Becoming America - An Exploration of American Literature from Precolonial to Post-Revolution, 2018a

BECOMING AMERICA
REVOLUTIONARY AND EARLY NATIONAL PERIOD LITERATURE
“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 indierently 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 rst 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 inexible than usual, and carry these
letters to the post-oce. 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.
He remained as ever, a xture in my chamber. Nay—if that were possible—he
became still more of a xture than before. What was to be done? He would do
nothing in the oce: why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had now become
a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but aictive to bear. Yet I was
sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that, on his own account, he
occasioned me uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I
would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow away to some
convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit
of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length, necessities connected with my business
tyrannized over all other considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that
in six days’ time he must unconditionally leave the oce. I warned him to take
measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I oered to assist him
in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the rst step towards a removal.
“And when you nally 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.”
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