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- 1600
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.023Z
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- 1525
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- 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-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.
- title
- Chunk 1