Bartleby, the Scrivener (for Advanced Levels C1-C2)

English story for reading – Bartleby, the Scrivener is a remarkable literary work by the American writer Herman Melville. First published in 1853, this thought-provoking story explores human isolation, individual freedom, social expectations, compassion, and the difficulties of understanding another person’s suffering. Through an unusual character and a series of increasingly disturbing events, Melville invites readers to question the values of modern working life and the limits of human kindness.

This English story for reading is adapted for advanced English learners at the C1 level. It offers an opportunity to experience sophisticated literary language while exploring one of the most unusual and psychologically complex characters in American literature.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Herman Melville (1819–1891) was an influential American novelist, short-story writer, and poet. He was born in New York City on August 1, 1819, into a family that experienced considerable financial difficulties. After his father’s death, Melville had to leave formal education and take various jobs to support himself.

In 1839, he began working at sea, an experience that would profoundly influence his literary imagination. His voyages introduced him to different cultures, unfamiliar environments, and the demanding realities of life aboard ships. These experiences later provided material for many of his most celebrated works.

Melville became widely recognised for his novels, particularly Typee (1846), Omoo (1847), and Moby-Dick (1851). Although Moby-Dick is now regarded as one of the greatest novels in American literature, it did not achieve significant commercial success during his lifetime.

Throughout his career, Melville explored complex philosophical and psychological questions, including the nature of good and evil, the relationship between individuals and society, personal freedom, and the uncertainty of human existence.

His literary reputation grew considerably after his death, and he is now recognised as one of the most important figures in nineteenth-century American literature.

ABOUT THE STORY

Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-Street was first published anonymously in two instalments in Putnam’s Monthly Magazine in November and December 1853. It was later included in Melville’s collection The Piazza Tales in 1856.

The story is set in nineteenth-century New York, primarily within a lawyer’s office on Wall Street. It is narrated by an unnamed lawyer who employs several copyists to reproduce legal documents.

His office initially operates according to an established routine. However, this routine is gradually disrupted by the arrival of a mysterious young employee named Bartleby.

At first, Bartleby appears to be an exceptionally hardworking copyist. He produces an extraordinary amount of written work and seems perfectly suited to the demands of the office. Everything changes, however, when he begins responding to ordinary instructions with the unexpected words, “I would prefer not to.”

As his refusals become increasingly frequent, the lawyer struggles to understand his behaviour. Bartleby gradually withdraws from professional responsibilities and ordinary human interaction, creating a situation that challenges the lawyer’s authority, patience, and sense of compassion.

The story develops into a deeply unsettling exploration of isolation and human suffering. Its conclusion introduces a final revelation about Bartleby’s past, adding another layer of sadness and mystery to his character.

Rather than providing a definite explanation for Bartleby’s behaviour, Melville leaves readers with questions that remain open to interpretation.

WHY SHOULD YOU READ THIS STORY?

Reading Bartleby, the Scrivener offers much more than an opportunity to practise English. It introduces readers to important literary, philosophical, and psychological ideas while developing their ability to understand sophisticated written language.

Here are several reasons why this story deserves your attention:

1. Develop Advanced English Vocabulary

The story contains sophisticated vocabulary, descriptive expressions, literary collocations, and carefully constructed sentences. Reading it will help you expand your vocabulary and become more familiar with the language used in advanced English literature.

2. Improve Reading Comprehension

Melville’s narrative requires readers to look beyond the literal meaning of words. You will practise identifying implied meanings, understanding character motivations, recognising irony, and interpreting subtle changes in the narrator’s attitude.

3. Explore Human Psychology

Bartleby is one of the most mysterious characters in American literature. His unusual behaviour encourages readers to think about loneliness, emotional withdrawal, personal suffering, and the difficulty of understanding other people.

4. Understand Important Social Issues

The story examines the relationship between individuals and the working world. It raises questions about professional responsibility, social expectations, economic pressure, and the treatment of people who cannot or will not conform to established systems.

5. Develop Critical and Analytical Thinking

Melville does not provide simple answers. Instead, he presents situations that invite different interpretations. Readers must consider the evidence, question their assumptions, and develop their own understanding of the characters and events.

6. Experience Classic American Literature

This story provides an excellent introduction to Herman Melville’s literary style and nineteenth-century American fiction. It also offers valuable insight into themes that remain relevant in contemporary society.

This edition has been prepared for learners at the CEFR C1 level. The adaptation aims to preserve the original story’s major events, characters, atmosphere, philosophical depth, and psychological complexity while presenting the narrative in fluent, sophisticated, and accessible contemporary English.

Particular attention has been given to the narrator’s distinctive voice, the development of Bartleby’s character, the symbolism of walls and enclosed spaces, and the ambiguity that makes the original story so memorable.

The purpose is not simply to make the story easier to read, but to help advanced learners engage with authentic literary ideas and develop a deeper appreciation of the English language.

Read carefully, pay attention to the language, and consider the questions that Melville deliberately leaves unanswered.

This story has been carefully adapted and rewritten by LearnEnglish-new.com for advanced English learners. The original work by Mark Twain is in the public domain. This learner-friendly adaptation uses clear, modern English while preserving the main characters, events, humor, and themes of the original story. It is designed to help C1–C2 learners develop their reading comprehension, vocabulary, and understanding of literary English. Enjoy reading and improve your English skills!

Bartleby, the Scrivener

by Herman Melville

CONTENTS

Chapter One: The Lawyer and His Office

Chapter Two: Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut

Chapter Three: The Arrival of Bartleby

Chapter Four: I Would Prefer Not To

Chapter Five: The Man Behind the Screen

Chapter Six: The Refusal to Leave

Chapter Seven: The Lawyer’s Final Attempts

Chapter Eight: Ah Bartleby! Ah Humanity!

Vocabulary

Comprehension Questions

Grammar Exercises

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Chapter One

The Lawyer and His Office

I am a man who, from his earliest years, has been firmly persuaded that the easiest way of life is generally the best. This conviction has shaped nearly every important decision I have made. While I belong to a profession not altogether free from agitation, rivalry, and occasional turbulence, I have rarely allowed such disturbances to intrude upon my peace of mind. I have never possessed much ambition for public recognition, nor have I felt any particular attraction to the excitement of courtroom disputes. My preference has always been for a quieter kind of professional existence, conducted with discretion and, above all, a reasonable degree of comfort.

I am one of those lawyers who seldom address a jury and have little occasion to seek the applause of an audience. Instead, I conduct my business in the relative tranquillity of my own chambers, attending to the bonds, mortgages, and title deeds of wealthy clients. The work is respectable, predictable, and generally well rewarded. It requires accuracy, patience, and a sound understanding of legal procedure, but rarely calls for dramatic displays of intellect or courage.

