Bartleby, the Scrivener

Bartleby, the Scrivener Plot Summary

Introduction

In the canyons of Wall Street, amidst the bustling world of 19th-century commerce and ambition, there once existed a peculiar figure whose quiet resistance would become one of literature's most enigmatic portraits of passive rebellion. Bartleby the scrivener, a pale, silent copyist, enters the orderly office of a pragmatic lawyer and gradually, through his persistent refrain of "I would prefer not to," dismantles the very social contract that governs workplace relations and human obligation. Herman Melville's creation stands as a profound meditation on isolation, existential despair, and the mechanization of human beings in an increasingly industrial society. Through Bartleby's story, we witness the uncomfortable confrontation between conventional authority and inexplicable resistance, between the expectations of productivity and the mystery of withdrawal. As we follow the unnamed narrator's journey from irritation to compassion, we are invited to consider the limits of our understanding of others, the nature of workplace alienation, and ultimately, the devastating consequences of a society that reduces individuals to their economic function.

Chapter 1: First Encounter: A Promising Scrivener

In the orderly chambers of a Wall Street law office, the elderly lawyer-narrator first introduces us to the peculiar figure who would forever alter his understanding of human nature. Before Bartleby's arrival, the office operates with the mechanical predictability of a clock, albeit one with eccentric parts - Turkey, whose work quality deteriorates after midday drinks; Nippers, whose digestive troubles manifest in morning irritability; and Ginger Nut, the office boy who fetches ginger cakes for his colleagues. Into this environment steps Bartleby, described in that first meeting as "pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn." The narrator, pleased by the new scrivener's seemingly sedate demeanor, assigns him a desk near his own, separated only by a folding screen that provides a semblance of privacy while keeping Bartleby within easy calling distance. The arrangement seems ideal - the quiet man is positioned where he can be useful but not intrusive. In these early days, Bartleby works with extraordinary diligence. He copies documents day and night, "as if long famishing for something to copy," working by sunlight and candlelight without pause. The narrator is initially delighted with this industrious behavior, though he notes that Bartleby works "silently, palely, mechanically" - early hints of the strange detachment that would later consume him. The harmony of this arrangement is short-lived. When the narrator calls upon Bartleby to verify a document - a standard practice among scriveners - he receives the response that would come to define the strange copyist: "I would prefer not to." This simple phrase, delivered in a "singularly mild, firm voice," sends shockwaves through the narrator's ordered world. It is not rudeness, anger, or impertinence that characterizes Bartleby's refusal, but rather a calm, immovable certainty that leaves the narrator utterly disarmed. This first refusal marks the beginning of a mysterious relationship. The narrator, unable to comprehend Bartleby's motivation, finds himself paralyzed between indignation and a strange, reluctant compassion. Despite the clear insubordination, something about Bartleby's manner prevents the narrator from dismissing him outright. Instead, he rationalizes, postpones confrontation, and thus begins his long, bewildered accommodation of the inscrutable scrivener.

Chapter 2: The Peculiar Formula of Resistance

At the heart of Bartleby's enigma lies his signature phrase - "I would prefer not to." This formula of resistance represents neither outright refusal nor acceptance, but rather occupies an unsettling middle ground that defies conventional response. When the narrator requests that Bartleby examine a document, the scrivener's reply is not "I will not" or "I cannot," but rather this preference statement that acknowledges the request while simultaneously declining it without explanation. The phrase's peculiar power lies in its politeness and its passivity. It offers no handle for argument, no point of engagement. When the narrator attempts to reason with Bartleby, pointing out the standard practices of the office and appealing to common sense, Bartleby acknowledges the logic but maintains his position. "You are decided, then, not to comply with my request?" asks the exasperated narrator. Bartleby merely indicates that on that point, the narrator's judgment "was sound," yet his decision remains "irreversible." This formula of resistance proves contagious within the office. The narrator begins unconsciously adopting the word "prefer" in his own speech, as do Turkey and Nippers. "Prefer not, eh?" grits Nippers after one confrontation. "I'd prefer him, if I were you, sir." Even Turkey suggests that Bartleby might "prefer" to take some ale for his health. The word becomes a linguistic virus spreading through the workplace, demonstrating the subtle power of Bartleby's passive rebellion. As the pattern continues, Bartleby's preferences expand beyond refusing to proofread his work. He prefers not to run errands, not to fetch the narrator from the next room, not to reveal anything about his past. Each preference further erodes the hierarchical relationship between employer and employee without ever manifesting as direct insubordination. There is no rule against having preferences, after all. What makes this formula truly remarkable is its emptiness of motivation. Bartleby offers no justification, no explanation that might make his behavior comprehensible. This absence forces the narrator - and by extension, the reader - to fill the void with meaning, to search for causes where none are provided. The formula becomes a mirror reflecting our own assumptions about human motivation and the limits of social obligation.

