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1387 lines
98 KiB
HTML
<div>
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<h3>Study Webtext</h3>
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<h2><span face="Lucida Handwriting " color="Maroon
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">"Bartleby the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-Street " </span>(1853) <br>
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Herman Melville</h2>
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<h2><a href="http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/bartleby.html" target="_blank "><img src="http://fakehost/test/hmhome.gif" alt="To the story text without notes
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" height="38 " width="38 "></a>
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</h2>
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<h3>Prepared by <a href="http://www.vcu.edu/engweb">Ann
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Woodlief,</a> Virginia Commonwealth University</h3>
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<h5>Click on text in red for hypertext notes and questions</h5>
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I
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am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations
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for the last thirty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact
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with what would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men of whom as yet
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nothing that I know of has ever been written:-- I mean the law-copyists
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or scriveners.
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I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and if I
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pleased, could relate divers histories, at which good-natured gentlemen
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might smile, and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive the biographies
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of all other scriveners for a few passages
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in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener the strangest
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I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might write the
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complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that
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no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Bartleby
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was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from
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the original sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own
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astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed,
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one vague report which will appear in the sequel.
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<p>Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit
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I make some mention of myself, my employees, my business, my chambers,
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and general surroundings; because some such description is indispensable
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to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be presented.
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</p><p> <i>Imprimis</i>: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been
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filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best.. Hence, though I belong to a profession
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proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet
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nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade
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my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses
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a jury, or in any way draws down public applause; but in the cool tranquillity
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of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men's bonds and mortgages and title-deeds. The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had
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no hesitation in pronouncing my first
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grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do not speak
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it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not
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unemployed in my profession by the last John Jacob Astor; a name which,
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I admit, I love to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to
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it, and rings
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like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not
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insensible to the late John Jacob Astor's good opinion.</p>
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<p>Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my
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avocations had been largely increased. The good old office, now
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extinct in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery,
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had been conferred upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very
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pleasantly remunerative. I
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seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in dangerous
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indignation at wrongs and outrages; but I must be permitted to be rash
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here and declare, that I consider the sudden and violent abrogation of
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the office of Master of Chancery, by the new Constitution, as a----premature
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act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a life-lease of the
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profits, whereas I only received those of a few short years. But this is
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by the way.</p>
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<p>My chambers were up stairs at No.--Wall-street. At one end they looked
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upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious sky-light shaft, penetrating
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the building from top to bottom. This view might have been considered rather
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tame than otherwise, deficient
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in what landscape painters call "life." But if so, the view
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from the other end of my chambers offered, at least, a contrast, if nothing
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more. In that direction my windows commanded an unobstructed view of a
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lofty brick wall,black by age and everlasting shade; which wall required
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no spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but for the benefit of
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all near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten feet of my window
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panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding buildings, and my chambers
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being on the second floor, the interval between this wall and mine not
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a little resembled a huge square cistern.</p>
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<p>At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons
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as copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy. First,
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Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut.These may seem names, the like
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of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth they were nicknames, mutually conferred upon
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each other by my three clerks, and were deemed expressive of their respective
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persons or characters. Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman of about my
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own age, that is, somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might
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say, his face was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o'clock, meridian--
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his dinner hour-- it blazed like a grate full of Christmas coals;
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and continued blazing--but, as it were, with a gradual wane--till 6 o'clock,
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P.M. or thereabouts, after which I saw no more of the proprietor of the
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face, which gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed to set with it, to
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rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with the like regularity
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and undiminished glory. There are many singular coincidences I have known
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in the course of my life, not the least among which was the fact that exactly
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when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red and radiant countenance,
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just then, too, at the critical moment, began the daily period when I considered
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his business capacities as seriously disturbed for the remainder of the
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twenty-four hours. Not that he was absolutely idle, or averse to business
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then; far from it. The difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too
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energetic. There was a strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty
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recklessness of activity about him. He would be incautious in dipping his
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pen into his inkstand. All his blots upon my documents, were dropped there
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after twelve o'clock, meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless and