Those who know me professionally have long regarded me as a particularly safe man. I do not mention this out of vanity; it is simply an observation supported by the opinions of others. Indeed, the late John Jacob Astor, a gentleman whose temperament was not especially inclined towards poetic enthusiasm, once identified prudence as my foremost quality and method as the next. His judgement was of considerable value to me. I confess that I was not indifferent to his favourable opinion. There was something deeply satisfying about receiving such an assessment from a man of his standing and commercial experience.

I have always found his name agreeable to pronounce, too. It possesses a certain rounded quality, almost as though its sound carried an echo of the wealth and influence associated with it. But I must not allow myself to wander too far into reflections upon the name of a former client. My purpose is not to describe the distinguished men whose affairs passed through my hands, but to establish something of the character and circumstances of the person who tells this story.

Some time before the events I am about to relate, my professional responsibilities increased considerably. The position of Master in Chancery, an established office in the State of New York, was conferred upon me. It was not an especially demanding appointment, but it brought a welcome addition to my income and fitted comfortably into my existing practice. I had little reason to complain of the arrangement. The responsibilities were manageable, the remuneration satisfactory, and the position offered a degree of professional distinction without requiring any substantial alteration to my habits.

Unfortunately, the office was later abolished under the provisions of the new Constitution. I cannot pretend that I regarded this decision with complete indifference. The change was sudden, and from my point of view, decidedly inconvenient. I had naturally assumed that the appointment would continue for the remainder of my professional life. Having become accustomed to its financial advantages, I had counted upon receiving them for many years to come. Instead, I enjoyed the benefit for only a comparatively short period.

I am aware that public institutions cannot always be maintained merely because they happen to suit the expectations of the individuals who occupy them. Nevertheless, I have never entirely reconciled myself to the abruptness of that particular decision. It seemed to me then, and still seems to me, that the abolition of the office was somewhat premature. But this is a matter of secondary importance, and I mention it only because it formed part of the circumstances immediately preceding the events of this narrative.

My chambers were situated on an upper floor of a building on Wall Street. The precise street number is no longer necessary to my account. The location, however, deserves some attention, for the character of the premises contributed in its own quiet way to the atmosphere of what followed.

Wall Street was a centre of commerce and professional activity, where business seemed to proceed with an almost relentless urgency. Yet the view from my rooms offered little indication of the movement and energy that characterised the district. My windows looked not upon an attractive street scene or a distant prospect, but upon the enclosed spaces between neighbouring buildings.

At one end of the chambers, the windows faced the white interior wall of a spacious skylight shaft that extended through the building from top to bottom. The prospect was not entirely unpleasant, but it was undeniably dull. There was no landscape to admire, no variety of architectural detail, and scarcely anything that might hold the attention for more than a moment. A painter seeking what is commonly called life in a view would have found little encouragement there.

The outlook from the other end of the office was different in appearance, though hardly more inviting. My windows commanded a view of a lofty brick wall, darkened by age and deprived of sunlight by the surrounding buildings. It stood so close that even a person with imperfect eyesight could distinguish its rough, weathered surface without difficulty. The wall was no more than about ten feet from the windowpanes.

Because my chambers were situated on the second floor, and the neighbouring buildings rose considerably higher, the narrow space between them and the wall resembled a vast, enclosed cistern. Light entered only imperfectly, and the general impression was one of confinement. The wall seemed to occupy the entire prospect, leaving little room for any suggestion of openness beyond it.

I had grown accustomed to these surroundings. A man who spends most of his working hours examining documents does not necessarily require an inspiring view. Indeed, I might have argued that such an environment was particularly suitable for the kind of business I conducted. There were few distractions, and the walls offered no invitation to abandon one’s work in favour of idle contemplation.

At that time, I had no reason to regard the arrangement as anything more than an ordinary inconvenience of urban professional life. I had become accustomed to the limited space, the subdued light, and the unremarkable outlook. My attention was directed towards the practical affairs of my clients, and I rarely considered what the walls outside my windows might represent.

Looking back, however, I cannot help noticing how closely the physical character of those chambers reflected certain aspects of the story that unfolded within them. The office was orderly, enclosed, and governed by established routines. Beyond its windows stood walls that seemed to offer no passage into a wider world. Within it, I believed that almost every difficulty could be managed through patience, reason, and a sensible adjustment of circumstances.

I was soon to discover that not every human difficulty submits so readily to such methods.

At the time, though, my confidence remained undisturbed. I had my profession, my established habits, and a business that appeared to be proceeding satisfactorily. Nothing in the ordinary appearance of my chambers suggested that I was approaching an experience that would challenge my assumptions about work, responsibility, compassion, and the limits of human understanding.

It was into this seemingly unremarkable professional world that Bartleby would eventually enter.

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Chapter Two

Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut

Before Bartleby made his appearance in my office, I employed two copyists and a young office boy. Their names, as they were commonly known among us, were Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut. These were not their proper names, of course, but nicknames that had gradually become attached to them, each reflecting something of the man’s appearance or character.

Turkey was a short, rather stout Englishman, approximately my own age, which meant that he was approaching sixty. His face was usually cheerful, and his manner possessed a certain easy familiarity that I had come to appreciate. Yet his most remarkable characteristic was the extraordinary difference between his behaviour in the morning and his conduct after midday.

Before noon, Turkey was an energetic and dependable worker. His writing was neat, his movements brisk, and his attention generally sufficient for the demands of the office. He appeared to take genuine pleasure in his work, and I often found his assistance entirely satisfactory.

After twelve o’clock, however, a noticeable transformation took place. His face grew red, his movements became increasingly restless, and his professional judgement seemed to desert him. The same man who had been so useful in the morning would suddenly become careless, excitable, and occasionally quite unreasonable. His handwriting deteriorated, his papers became untidy, and his temper was easily provoked.

I had observed this curious pattern for so long that I no longer considered it necessary to investigate its causes. Turkey was a man of established habits, and I had learned that attempts to reform him were unlikely to produce lasting results. It seemed more practical to arrange the work around his peculiarities than to insist upon a standard of consistency he was incapable of maintaining.

His financial circumstances may have contributed to some of his habits. His coat was often shabby, and his general appearance suggested that his income did not permit much indulgence. I suspected that a considerable portion of his money went towards drink. Nippers, indeed, once remarked that Turkey’s earnings seemed to be spent chiefly on red ink, a comment that I found amusing, though I did not pursue the matter.

One winter, wishing to improve his appearance and perhaps encourage a little more restraint, I presented him with a respectable padded coat of my own. It was grey, comfortably warm, and buttoned from the knees almost to the neck. I imagined that Turkey would appreciate the kindness and perhaps become somewhat more careful in his conduct.

The result was quite the opposite. The new coat seemed to give him an exaggerated sense of importance. Instead of making him more moderate, it appeared to increase his confidence and make his afternoon behaviour even more troublesome. He wore it with an air of satisfaction that was not always justified by the quality of his work. I began to suspect that, in Turkey’s case, prosperity was not necessarily a beneficial influence.