Chapter 3: Workplace Dynamics and Colleagues

The law office where Bartleby's drama unfolds is populated by characters whose peculiarities serve as counterpoints to the scrivener's passive resistance. Turkey, a short, portly Englishman around sixty, works efficiently in the morning but becomes increasingly reckless and intemperate after his midday meal. His face, described as having "a fine florid hue" in the morning, blazes "like a grate full of Christmas coals" after noon, mirroring his deteriorating work quality and rising belligerence. Nippers, the second copyist, presents an inverted pattern. A young man of about twenty-five with "piratical" looks, he suffers from what the narrator diagnoses as "two evil powers - ambition and indigestion." His morning hours are marked by nervous irritability and discontent, particularly regarding the height of his desk, which he adjusts obsessively without ever achieving satisfaction. By afternoon, however, Nippers becomes relatively calm and productive, creating a fortuitous arrangement where "their fits relieved each other like guards." Completing this office ecosystem is Ginger Nut, the twelve-year-old office boy whose primary duties include cleaning and running errands for cakes and apples. His nickname derives from the spicy ginger cakes he frequently fetches for the scriveners, whose dry work requires constant moistening of their throats. This small detail underscores the physical nature of copying work - the repeated mechanical action that wears on the body as much as the mind. Bartleby's arrival disrupts this balanced system. The narrator initially hopes that Bartleby's seemingly calm demeanor might "operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers." Instead, his passive resistance creates a new dynamic altogether. When confronted with Bartleby's first refusal, the narrator seeks validation from his other employees. Turkey, in his morning politeness, agrees with the narrator's position. Nippers, in afternoon irritability, suggests kicking Bartleby out. Ginger Nut offers the simple assessment that Bartleby is "a little luny." As Bartleby's refusals accumulate, his colleagues must work around his eccentricities. The verification of his work is transferred to Turkey and Nippers, "one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness." When clients or colleagues encounter Bartleby standing motionless in the office, refusing to engage or explain the narrator's whereabouts, the peculiarity of the arrangement becomes a source of professional embarrassment and whispered speculation throughout the legal community.

Chapter 4: The Wall Street Chamber as Existential Space

The physical space of the law office becomes a powerful metaphor for existential limitation and modern alienation. Located on Wall Street, the chambers embody the cold, commercial heart of American capitalism. The narrator describes his windows as offering two contrasting views: one looking into "a spacious sky-light shaft" and the other facing "a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade." This wall, positioned just ten feet from the window, creates a claustrophobic atmosphere that the narrator likens to "a huge square cistern." Bartleby's workspace is strategically positioned in a corner near the folding doors that separate the narrator's section from the copyists'. His small window originally afforded "a lateral view of certain grimy back-yards and bricks," but subsequent construction has eliminated even this meager prospect. The light comes "from far above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a dome." A green folding screen further isolates Bartleby, creating what the narrator calls a combination of "privacy and society." This physical arrangement becomes increasingly significant as Bartleby's withdrawal progresses. He becomes "a perpetual sentry in the corner," never leaving the office. The walls that surround him reflect his psychological confinement, while his stationary position at the window "looking out upon the dead brick wall" becomes his primary occupation after he ceases copying work altogether. The narrator observes these "dead-wall reveries" with increasing concern, recognizing in them a profound disengagement from the world. Wall Street itself emerges as a desolate landscape. The narrator notes that "of a Sunday, Wall-street is deserted as Petra," comparing the financial district to an ancient abandoned city. The building that "hums with industry and life" on weekdays "echoes with sheer vacancy" at night and on weekends. Within this emptiness, Bartleby remains "sole spectator of a solitude which he has seen all populous," like "an innocent and transformed Marius brooding among the ruins of Carthage." This spatial imagery underscores the existential themes of the story. The walls that physically constrain Bartleby mirror the social and economic structures that limit human possibility in industrial society. His gaze toward the blank wall suggests both the emptiness of his prospects and his rejection of the illusory nature of progress represented by Wall Street's commercial bustle.