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sadly given to making blots in the afternoon, but some days he went further,
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and was rather noisy. At such times, too, his face
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flamed with augmented blazonry, as if cannel
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coal had been heaped on anthracite. He made an unpleasant
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racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in mending his pens, impatiently
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split them all to pieces, and threw them on the floor in a sudden passion;
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stood up and leaned over his table, boxing his papers about in a most
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indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an elderly manlike him. Nevertheless,
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as he was in many ways a most valuable person to me, and all the time before
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twelve o'clock, meridian, was the quickest, steadiest creature too, accomplishing
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a great deal of work in a style not easy to be matched--for these reasons,
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I was willingto overlook his eccentricities, though indeed, occasionally,
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I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however, because, though
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the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of men in the morning,
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yet in the afternoon he was disposed, upon provocation, to be slightly
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rash with his tongue, in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his morning services
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as I did, and resolved not to lose them; yet, at the same time made uncomfortable
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by his inflamed ways after twelve o'clock; and being a man
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of peace, unwilling by my admonitions to call forth unseemingly
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retorts from him; I took upon me, one Saturday noon (he was always worse
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on Saturdays), to hint to him, very kindly, that perhaps now that he was
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growing old, it might be well to abridge his labors; in short, he need
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not come to my chambers after twelve o'clock, but, dinner over, had best
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go home to his lodgings and rest himself till tea-time. But no; he insisted
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upon his afternoon devotions. His countenance became
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intolerably fervid, as he oratorically assured me--gesticulating with a
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long ruler at the other end of the room--that if his services in the morning
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were useful, how indispensible, then, in the afternoon?</p>
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<p>"With
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submission, sir," said Turkey on this occasion, "I consider
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myself your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my
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columns; but in the afternoon I
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put myself at their head, and gallantly charge the foe,
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thus!"--and he made a violent
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thrust with the ruler.</p>
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<p>"But the blots, Turkey," intimated I.</p>
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<p>"True,--but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old.
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Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not the page--is honorable.
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With submission, sir, we both are getting old."</p>
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<p>This
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appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At
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all events, I saw that go he would not. So I made up my mind to let him
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stay, resolving, nevertheless, to see to it, that during the afternoon
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he had to do with my less important papers.</p>
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<p>Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the
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whole, rather piratical-looking young man of about
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five and twenty. I always deemed him the victim of two evil powers-- ambition
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and indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the
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duties of a mere
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copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly profession
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affairs, such as the original
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drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened
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in an occasional nervous testiness and grinning irritability, causing the
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teeth to audibly grind together over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary
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maledictions, hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and
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especially by a continual
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discontent with the height of the table where he worked.
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Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get this
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table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits
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of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite adjustment
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by final pieces of folded blotting-paper. But no invention would answer.
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If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table lid at a sharp
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angle well up towards his chin, and wrote there like a man using the steep
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roof of a Dutch house for his desk:--then he declared that it stopped the
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circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table to his waistbands,
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and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore aching in his back.
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In short, the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew not what he wanted.
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Or, if
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he wanted anything, it was to be rid of a scrivener's table
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altogether. Among the manifestations of his diseased ambition was a fondness
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he had for receiving visits from certain ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy
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coats, whom he called his clients. Indeed I was aware that not only was
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he, at times, considerable of a ward-politician, but he occasionally did
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a little businessat the Justices' courts, and was not unknown on the
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steps of the Tombs. I have good reason to believe, however, that one individual
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who called upon him at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he insisted
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was his client, was no other than a dun, and the alleged title-deed, a
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bill. But with all his failings, and the annoyances he caused me, Nippers,
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like his compatriot Turkey, was a very useful
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man to me; wrote a neat, swift hand; and, when he chose,
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was not deficient in a gentlemanly sort of deportment. Added to this, he
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always dressedin a gentlemanly sort of way; and so, incidentally,
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reflected credit upon my chambers. Whereas with respect to Turkey, I had
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much ado to keep him from being a reproach to me. His clothes were apt
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to look oily and smell of eating-houses. He wore his pantaloons very loose
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and baggy in summer. His coats were execrable; his hat not to be handled.
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But while the hat was a thing of indifference to
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me, inasmuch as his natural civility and deference, as a dependent Englishman,
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always led him to doff it the moment he entered the room, yet his coat
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was another matter. Concerning his coats, I reasoned with him; but with
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no effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a man with so small an income,
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could not afford to sport such a lustrous face and a lustrous coat at one
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and the same time. As Nippers once observed, Turkey's money went chiefly
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for red ink. One winter day
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I presented Turkey with a highly-respectable looking coat
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of my own, a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth, and which
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buttoned straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would
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appreciate the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons.
