It was Bartleby.

I was thunderstruck.  For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon till some one touched him, when he fell.

“Not gone!” I murmured at last.  But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which ascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly went down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the block, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity.  Turn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph over me—­this, too, I could not think of.  What was to be done? or, if nothing could be done, was there anything further that I could assume in the matter?  Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Bartleby would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he was.  In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Bartleby at all, walk straight against him as if he were air.  Such a proceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust.  It was hardly possible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the doctrine of assumptions.  But upon second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubious.  I resolved to argue the matter over with him again.

“Bartleby,” said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe expression, “I am seriously displeased.  I am pained, Bartleby.  I had thought better of you.  I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would suffice—­in short, an assumption.  But it appears I am deceived.  Why,” I added, unaffectedly starting, “you have not even touched that money yet,” pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.

He answered nothing.

“Will you, or will you not, quit me?” I now demanded in a sudden passion, advancing close to him.

“I would prefer not to quit you,” he replied gently emphasizing the not.

“What earthly right have you to stay here?  Do you pay any rent?  Do you pay my taxes?  Or is this property yours?”

He answered nothing.

“Are you ready to go on and write now?  Are your eyes recovered?  Could you copy a small paper for me this morning? or help examine a few lines? or step round to the post-office?  In a word, will you do anything at all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?”

He silently retired into his hermitage.