Chapter 5: Gradual Withdrawal from Life

Bartleby's retreat from participation in life follows a methodical progression that both fascinates and disturbs the narrator. After his initial refusal to examine documents, Bartleby continues to perform his primary function of copying for some time. The narrator, seeking a tolerable compromise, accepts this partial participation and exempts him from verification tasks. This uneasy equilibrium maintains until Bartleby announces, without explanation, that he has "decided upon doing no more writing." When questioned about this new development, Bartleby offers only: "Do you not see the reason for yourself?" The narrator speculates that Bartleby's eyesight has been damaged by working near his dim window, and expresses sympathy, suggesting he take exercise in the open air. Bartleby ignores this advice. Even when the narrator pleads that Bartleby might resume copying if his eyes improved, the scrivener states with finality: "I have given up copying." Bartleby's physical presence in the office continues even as his functional role dissolves entirely. He becomes "a millstone" to the narrator, "not only useless as a necklace, but afflictive to bear." Yet there is no aggression or confrontation in his withdrawal - only a profound passivity that the narrator finds impossible to combat. The scrivener stands for hours in his "dead-wall reveries," gazing out at the brick wall in a state of apparent contemplation that suggests both profound despair and mysterious insight. The narrator's chance Sunday visit to the office reveals the full extent of Bartleby's withdrawal from conventional existence. Discovering that Bartleby has been living in the office - sleeping on a sofa, washing at the water closet, and subsisting on ginger-nuts - the narrator confronts the reality that Bartleby has abandoned all social connections and retreated into complete isolation. "What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed!" exclaims the narrator. "His poverty is great; but his solitude, how horrible!" This gradual withdrawal culminates in Bartleby's final passive resistance. When the narrator moves offices to escape his troublesome employee, Bartleby refuses to leave the old premises, resulting in his arrest as a vagrant. Even in prison, he maintains his essential separateness, standing "all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wall." His ultimate withdrawal - death by starvation - comes as he "prefers not to" eat, completing his methodical retreat from all worldly engagement.

Chapter 6: The Mystery of Bartleby's Past

Throughout the narrative, Bartleby remains an enigma without history or context. The narrator admits early on that "no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man," calling it "an irreparable loss to literature." This absence of background is not merely a narrative device but a central element of Bartleby's character - he exists entirely in the present moment of the story, undefined by past connections or experiences. The narrator's attempts to learn anything about Bartleby's origins meet with the now-familiar formula of resistance. When directly questioned about his birthplace or any personal details, Bartleby simply states, "I would prefer not to" answer. This refusal to provide biographical information leaves both the narrator and the reader searching for clues to explain his behavior. The narrator's examination of Bartleby's desk reveals nothing but methodically arranged papers, and even the discovery of a savings handkerchief offers no insight into his character. In his desperate attempts to understand Bartleby, the narrator observes various physical and behavioral traits: Bartleby never reads, not even newspapers; never drinks tea or coffee; never goes anywhere; never receives visitors; and never complains of ill health despite his pallid appearance. The narrator also notes "a certain unconscious air of pallid haughtiness" or "austere reserve" about him that has "positively awed" the narrator into compliance with his eccentricities. This absence of history creates a narrative vacuum that various characters attempt to fill with their own interpretations. The grub-man at the prison assumes Bartleby must be "a gentleman forger" because forgers are "always pale and genteel-like." Others speculate about his mental state, with Ginger Nut suggesting he is "a little luny." The narrator himself oscillates between seeing Bartleby as the victim of misfortune and viewing him as the embodiment of perverse willfulness. Only in the story's final paragraph does the narrator offer a possible fragment of Bartleby's past - a "vague report" that he had previously worked as a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office in Washington, from which he was suddenly removed by a change in administration. This tantalizing detail, neither confirmed nor elaborated, suggests a possible psychological origin for Bartleby's profound disconnection: his daily handling of letters that failed to reach their intended recipients, carrying messages of "pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities."