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But no. I verily believe that buttoning himself up in so downy and blanket-like
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a coat had a pernicious effect upon him; upon the same principle that too
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much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse
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is said to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat. It made
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him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed.</p>
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<p>Though concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey I had my own private
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surmises, yet touching Nippers I was well persuaded that whatever might
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be his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a temperate young man.
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But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his vintner, and at his birth charged
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him so thoroughly with an irritable, brandy-like disposition, that all
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subsequent potations were needless. When I consider how, amid the stillness
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of my chambers, Nippers would sometimes impatiently rise from his seat,
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and stooping over his table, spread his arms wide apart, seize the whole
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desk, and move it, and jerk it, with a grim, grinding motion on the floor,
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as if the table were a perverse
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voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him; I plainly
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perceive that for Nippers, brandy and water were altogether superfluous.</p>
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<p>It was fortunate for me that, owing to its course--indigestion--the irritability
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and consequent nervousness of Nippers, were mainly observable in the morning,
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while in the afternoon he was comparatively mild. So that Turkey's paroxysms
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only coming on about twelve o'clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities
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at one time. Their fits relieved each other like guards. When Nippers'
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was on, Turkey's was off, and vice versa. This was a good
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natural arrangement under the circumstances.</p>
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<p>Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years old. His
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father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of
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a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office as a student at law,
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errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week.
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He had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon inspection,
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the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various sorts of nuts.
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Indeed, to this quick-witted youth the whole noble science of the law was
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contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among the employments of Ginger
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Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the most alacrity, was his
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duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey and Nippers. Copying law papers
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being proverbially a dry,
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husky sort of business, my two scriveners were fain to moisten
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their mouths very often with Spitzenbergs to be had at the numerous stalls
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nigh the Custom House and Post Office. Also, they sent Ginger Nut very
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frequently for that peculiar cake--small, flat, round, and very spicy--after
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which he had been named by them. Of a cold morning when business was but
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dull, Turkey would gobble up scores of these cakes, as if they were mere
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wafers--indeed they sell them at the rate of six or eight for a penny--the
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scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of the crisp particles in
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his mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders and flurried rashnesses
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of Turkey, was his once moistening a ginger-cake between his lips, and
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clapping it on to a mortgage for a seal. I
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came within an ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified
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me by making an oriental bow, and saying--"With submission, sir, it was
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generous of me to
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find you in stationery on my own account."</p>
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<p>Now my original business--that of a conveyancer
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and title hunter, and drawer-up of recondite documents of
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all sorts--was considerably increased by receiving the master's office.
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There was now great work for scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks
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already with me, but I must have additional help. In answer to my advertisement,
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a motionless young man one morning, stood upon my office threshold, the
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door being open, for it was summer. I can see that figure now--pallidly
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neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! It was Bartleby.</p>
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<p>After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to
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have among my
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corps of copyists a man of so singularly
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sedate an aspect, which I thought might operate beneficially
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upon the flighty temper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers.</p>
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<p>I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my
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premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the
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other by myself. According
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to my humor I threw open these doors, or closed them. I resolved
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to assign Bartleby a corner by the folding-doors, but on my side of them,
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so as to have this quiet man within easy call, in case any trifling
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thing was to be done. I placed his desk close up to a small
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side window in that part of the room, a window which originally had afforded
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a lateral view of certain grimy back-yards and bricks, but which, owing
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to subsequent
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erections, commanded at present no view at all, though it
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gave some light. Within three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light
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came down from far above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small
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opening in a dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured
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a high green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby
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from my sight, though not remove him from my
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voice. And thus, in a manner, privacy and society were
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conjoined.
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</p>
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<p>At first Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long
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famishingfor something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my documents. There
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was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night line, copying by sun-light
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and by candle-light. I should have been quite delighted with his application,
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had be been cheerfully
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industrious. But he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically.
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</p>
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<p>It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener's business to verify
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the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners
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in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from
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the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very
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dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine
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that to some sanguine temperaments it would be altogether
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intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome
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poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby
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to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in
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a crimpy hand.</p>
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<p>Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist
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in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for
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this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind
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the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial
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occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being
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with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing
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examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in
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hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural
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expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent
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over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat
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nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from
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his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without
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the least delay.</p>
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<p>In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating
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what it was I wanted him to do--namely, to examine a small paper with me.
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Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his
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privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild,
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firm voice, replied,"I
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would prefer not to."