His mistakes after midday could be remarkably inventive. On one occasion, while preparing a mortgage document, he actually moistened a small ginger cake between his lips and pressed it against the paper as though it were an official seal. I was so astonished that I came very close to dismissing him on the spot.

Turkey, however, possessed a talent for recovering from his errors through a combination of politeness and comic self-confidence. Seeing my displeasure, he made a respectful bow and remarked that he had at least been generous enough to provide his own stationery. His explanation was so unexpected that, despite my irritation, I found myself reluctant to carry out the dismissal I had momentarily contemplated.

Nippers, my second copyist, was a very different sort of man. He was younger, ambitious, and frequently dissatisfied with the conditions under which he worked. His temperament was restless, and he seemed unable to remain content with the ordinary arrangement of his desk or the position of his chair. If a document lay at an inconvenient angle, he would complain. If his writing surface appeared too high or too low, he would attempt to adjust it. Sometimes he would seize the entire desk and drag it across the floor with such determination that one might have imagined the furniture itself had deliberately offended him.

His movements were often accompanied by expressions of irritation. He was not naturally quarrelsome, perhaps, but he possessed a nervous impatience that made even minor inconveniences seem intolerable. His ambition was evident in the way he spoke about his professional prospects, and I sometimes suspected that his dissatisfaction with his present position arose from a conviction that he deserved something better.

Unlike Turkey, whose weakness became apparent in the afternoon, Nippers was generally most troublesome in the morning. He suffered from indigestion, which seemed to produce a condition of almost constant nervous irritation. His face often bore an expression of discomfort, and he was easily provoked by matters that a more patient person would have dismissed without a second thought.

Yet, as the day progressed, his condition usually improved. By the afternoon, he became comparatively calm and reasonable. His work, too, was often more satisfactory at that time.

It was fortunate for me that the two men’s irregularities occurred at different hours. Turkey’s decline began around noon, just as Nippers’s morning irritability was beginning to subside. Their respective tempers seemed to relieve one another like guards taking turns at their posts. When one was difficult to manage, the other was generally more agreeable.

I regarded this arrangement as a fortunate accident. It allowed me to maintain a functioning office without having to confront both men’s worst habits at the same time. In a business where patience and routine were valuable, such a natural division of difficulties was not to be dismissed lightly.

The third member of my little establishment was Ginger Nut, a boy of about twelve. His father worked as a carman and hoped, before he died, to see his son established in a respectable profession rather than following the same occupation. With that ambition in mind, he had sent the boy to my office.

Ginger Nut’s position was somewhat unusual. He was expected to learn something of the law, assist with errands, and keep the office reasonably clean. For these various services, his father received one dollar a week. The boy had a small desk of his own, although he made little use of it. Its drawer, when inspected, contained a considerable collection of nutshells of different kinds. It was difficult to imagine that he regarded the study of law with much seriousness. To his young mind, the entire science of legal knowledge seemed to have been reduced to a nutshell.

Nevertheless, he was quick-witted and generally willing to help. His most frequent duties involved carrying messages and purchasing refreshments for the two copyists. Legal documents, with their dense language and endless paragraphs, were dry and tiring work. Turkey and Nippers therefore found frequent reasons to send the boy to nearby stalls for apples and small cakes.

Among these refreshments, one particular kind was especially popular: a small, flat, round cake flavoured with ginger. The two copyists ordered them so often that the boy gradually became known by the name of the cake itself. Thus, Ginger Nut acquired a nickname that seemed to suit him perfectly.

On cold mornings, when business was quiet, Turkey could consume an astonishing number of these cakes while continuing to write. The scratching of his pen would be accompanied by the crisp sound of his chewing. Nippers, meanwhile, often sent the boy for apples, which he preferred as a means of relieving the discomfort caused by his indigestion.

Ginger Nut performed these errands with considerable enthusiasm. He seemed to take pleasure in being useful, and the modest coins he received for his purchases were enough to make the task agreeable to him. He was not burdened by the professional ambitions that troubled Nippers, nor did he possess Turkey’s tendency towards afternoon disorder. His outlook was simpler, and his place in the office was correspondingly uncomplicated.

Such were the three individuals who formed my small clerical staff before Bartleby’s arrival. Each had his own peculiarities, and each required a certain degree of tolerance. Yet, taken together, they constituted a workable arrangement. Their habits were familiar, their responsibilities understood, and the ordinary rhythm of the office continued without serious interruption.

At that time, I had no reason to imagine that the quiet balance of my establishment would soon be disturbed. I believed that I understood the people around me well enough to manage their conduct, and that any difficulty could be addressed through patience, practical judgement, or a suitable adjustment of duties.

I was mistaken, though I had not yet discovered the extent of my mistake.

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Chapter Three

The Arrival of Bartleby

As my professional responsibilities increased, so did the quantity of clerical work that required attention. The appointment of Master in Chancery had brought a considerable number of additional documents into my office, and the copying of legal papers became an increasingly demanding part of our daily routine. I could no longer rely entirely upon the two copyists already in my employment. More assistance was necessary if the business was to proceed without delay.

I therefore placed an advertisement seeking another scrivener. The response was not immediate, but one summer morning, while my office door stood open to admit the air, a young man appeared quietly on the threshold.

I can still recall the impression he made upon me. He stood almost motionless, as though uncertain whether he had entered the right place or whether he was expected to announce himself. His clothes were clean and respectable, although they gave him an air of poverty rather than comfort. His face was pale, his expression composed, and his whole appearance suggested a man who had become accustomed to being overlooked. There was something deeply forlorn about him, though nothing in his manner invited questions.

His name was Bartleby.

After a brief conversation about his qualifications and previous experience, I decided to employ him. I was pleased to have found a man whose quiet appearance seemed so different from the restless temperaments of Turkey and Nippers. I imagined that his calmness might have a beneficial influence upon the office. Perhaps, I thought, his presence would help moderate the impulsiveness of one and the irritability of the other.

I had no reason at that moment to doubt the wisdom of my decision.

Before describing Bartleby’s duties, I should explain the arrangement of the rooms in which we worked. My chambers were divided into two sections by folding doors made of ground glass. The copyists occupied one side, while I worked in the other. Depending upon the nature of my business and my mood, I could leave the doors open or close them, thereby maintaining a degree of separation without entirely losing contact with my employees.

I decided to place Bartleby near these doors, but on my side of them, where I could call upon him whenever a document required attention. His desk stood beside a small window that admitted some light, although it offered almost no view. Originally, the window had looked towards a series of dirty backyards and brick walls. Since additional buildings had been erected nearby, however, the outlook had become almost completely blocked.

A wall stood only a few feet from the glass. The light reached the window from a narrow opening high above, between two tall buildings. It was as though the room received whatever daylight happened to escape from a small gap in an otherwise enclosed space.

I considered the arrangement sufficiently practical. Bartleby would have his own working place, close enough for me to communicate with him but separated from the rest of the office. To provide him with a little privacy, I also obtained a tall green folding screen. It could be placed around his desk so that he would be hidden from my direct view while remaining within hearing distance.