Chapter 7: Final Days and Dead Letters

Bartleby's last chapter unfolds with a terrible inevitability after he refuses to leave the old office premises. Having exhausted all reasonable attempts at persuasion, the narrator abandons his chambers to Bartleby and relocates his business. The building's landlord, faced with an immovable occupant who "refuses to do any copying; refuses to do anything," has Bartleby arrested as a vagrant and taken to the Tombs, New York City's infamous prison. The narrator, informed of these developments, visits Bartleby in confinement. The prison setting intensifies the existential dimensions of Bartleby's isolation. Though permitted to wander freely in the yard, Bartleby chooses to stand alone, "his face towards a high wall," maintaining the same posture of contemplation he had adopted in the office. When the narrator greets him, Bartleby responds with quiet accusation: "I know you, and I want nothing to say to you." Despite his distress at Bartleby's situation, the narrator attempts to comfort him by pointing out redeeming features of the prison environment: "See, there is the sky, and here is the grass." Bartleby's response - "I know where I am" - reveals his clear-eyed recognition of his circumstances and continued rejection of consolation. Even the narrator's arrangements for better food are met with Bartleby's preference "not to dine today," as he states that "it would disagree with me; I am unused to dinners." The final scene presents Bartleby in death, "strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying on his side, his head touching the cold stones." The narrator's touch confirms what the still form suggests - Bartleby has died, presumably from starvation. The grub-man's question - "Does he live without dining?" - receives the narrator's quiet confirmation: "Lives without dining." When the grub-man further asks if Bartleby is sleeping, the narrator replies with biblical allusion: "With kings and counselors" - a reference to Job's wish for the peace of death. In the narrative's epilogue, the narrator shares the rumor of Bartleby's former employment in the Dead Letter Office. This revelation casts a retrospective light on Bartleby's existential condition. The dead letters, "annually burned" after failing to reach their intended recipients, become a powerful metaphor for human miscommunication and life's missed connections. The clerk who handles these letters encounters tangible evidence of human loss: rings for fingers that "moulder in the grave," charity that arrives too late, pardons for "those who died despairing." This final image - of letters "on errands of life" that "speed to death" - provides the closest thing to an explanation for Bartleby's profound disconnection. His work among these failed messages perhaps revealed to him the ultimate futility of human connection and endeavor, leading to his withdrawal from a world where meaning itself seems to dissolve into absence. The narrator's final exclamation - "Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!" - unites the individual case with universal condition, suggesting that Bartleby's isolation is merely an extreme manifestation of modern humanity's essential solitude.

Summary

Bartleby stands as one of literature's most profound examinations of passive resistance and the limits of social integration. Through his simple yet devastating phrase "I would prefer not to," this pallid scrivener dismantles the fundamental contracts of work, social obligation, and even self-preservation. His gradual withdrawal from participation in life - from copying documents to speaking to eating - unfolds as both an existential tragedy and a powerful critique of a society that reduces human beings to their economic function. What makes Bartleby's story endure is its persistent refusal to provide easy answers. Is he mentally ill, profoundly depressed, or engaged in a deliberate philosophical rebellion? The text invites multiple readings while denying the comfort of certainty. In a world increasingly dominated by productivity metrics and workplace efficiency, Bartleby's quiet resistance continues to resonate as both warning and possibility. His preference "not to" participate in the systems that dehumanize remains a haunting reminder of both the costs of modern alienation and the profound human need for meaning beyond economic participation. As we navigate our own relationships with work, obligation, and connection, Bartleby's ghost stands at our shoulder, a pale reminder of what happens when we reduce human worth to human utility.

About Author

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Herman Melville

There is more than one author with this nameHerman Melville was an American novelist, short story writer, and poet of the American Renaissance period. Among his best-known works are Moby-Dick (1851); Typee (1846), a romanticized account of his experiences in Polynesia; and Billy Budd, Sailor, a posthumously published novella. At the time of his death, Melville was no longer well known to the public, but the 1919 centennial of his birth was the starting point of a Melville revival. Moby-Dick eventually would be considered one of the great American novels.Melville was born in New York City, the third child of a prosperous merchant whose death in 1832 left the family in dire financial straits. He took to sea in 1839 as a common sailor on a merchant ship and then on the whaler Acushnet, but he jumped ship in the Marquesas Islands. Typee, his first book, and its sequel, Omoo (1847), were travel-adventures based on his encounters with the peoples of the islands. Their success gave him the financial security to marry Elizabeth Shaw, the daughter of the Boston jurist Lemuel Shaw. Mardi (1849), a romance-adventure and his first book not based on his own experience, was not well received. Redburn (1849) and White-Jacket (1850), both tales based on his experience as a well-born young man at sea, were given respectable reviews, but did not sell well enough to support his expanding family.Melville's growing literary ambition showed in Moby-Dick (1851), which took nearly a year and a half to write, but it did not find an audience, and critics scorned his psychological novel Pierre: or, The Ambiguities (1852). From 1853 to 1856, Melville published short fiction in magazines, including "Benito Cereno" and "Bartleby, the Scrivener". In 1857, he traveled to England, toured the Near East, and published his last work of prose, The Confidence-Man (1857). He moved to New York in 1863, eventually taking a position as a United States customs inspector.From that point, Melville focused his creative powers on poetry. Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War (1866) was his poetic reflection on the moral questions of the American Civil War. In 1867, his eldest child Malcolm died at home from a self-inflicted gunshot. Melville's metaphysical epic Clarel: A Poem and Pilgrimage in the Holy Land was published in 1876. In 1886, his other son Stanwix died of apparent tuberculosis, and Melville retired. During his last years, he privately published two volumes of poetry, and left one volume unpublished. The novella Billy Budd was left unfinished at his death, but was published posthumously in 1924. Melville died from cardiovascular disease in 1891.

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