Say now, you will help to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now, that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable: – say so, Bartleby.«

»At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,« was his mildly cadaverous reply.

Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night's rest, induced by severer indigestion than common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby.

»Prefer not, eh?« gritted Nippers – »I'd prefer him, if I were you, sir,« addressing me – I'd prefer him; »I'd give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?«

Bartleby moved not a limb.

»Mr. Nippers,« said I, »I'd prefer that you would withdraw for the present.«

Somehow, of late, I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word ›prefer‹ upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary measures.

As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially approached.

»With submission, sir,« said he, »yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart of good ale every day, it would do much toward mending him, and enabling him to assist in examining his papers.«

»So you have got the word too,« said I, slightly excited.

»With submission, what word, sir,« asked Turkey, respectfully crowding himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making me jostle the scrivener. »What word, sir?«

»I would prefer to be left alone here,« said Bartleby, as if offended at being mobbed in his privacy.

»That's the word, Turkey,« said I – »that's it.«

»Oh, prefer? oh yes – queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I was saying, if he would but prefer –«

»Turkey,« interrupted I, »you will please withdraw.«

»Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should.«

As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a glimpse of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent the word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled from his tongue. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission at once.

The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said that he had decided upon doing no more writing.

»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 indifferently 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 first 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 inflexible than usual, and carry these letters to the Post Office. 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 fixture in my chamber. Nay – if that were possible – he became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be done? He would do nothing in the office; why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but afflictive 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.