In this way, I thought, I could offer him both privacy and the advantages of working in an organised office. He would be separated from the general activity without being excluded from it altogether.

At first, Bartleby proved to be an extraordinary addition to my staff.

He began copying documents with astonishing speed and persistence. Indeed, it seemed almost as though he had been deprived of written work for a long time and was now determined to make up for every lost hour. He worked from morning until evening, and sometimes continued by candlelight after the daylight had faded. His pen moved steadily across the pages, producing one copy after another with scarcely any interruption.

His industry was remarkable, but it was not accompanied by any visible enthusiasm. He did not speak while he worked, nor did he show signs of satisfaction when he completed a document. He simply continued writing, his pale face turned towards the papers before him, his expression unchanged.

I might have been entirely delighted with his performance had he displayed even a little of the cheerful energy usually associated with a diligent employee. Yet there was something mechanical about his activity. He seemed to copy not because he found purpose or satisfaction in the task, but because the movement of his hand had become an almost automatic necessity.

Nevertheless, the quantity of work he produced was impressive. I had rarely encountered a copyist capable of such sustained concentration. Turkey and Nippers, with their respective irregularities, had never managed to maintain anything approaching Bartleby’s consistency.

There was, however, one important part of a scrivener’s occupation that could not be avoided. After a document had been copied, its accuracy had to be checked carefully, word by word, against the original. This process was known as examination, and it was an essential safeguard against errors. A single misplaced word or omitted sentence could create serious difficulties in legal business.

When several copyists were employed in the same office, they usually assisted one another in this task. One would read from the original while another followed the copy, checking each line for accuracy. It was a tedious and exhausting procedure, particularly when the documents were lengthy. The work demanded patience, close attention, and a willingness to repeat the same material until every detail had been verified.

I had become accustomed to this routine and expected Bartleby to follow it like the others. His remarkable speed in copying made the arrangement particularly convenient. If he could produce so many documents, there seemed no reason why he should not assist in checking them.

At first, however, I had no occasion to test this expectation. He had only recently joined the office, and I was occupied with other matters. I was satisfied that the additional work was being completed, and I allowed him to continue without interference.

Then, on the third day of his employment, an unexpected incident occurred.

I was in a hurry to complete a small piece of business. Having examined the original document, I needed someone to compare it with the copy. Without giving the matter much thought, I called Bartleby’s name and extended the paper towards the screen.

I expected him to emerge immediately, take the document, and begin the examination. My hand remained outstretched as I waited for the familiar sound of a chair being moved.

Instead, from behind the screen, came a quiet and perfectly composed reply.

“I would prefer not to.”

For a moment, I could scarcely believe that I had heard correctly. I remained where I was, holding the paper, and tried to understand what the words meant. Perhaps Bartleby had misunderstood the instruction. Perhaps he had not realised that I was addressing him. Or perhaps the expression had some meaning unfamiliar to me.

I repeated my request, this time speaking more clearly.

The same answer followed.

“I would prefer not to.”

I stared towards the screen, unable to decide whether I should be angry or merely astonished. Never before had an employee responded to an ordinary instruction in such a manner. Yet Bartleby had spoken without irritation, without defiance, and without the slightest suggestion that he intended to provoke me.

He had simply declined.

And that quiet refusal, delivered in a voice almost devoid of emotion, was the first indication that the new copyist might prove rather different from the men I had previously employed.

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Chapter Four

I Would Prefer Not To

I remained for some time in a state of considerable astonishment. The words themselves were simple enough, and their meaning could hardly be misunderstood. Yet the manner in which Bartleby had delivered them seemed to deprive them of the ordinary force of a refusal. He had not spoken rudely, nor had he raised his voice. There was no anger in his expression, no impatience in his movements, and no trace of embarrassment. He had merely stated a preference, as though I had asked him whether he would care for another cup of tea.

I looked at him steadily. His face was pale and composed, his grey eyes quiet. He had already returned his attention to his writing, as if the conversation had ended without leaving the slightest impression upon him.

Had he displayed even a little irritation, I might have dismissed him immediately. Had he answered with insolence, I should have had no difficulty in recognising the offence and responding accordingly. But his extraordinary calmness disarmed me. He seemed almost as incapable of deliberate rudeness as a plaster bust standing in a corner of the room.

I returned to my desk and tried to consider what had happened. It was possible, I thought, that he had misunderstood the nature of the task. Perhaps he had never been required to examine a document before. Yet this explanation was difficult to accept, since the duty was an ordinary part of a copyist’s work.

My business, however, demanded attention. Rather than interrupt the day’s proceedings over what might prove to be a temporary misunderstanding, I called Nippers from the adjoining room and had the paper examined without Bartleby’s assistance.

A few days later, the matter became considerably more serious.

Bartleby had completed four lengthy copies of a legal document containing the evidence given during a week of proceedings before me in the Court of Chancery. The case was important, and the accuracy of the copies was essential. I therefore arranged for all the documents to be examined together.

Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut took their places in a row, each holding one of the copies. I intended to read from the original while the four versions were checked against it. There was, of course, no reason to exclude Bartleby. Indeed, since he had prepared the documents, his participation was particularly desirable.

I called to him.

“Bartleby! Quickly, if you please. We are waiting.”

I heard his chair move slowly across the floor. A moment later, he appeared at the entrance to his little enclosure.

“What is wanted?” he asked quietly.

“The copies,” I replied, holding one towards him. “We are going to examine them. Take this.”

“I would prefer not to,” he said, and disappeared behind the screen.

For several seconds I remained standing with the document in my hand, unable to move. The other three employees were watching me. I felt that the entire arrangement of the office had somehow been disturbed by those few words.

I approached the screen.

“Why do you refuse?” I asked.

“I would prefer not to.”

“But these are your own copies. You must surely understand that examining them is part of your work. It is a matter of ordinary procedure. Every copyist is expected to assist in checking the accuracy of his documents.”

“I prefer not to,” he replied.

I attempted to reason with him. I explained that the examination would take little time and would save him the trouble of correcting mistakes later. I pointed out that the work was important and that his assistance was necessary. I even asked whether he considered my request unreasonable.

He did not argue. He did not offer an excuse. He simply maintained his preference.

There was something deeply unsettling about this form of resistance. A man who openly defies authority can be confronted, disciplined, or dismissed. But Bartleby offered no argument against which I could direct my own. His refusal seemed to exist outside the ordinary exchange of reasons.

At last, I turned towards the others.

“Turkey, what do you think of this?”

“With submission, sir,” Turkey answered in his most agreeable morning manner, “I think you are perfectly right.”

“And you, Nippers?”

“I think I would kick him out of the office,” Nippers replied sharply.

It was still morning, and his usual irritation was plainly in evidence. Ginger Nut, when asked for his opinion, grinned and declared that Bartleby must be a little mad.

Their responses gave me some reassurance, although not enough to settle the matter. I turned once more towards the screen and ordered Bartleby to come out and perform his duty.

