- 1631
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1563
- text
- underneath the mat, so that I may have it in the morning. I shall not
see you again; so good-by to you. If, hereafter, in your new place of
abode, I can be of any service to you, do not fail to advise me by
letter. Good-by, Bartleby, and fare you well.”
But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple,
he remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise
deserted room.
As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my
pity. I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in
getting rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to
any dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist
in its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of
any sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the
apartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself
off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly
bidding Bartleby depart—as an inferior genius might have done—I
_assumed_ the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption
built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more
I was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I
had my doubts—I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the
coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the
morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever—but only in theory.
How it would prove in practice—there was the rub. It was truly a
beautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby’s departure; but, after all,
that assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby’s. The great
point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether
he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than
assumptions.
After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities _pro_
and _con_. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and
Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next
moment it seemed certain that I should find his chair empty. And so I
kept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal street, I saw
quite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation.
“I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed.
“Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.”
I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own,
when I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had
overheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or
non-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of
mind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my
excitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on,
very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary
absent-mindedness.
As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood
listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the
knob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he
indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I
was almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the
door mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me,
when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a
summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—“Not
yet; I am occupied.”
It was Bartleby.
I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in
mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by
summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and
remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon till some one
touched him, when he fell.
- title
- Chunk 5