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. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I
would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow
away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone
in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length,
necessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other
considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days
time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take
measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to
assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step
towards a removal. "And when you finally quit me, Bartleby," added I, "I
shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from this
hour, remember."