There was no answer.

We eventually managed to examine the documents without him. Turkey repeatedly remarked upon the unusual nature of the proceeding, while Nippers muttered angrily about the stubbornness of the man behind the screen. He declared that this would be the first and last time he performed another man’s work without receiving additional payment.

Bartleby, meanwhile, remained in his enclosure, apparently indifferent to everything taking place beyond it.

In the days that followed, I began to observe him more carefully. His first refusal had seemed an isolated incident; the second suggested something more deliberate. Yet he continued to copy documents with his former efficiency. He did not appear lazy in the ordinary sense. His desk remained occupied by papers, and his pen moved steadily across them. It was only when asked to perform certain additional duties that he declined.

I also noticed that he never seemed to leave the office.

He did not go out for dinner, as the others did. He never accompanied them into the street, nor did I recall seeing him arrive in the morning or depart in the evening. He appeared to be permanently stationed behind his screen, like a silent guard who had been assigned to watch over an empty building.

Around eleven o’clock, however, I occasionally noticed Ginger Nut approaching the opening in Bartleby’s enclosure. The boy would leave the office with a few coins and return shortly afterwards carrying a small supply of ginger cakes. These he delivered to Bartleby, receiving two cakes in return for his trouble.

I began to wonder whether Bartleby lived entirely upon these little cakes. He never seemed to eat a proper meal, and I had not seen him purchase anything else. Perhaps he was a vegetarian, I thought, although that explanation was not entirely satisfactory. In fact, he appeared to consume almost nothing but ginger cakes.

My thoughts wandered into absurd speculation about the effect of such a diet upon the human body. Ginger was a hot and strongly flavoured substance. Yet Bartleby himself seemed to possess none of its supposed qualities. He was neither energetic nor passionate. If anything, he appeared to have been drained of every ordinary appetite.

I could not help wondering whether the food had any effect upon him at all.

His passive resistance continued to trouble me. There is something particularly irritating about being opposed by a person who makes no attempt to oppose you openly. An angry employee may be unreasonable, but at least his anger provides something definite to which one can respond. Bartleby, by contrast, seemed to offer nothing but a calm refusal, leaving the other person to struggle with his own frustration.

Yet I was not entirely without sympathy for him.

I began to tell myself that he meant no harm, that his peculiar behaviour was probably involuntary, and that he was not attempting to insult me. He seemed harmless enough, and his appearance suggested that life had not treated him generously. If I dismissed him, he might find himself employed by someone less patient, who would treat him harshly or turn him into the street without concern for his circumstances.

I could therefore regard my tolerance as an act of kindness. It cost me relatively little to allow him to remain behind his screen, and I could take satisfaction in believing that I had shown consideration towards an unfortunate man.

But I must confess that my motives were not entirely selfless. There was a certain pleasure in thinking of myself as a benevolent employer. I could congratulate my own conscience for exercising patience where another man might have resorted to anger. My kindness, in other words, was not without its private rewards.

This charitable attitude did not remain constant. Bartleby’s passivity sometimes irritated me so intensely that I felt an almost irresistible desire to provoke some reaction from him. I wanted him to become angry, to argue, or at least to display some ordinary human emotion. Yet every attempt seemed futile. I might as well have tried to strike a spark from a piece of soap.

One afternoon, after Bartleby had completed another lengthy document, I decided to tell him that I intended to examine the copies with him.

“I will compare those papers with you when they are finished,” I said.

“I would prefer not to.”

“Surely you do not intend to persist in this extraordinary behaviour?”

He gave no answer.

I turned towards the folding doors and called the others into the room.

“He has refused again,” I said. “Turkey, what do you think?”

Turkey was now in his usual afternoon condition. His face had become red, and his manner was far less controlled than it had been in the morning.

“With submission, sir,” he began, “I think that if he prefers not to, then there is nothing much to be done about it. But if you want him to examine the papers, I am quite ready to help.”

Nippers reacted very differently.

“I think the man ought to be made to do his work,” he said. “If he cannot perform an ordinary duty, he has no business being here.”

Ginger Nut, as before, found the situation amusing.

I listened to them, but their opinions did not solve my difficulty. I was the employer, and Bartleby was the employee. The arrangement should have been straightforward. Yet the authority that normally governed such a relationship seemed strangely ineffective when confronted by his quiet refusal.

I decided to postpone the matter once again. There was work to be done, and I could not afford to spend the entire afternoon arguing with a man who would not argue back.

For the present, Bartleby continued to copy. But the little phrase that had first seemed merely unusual was gradually becoming a force around which the whole office revolved.

“I would prefer not to.”

It was no longer a single refusal. It was becoming a principle of conduct, though I could not discover what principle lay behind it.

---

Chapter Five

The Man Behind the Screen

For a time, I managed to persuade myself that the arrangement with Bartleby was tolerable. He continued to copy documents, and his work remained remarkably accurate. I had not dismissed him, and he had not openly challenged my authority. If I avoided asking him to perform the duties he disliked, the office could proceed with a certain degree of efficiency.

Yet this compromise was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.

The problem was not simply that Bartleby refused to examine his own copies. His refusals extended gradually to other tasks. If I asked him to carry a document to another room, he preferred not to. If I requested a small favour that any ordinary clerk would have performed without hesitation, he answered in the same calm manner. He did not even seem to recognise that his position required him to assist with the ordinary business of the office.

On one occasion, I asked him to come and examine a document with me. He declined. I then suggested that he might at least look at a paper I wished to show him.

“I would prefer not to,” he said.

“But you have not even looked at it.”

“I would prefer not to.”

His manner was so composed that I found myself almost apologising for having made the request.

The situation began to attract attention from visitors. Some of my professional acquaintances, having entered the office and noticed Bartleby standing motionless behind his screen, asked who he was and what work he performed. Others attempted to give him instructions, assuming that he was an ordinary clerk.

Their attempts were usually unsuccessful.

If a lawyer asked him to carry a document to a nearby office, Bartleby would quietly refuse. If a visitor wished to know where I had gone, he might remain standing in the middle of the room without offering an answer. The visitor would eventually turn towards me, expecting an explanation.

I found these incidents increasingly embarrassing. It was difficult to explain that I employed a man who would not obey ordinary instructions, yet whom I had neither dismissed nor persuaded to leave.

My professional reputation had always been a matter of considerable importance to me. I had worked hard to establish myself as a reliable and orderly lawyer, and I was reluctant to allow an inexplicable employee to become the subject of gossip among my colleagues.

At first, I tried to defend Bartleby. I explained that he was a peculiar person, but that his copying was excellent. I suggested that he was harmless and that his behaviour, however unusual, did not interfere seriously with the work of the office.

But such explanations became less convincing as time passed.

The more I observed him, the more I became aware of his extraordinary isolation. He seemed to have no interests beyond the narrow space behind his screen. He did not converse with the others, did not participate in their jokes, and did not appear to notice the ordinary movement of the office. His presence was almost entirely silent.

