“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 wood.  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 impared 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.