- end_line
- 1697
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1621
- text
- 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
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 anything 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
anything 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.
- title
- Chunk 6