One day, I decided that I must speak with him about his personal circumstances. I hoped that, by discovering something of his background, I might understand the source of his behaviour.

I approached his screen and asked whether he would mind telling me something about himself.

He replied that he would prefer not to.

I tried again, asking where he had previously worked and whether he had any family in New York.

He did not answer.

I asked whether he had friends or relatives who might be concerned about his situation.

“I would prefer not to,” he said.

His refusal was not accompanied by hostility. He did not appear to resent my questions. It was as though the very act of revealing anything about himself was something he had quietly decided to avoid.

I returned to my desk, dissatisfied and somewhat ashamed of my curiosity. Yet I could not abandon the matter entirely.

There was another aspect of Bartleby’s behaviour that had begun to trouble me. He seemed to be present in the office at all hours. I had never personally seen him leave the building. He was there when I arrived in the morning and remained when I departed in the evening. Sometimes, after returning unexpectedly to the office, I found him still inside.

At first, I assumed that he must have some lodging nearby. Perhaps he preferred to work late and arrive early. Yet the more I considered the matter, the less satisfactory this explanation became.

One Sunday morning, I happened to pass by the office building. I had no particular business there, but an idle curiosity prompted me to climb the stairs and try the door. To my surprise, it opened.

Bartleby was inside.

He appeared to have been living there. His clothes were folded in a corner, and a few personal belongings were arranged with the barest possible care. There was no sign of a comfortable sleeping place, no collection of books or possessions, and no evidence of an ordinary domestic life. The office itself seemed to have become his entire world.

I was deeply disturbed.

The man had been sleeping in the very place where he worked, surrounded by the same walls and furniture that confined him during the day. His existence appeared to have been reduced to a desk, a screen, a narrow window, and a few simple necessities.

I looked around the room and tried to imagine how long he had been living in this manner. Had he nowhere else to go? Did he have no family, no friends, no room of his own? How could a human being endure such an existence without seeking some change?

Yet Bartleby did not appear embarrassed by my discovery. He spoke to me with his usual calmness and gave no explanation.

I left the office feeling more unsettled than before.

The discovery altered my understanding of him. Until then, I had thought of Bartleby as a strange employee whose habits happened to be inconvenient. Now I began to see him as a man whose entire life had become enclosed within the walls of my chambers.

My sympathy increased, but so did my discomfort. I was no longer dealing merely with a copyist who refused to perform certain duties. I was confronted with a person whose isolation seemed to have no natural limit.

I considered whether I ought to dismiss him. Yet the thought of sending him into the street, knowing that he had apparently nowhere to go, seemed cruel. I also wondered whether his condition might improve if I continued to treat him with patience.

Once again, I found myself taking comfort in the idea that I was acting generously.

But my generosity was beginning to place me in a position I did not know how to manage. Bartleby remained in my office, and I could neither understand him nor persuade him to change. The more I attempted to accommodate his wishes, the more his presence seemed to demand from me.

I had thought that kindness would be a simple matter. I was discovering that it could become a burden when the person receiving it refused to participate in any ordinary relationship.

Still, I allowed him to remain.

The green screen stood between us, and behind it Bartleby continued his silent existence.

---

Chapter Six

The Refusal to Leave

As time passed, Bartleby’s conduct became more difficult to reconcile with the practical requirements of my business. He gradually ceased copying altogether. At first, I had believed that his refusal was limited to examining documents and performing occasional errands. Now even the central task for which I had employed him was abandoned.

I approached him one morning and found him standing near his window, looking towards the blank wall outside.

“Bartleby,” I said, “I have some documents that require copying.”

“I would prefer not to,” he replied.

I stared at him.

“But you have always copied documents before. That is the very work for which I employed you.”

“I would prefer not to.”

I reminded him that I paid him for his services and that he had a professional obligation to perform the work assigned to him. He listened without visible impatience, but his answer remained unchanged.

For a moment, I felt a strong impulse to dismiss him. Yet the thought of sending him away, without knowing where he might go, restrained me. I tried instead to discover whether he would accept some alternative arrangement.

Perhaps, I suggested, he could perform a different kind of work. He might carry papers, assist with errands, or undertake some simple office task that did not involve copying.

He declined each suggestion.

I asked whether he would at least consider leaving the office voluntarily and seeking employment elsewhere.

He preferred not to.

I was beginning to understand that his refusal was no longer connected to any particular task. He seemed to reject the entire system of ordinary expectations that governed our lives. Work, conversation, movement, and even the search for a different place to live appeared to have lost their meaning for him.

His presence became increasingly troublesome to my professional acquaintances. Visitors could not understand why I continued to employ a man who performed no useful work. Some regarded him as an eccentric curiosity; others considered his behaviour an insult to the dignity of the office.

I attempted to defend him, but my explanations sounded increasingly unreasonable.

One afternoon, after a particularly awkward encounter with a visitor, I decided that the matter could not continue indefinitely. I approached Bartleby and told him plainly that he must leave.

“I am sorry,” I said, “but you can no longer remain here. Your services are no longer required.”

He looked at me calmly.

“I would prefer not to.”

I tried to explain that this was not a matter of preference. The office was my property to occupy and manage, and I had the right to decide who might remain there.

He listened without interruption.

“You must understand,” I continued, “that I cannot maintain a man who refuses to work and refuses to leave.”

“I would prefer not to leave,” he said.

I was astonished by the simplicity of his answer. He had now extended his refusal beyond employment itself. He was not merely declining to perform his duties; he was refusing to depart from the premises.

I considered calling for assistance, but the idea seemed excessive. There was something deeply uncomfortable about using force against a man who offered no physical resistance. He was not violent, threatening, or openly hostile. He simply remained where he was.

I tried to persuade him through reason. I suggested that he might find another employer, seek a room elsewhere, or return to whatever place he had previously called home.

He declined to discuss these possibilities.

At last, I decided to make a final offer. I would pay him a sum of money, enough to provide some assistance while he searched for another situation. I hoped that the prospect of financial support might encourage him to leave voluntarily.

He accepted the money, but not the proposal.

“I would prefer not to,” he said.

The contradiction was almost unbearable. He seemed willing to receive assistance while refusing every suggestion that might enable him to change his circumstances.

I left him alone for the moment, telling myself that perhaps he would reconsider when he had had time to think.

But he did not.

His continued presence began to create difficulties with the other occupants of the building. People who came to my office occasionally encountered him in the corridors or found him standing silently near the entrance. Some complained that his appearance was unsettling. Others assumed that he belonged to the building and asked him questions he would not answer.

The situation became particularly uncomfortable when the landlord and other tenants began to object. They could not understand why a man who no longer worked for me was still occupying my former office.

I was therefore faced with a decision that I had hoped to avoid. If Bartleby refused to leave, I would have to remove myself from the situation.

After considerable reflection, I decided to relocate my business.

