Narrator's Reflections on His Strategy

Properties

description

# Narrator's Reflections on His Strategy ## Overview This segment, titled "Narrator's Reflections on His Strategy," is a textual excerpt from the short story "[Bartleby, The Scrivener](arke:01KG8AJ8SS2R5YVRHT1BCDZZNP)". It spans lines 968 to 1009 and was extracted from the file "[bartleby_the_scrivener.txt](arke:01KG89J1CRGPEZ66W67EZPAMPE)". The segment is part of the larger "[Melville Complete Works](arke:01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW)" collection. ## Context This segment follows the narrator's internal monologue after he has attempted to get Bartleby to leave his employment. He reflects on his own perceived cleverness in handling the situation, noting his preference for a quiet, non-confrontational approach. However, upon waking the next morning, his confidence wavers as he considers the practical implications of his strategy, realizing that his assumption of Bartleby's departure is not necessarily Bartleby's preference. The segment also includes a brief, mistaken interaction with passersby on Broadway, highlighting the narrator's preoccupied state of mind. ## Contents The text details the narrator's self-congratulatory thoughts on his "masterly management" of Bartleby's situation, emphasizing the subtlety of his approach. It contrasts his method with "vulgar bullying" and highlights his strategy of assuming Bartleby's departure rather than demanding it. The narrator then recounts his morning doubts, his walk downtown, and a misinterpretation of a street conversation as being about Bartleby, when it was actually about a mayoral election. This section reveals the narrator's internal conflict and his growing uncertainty about how Bartleby will respond to his passive-aggressive tactics.

description_generated_at

2026-01-30T20:48:07.342Z

description_model

gemini-2.5-flash-lite

description_title

Narrator's Reflections on His Strategy

end_line

1009

extracted_at

2026-01-30T20:47:37.562Z

extracted_by

structure-extraction-lambda

source_file

01KG89J1CRGPEZ66W67EZPAMPE

start_line

968

text

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.

title

Narrator's Reflections on His Strategy