It was not an easy decision. I had occupied the chambers for a long time, and the arrangement had suited my professional needs. Moving would involve expense, inconvenience, and the disruption of established routines. Nevertheless, it seemed the most practical solution.

I arranged for another office and transferred my business there. The move was completed, and I informed those concerned that the old premises were no longer under my control.

I hoped that Bartleby would finally be compelled to leave when he realised that I had departed.

But he remained.

The new occupants of the building soon discovered that the mysterious copyist was still there. They complained that he had no right to occupy the premises and that his presence was causing embarrassment and inconvenience.

I was informed of the situation and felt a mixture of irritation, anxiety, and guilt. I had left the office in the hope of escaping the difficulty, but my departure had merely transferred the problem to other people.

For a time, I tried to avoid involvement. I told myself that Bartleby was no longer my employee and that his circumstances were now the responsibility of the landlord. Yet I could not entirely free myself from the feeling that I had abandoned a man whose presence had once depended upon my decision.

Eventually, I returned to the old building and spoke with him.

“Bartleby,” I said, “you know that I have moved my business. This office is no longer mine. You cannot remain here.”

He looked at me.

“I would prefer not to leave.”

I tried to make him understand that the situation had changed. The new occupants had a legitimate claim to the premises. He could not continue to occupy a room that no longer belonged to me.

He did not argue.

I asked him where he intended to go.

He offered no explanation.

I suggested that he might come with me, at least temporarily, while I arranged something suitable.

He preferred not to.

I asked whether he would accept a position elsewhere.

He preferred not to.

I offered to help him find lodgings.

He preferred not to.

His answer was always the same, and each repetition seemed to place a greater distance between us.

I eventually left the building, feeling defeated. The matter had passed beyond my ability to manage through ordinary persuasion. I had attempted to be patient, generous, and reasonable, but none of these qualities had produced any change.

Shortly afterwards, I learned that the landlord had taken more direct action. Bartleby had been reported as a vagrant and removed from the premises by the authorities.

He was taken to the Tombs, the prison in New York where persons accused of offences or held in custody were confined.

When I heard the news, I felt a sudden pang of responsibility. Whatever his peculiarities, Bartleby had once been under my employment. I had known him, had shared an office with him, and had gradually become aware of his desperate isolation.

Now he was in prison.

I could not leave the matter there.

---

Chapter Seven

The Lawyer’s Final Attempts

The news of Bartleby’s imprisonment disturbed me more than I had expected. I had spent so much time attempting to remove him from my professional life that I had almost forgotten the human being behind the inconvenience. Now that he had been taken away, I found myself thinking of him with renewed sympathy.

I decided to visit him.

The Tombs was a grim place, enclosed by heavy walls and marked by an atmosphere of confinement. Its corridors were dark, its rooms crowded, and its general appearance offered little comfort to those held within it. The building seemed designed to separate its occupants from the ordinary world, as though imprisonment could be made more complete by depriving a man of every familiar sight and sound.

When I arrived, I asked to see Bartleby. After some difficulty, I was directed towards the area where he was being held.

He was standing alone, facing a wall.

The sight of him affected me deeply. His appearance was as pale and composed as ever, but there was something especially desolate about seeing him in that place. The prison walls seemed to repeat, in a harsher form, the confinement of the office where I had first employed him.

“Bartleby,” I said, approaching him.

He turned slightly.

“How are you?”

“I would prefer not to speak,” he replied.

I tried to explain that I had come because I was concerned about him. I told him that I had learned of his arrest and wished to make certain that he was being treated properly.

He did not respond.

I asked whether he had eaten.

He gave no answer.

I spoke to the prison authorities and discovered that Bartleby was not particularly troublesome. He refused to take part in ordinary activities and seemed indifferent to the food provided. His conduct was unusual, but he did not create disturbances.

I felt that I could not simply leave him in such circumstances. I therefore arranged for a man who supplied meals within the prison to provide Bartleby with food.

The man was known as Mr Cutlets. I explained that Bartleby required regular nourishment and that I would pay for whatever meals were necessary.

Mr Cutlets agreed, though he seemed to regard the matter as a rather peculiar arrangement. He had dealt with many prisoners, but Bartleby’s indifference was unusual even by the standards of the place.

I returned to Bartleby and told him that food would be made available to him.

“I would prefer not to eat,” he said.

I was troubled by this answer. I urged him to take at least a little nourishment, reminding him that he needed strength and that his condition would only deteriorate if he continued to refuse food.

He did not argue. His expression remained unchanged.

I tried another approach. I told him that I had not forgotten him, that I wished him no harm, and that I was willing to help him in whatever way I reasonably could.

For a moment, I thought he might respond. But he merely turned his attention away.

I left the prison feeling helpless.

During the following days, I continued to think about him. I found myself imagining what his life might have been before he entered my office. Had he always been so withdrawn? Had some misfortune deprived him of friends, family, and employment? Was his refusal a form of protest against the world, or had he simply become incapable of participating in it?

I could not answer any of these questions.

My curiosity was accompanied by an uncomfortable awareness of my own limitations. I had been able to recognise that Bartleby was suffering, but I had no understanding of the nature of his suffering. I could offer money, food, and practical assistance, yet I could not persuade him to accept the ordinary forms of help.

I visited him again.

This time, I tried to speak more directly about his future. I told him that he could not remain in prison indefinitely and that he ought to consider finding some form of employment when he was released.

He looked at me without interest.

I suggested that he might work in a shop, perform simple clerical duties, or seek a position that required little conversation. I even offered to make enquiries on his behalf.

“I would prefer not to make any change,” he said.

I was struck by the complete absence of hope in his answer. It was not the refusal of a man who had other plans. It seemed rather the response of someone for whom the possibility of a different future had ceased to exist.

I tried to encourage him to walk in the prison yard, to speak with the other prisoners, or at least to move about instead of standing alone.

He preferred not to.

At last, I asked him whether there was anything at all that he wanted.

He gave no answer.

I could not help feeling that I had reached the limit of what I could do. Yet I was unwilling to abandon him completely. I continued to arrange for his meals and made occasional enquiries about his condition.

Mr Cutlets informed me that Bartleby remained quiet and withdrawn. He showed little interest in the food and seemed to spend much of his time alone.

The prison authorities, however, were not prepared to allow him unlimited freedom of movement. He was there as a prisoner, and they expected him to observe the rules of the institution. His peculiar habits did not exempt him from the ordinary arrangements.

I returned once more, hoping that he might have become more receptive to assistance.

But when I approached him, he was again standing by himself, his face turned away from the activity around him.

“Bartleby,” I said softly.

He did not move.

I asked whether he remembered our former office, the desk beside the window, and the green screen that had separated him from the rest of us.

He looked at me briefly.

I asked whether he remembered Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut.

He made no reply.

I told him that I regretted the way things had ended, and that I had never intended to cause him suffering.

He remained silent.

I wanted him to understand that I had not forgotten him, that his fate mattered to someone beyond the prison walls. Yet I could not discover whether my words reached him at all.

There was something profoundly disturbing about the distance between us. I had once been his employer, a man who could assign him tasks and expect him to respond. Now I stood before him as a visitor, uncertain whether he recognised any connection between us.

I left the Tombs with a heavy heart.

I had attempted to help him through kindness, money, practical arrangements, and appeals to reason. Yet Bartleby seemed to have withdrawn beyond the reach of all such efforts. His silence was no longer merely a refusal to cooperate. It had become a barrier between himself and the world.

I did not know what else to do.

---

Chapter Eight

Ah Bartleby! Ah Humanity!

Some time after my last visit, I returned to the Tombs once more. I had continued to think about Bartleby and had hoped that perhaps his condition might have improved. I had no particular reason to expect a change, yet I found it difficult to accept that a man could remain in such a state without some possibility of relief.

When I arrived, I asked the prison officials about him.

Their answers were brief and somewhat indifferent. Bartleby, they told me, had become increasingly withdrawn. He had refused much of the food provided to him and seemed to take little interest in anything around him.

I went towards the place where he was kept.

At first, I could not see him. Then I noticed a figure lying near the base of a wall. It was Bartleby.

He was stretched out on the ground, his body still, his face turned slightly away. I approached him and called his name.

There was no answer.

I looked more closely and realised that he was dead.

For a moment, I could scarcely comprehend what I was seeing. The man who had once sat behind the green screen in my office, copying legal documents with such extraordinary persistence, now lay motionless on the prison ground. His life had ended in the very place where society had confined him, and there was no sign that he had made any final attempt to resist his fate.

I stood beside him, overcome by a feeling I could not easily describe. Sadness, guilt, pity, and a kind of helpless anger seemed to mingle within me. I had tried to assist him, but the assistance had come too late, or perhaps it had never been of the kind he needed.

The prison authorities had little to say. To them, Bartleby was simply another prisoner who had died in custody. His strange habits and refusal to eat had become matters of routine. There was no great ceremony, no public expression of grief, and no recognition of the mystery that had surrounded his existence.

I found myself thinking of the office again: the narrow window, the blank wall, the green screen, and the silent figure seated behind it. I remembered his first refusal, the calmness of his voice, and the extraordinary persistence with which he had repeated those words.

“I would prefer not to.”

At the time, I had regarded the phrase as an inconvenience, an obstacle to the smooth operation of my business. Later, I had come to see it as something more troubling, though I had never discovered its true meaning.

Now Bartleby was beyond the reach of questions.

I had no explanation for his conduct, no knowledge of the circumstances that had brought him to such a condition, and no certainty about what might have saved him. The mystery remained, even after his death.

For a long time, I heard nothing further about his past. Then, through a conversation with another person, I learned something that appeared to shed a little light upon his former employment.

It was reported that Bartleby had once worked in the Dead Letter Office in Washington.

The information was unexpected. I had never imagined that he might have held such a position, and I wondered what effect that work might have had upon him.

The Dead Letter Office was responsible for dealing with letters that could not be delivered to their intended recipients. These letters, having failed to reach the people for whom they were written, eventually came into the hands of officials whose duty was to examine them and determine whether anything could be done.

Many were of little importance. Some contained ordinary messages that had lost their purpose through the passage of time. Others, however, carried matters of considerable human significance. There were letters containing money intended for people who could no longer be found, letters announcing news that had arrived too late, and letters written by individuals whose hopes or circumstances had changed before the message could reach them.

Some contained urgent requests for assistance. Others carried expressions of affection, forgiveness, or regret. There were letters that might have brought comfort to a lonely person, letters that might have restored a broken relationship, and letters that might have changed the course of someone’s life.

Yet all had failed to reach their destinations.

I was told that Bartleby had worked among these abandoned messages, examining the words of people whose intentions could no longer be fulfilled. Eventually, following a change in the administration, he had lost his position.

The thought disturbed me more than I could explain.

Had the sight of so many undelivered letters affected him? Had he spent his days handling the remains of other people’s hopes and disappointments? Had he become so familiar with messages that arrived too late that he had gradually lost faith in the possibility of meaningful communication?

I could not know.

Perhaps the connection was merely accidental. Perhaps his withdrawal had begun long before he entered the Dead Letter Office. It was possible that his employment there had contributed nothing to the condition I had witnessed. I had no evidence that could establish a direct relationship between his former work and his later behaviour.

Yet the image remained in my mind.

Letters written with care and expectation, carried through the world by human hands, only to end in a place where their words could no longer accomplish anything. Messages of love that would never be received, promises that would never be fulfilled, requests for help that would never reach those able to respond.

I began to think of the Dead Letter Office as a place where the hopes of the living were gathered after they had lost their purpose. Each letter represented an intention that had failed to find its destination. Each contained a fragment of a human life, separated from the person who had written it and from the person who was meant to receive it.

There was something deeply tragic in the thought.

Perhaps Bartleby had become accustomed to handling the remains of human communication until he could no longer find a place for himself within the world of the living. Perhaps the endless procession of failed messages had made all human effort seem futile.

But these were only possibilities. I could not turn them into explanations.

The truth about Bartleby remained beyond my reach. I had known him as an employee, then as an unwanted presence in my office, then as a prisoner, and finally as a dead man. Yet I had never truly known him as a person.

I had seen his face, heard his voice, and observed his habits. I had offered him work, money, food, and assistance. But none of these things had brought me closer to understanding the silent suffering that seemed to define his existence.

I had been able to describe his conduct, but not explain it. I had attempted to manage his behaviour, but had failed to discover what lay beneath it.

Perhaps that was the most troubling lesson of all: that one human being may stand before another, visible in every outward detail, and yet remain almost entirely inaccessible.

I still remember him behind the green screen, his pale face turned towards the narrow window, his eyes fixed upon the blank wall beyond it. I remember the quietness of his movements and the peculiar firmness of his voice. I remember how his refusals unsettled me, how they challenged my assumptions about authority and reason, and how I repeatedly persuaded myself that I could deal with him through ordinary practical means.

But I could not.

There are times when I wonder whether I might have acted differently. Could I have understood him sooner? Could I have offered some form of help that he would have accepted? Was there something I overlooked, some opportunity that might have prevented the terrible ending?

These questions have no answers.

The memory of Bartleby has remained with me long after the events themselves. I have continued my professional life, returned to my accustomed routines, and attended to the affairs of men who conduct their business with the confidence that every difficulty can be settled through an appropriate arrangement.

Yet, whenever I think of those narrow chambers on Wall Street, I remember the man who refused to take part in the ordinary business of living.

I remember the walls that surrounded him, the screen that separated him from the others, and the letters that had failed to reach their destinations.

And I find myself thinking not merely of Bartleby, but of the countless human beings whose suffering remains unseen, whose needs are misunderstood, and whose voices are never properly heard.

Ah Bartleby!

Ah humanity!

The End

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