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</p>
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<p>I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately
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it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely
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misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I
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could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, "I would
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prefer not to."</p>
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<p>"Prefer not to," echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the
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room with a stride, "What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me
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compare this sheet here--take it," and I thrust it towards him.</p>
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<p>"I would prefer not to," said he.</p>
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<p>I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye
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dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the
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least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other
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words, had there been any thing ordinarily
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human about him, doubtless I
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should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But
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as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris
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bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile,
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as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk.
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This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried
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me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for
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my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was
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speedily examined.</p>
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<p>A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being
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quadruplicates of a week's testimony taken before me in my High Court of
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Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit,
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and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called
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Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the
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four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the
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original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats
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in a row, each with his document in hand, when I called to Bartleby to
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join this interesting
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group.</p>
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<p>"Bartleby! quick, I am waiting."</p>
|
|
<p>I heard a low scrape of his chair legs on the unscraped floor, and soon
|
|
he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>"What is wanted?" said he mildly.</p>
|
|
<p>"The copies, the copies," said I hurriedly. "We are going to examine them.
|
|
There"--and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate.</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer not to," he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen.</p>
|
|
<p>For a few moments I was turned into a
|
|
pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column
|
|
of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded
|
|
the reason for such extraordinary conduct.</p>
|
|
<p>"<i>Why</i> do you refuse?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
|
|
<p>With any other man I should have flown
|
|
outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words,
|
|
and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something
|
|
about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful
|
|
manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him.</p>
|
|
<p>"These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving
|
|
to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It
|
|
is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his
|
|
copy. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!"</p>
|
|
<p>"I prefer not to," he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that
|
|
while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement
|
|
that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible
|
|
conclusion; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed
|
|
with him to reply as he did.</p>
|
|
<p>"You are decided, then, not to comply with my request--a request made
|
|
according to common usage and common sense?"</p>
|
|
<p>He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my
|
|
judgment was sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible.</p>
|
|
<p>It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and
|
|
violently unreasonable way, he
|
|
begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as
|
|
it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice
|
|
and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested
|
|
persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own
|
|
faltering mind.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>"Turkey," said I, "what do you think of this? Am I not right?"</p>
|
|
<p>"With submission, sir," said Turkey, with his blandest tone, "I think
|
|
that you are."</p>
|
|
<p>"Nippers," said I, "what do<i> you</i> think of it?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I think I should kick him out of the office."</p>
|
|
<p>(The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning,
|
|
Turkey's answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies
|
|
in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nipper's ugly
|
|
mood was on duty, and Turkey's off.)</p>
|
|
<p>"Ginger Nut," said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf,
|
|
"what do<i> you</i> think of it?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I think, sir, he's a little<i> luny</i>," replied Ginger Nut, with a
|
|
grin.</p>
|
|
<p>"You hear what they say," said I, turning towards the screen, "come forth
|
|
and do
|
|
your duty."</p>
|
|
<p>But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But
|
|
once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration
|
|
of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little trouble we made out
|
|
to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at every page or two, Turkey
|
|
deferentially dropped his opinion that this proceeding was quite out of
|
|
the common; while Nippers, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervousness,
|
|
ground out between his set teeth occasional hissing maledictions against
|
|
the stubborn oaf behind the screen. And for his (Nipper's) part, this was
|
|
the first and the last time he would do another man's business without
|
|
pay.</p>
|
|
<p>Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to every thing but
|
|
his own peculiar business there.</p>
|
|
<p>Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy work.
|
|
His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his way narrowly. I observed
|
|
that he never went to dinner; indeed that he never went any where. As yet
|
|
I had never of my personal knowledge known him to be outside of my office.
|
|
He was a perpetual
|
|
sentry in the corner. At about eleven o'clock though, in
|
|
the morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would advance toward the opening
|
|
in Bartleby's screen, as if silently beckoned thither by a gesture invisible
|
|
to me where I sat. That boy would then leave the office jingling a few
|
|
pence, and reappear with a handful of ginger-nuts which he delivered in
|
|
the hermitage, receiving two of the cakes for his trouble.</p>
|
|
<p>He lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinner, properly
|
|
speaking; he must be a vegetarian then, but no; he never eats even vegetables,
|
|
he eats
|
|
nothing but ginger-nuts. My mind then ran on in reveries
|
|
concerning the probable effects upon the human constitution of living entirely
|
|
on ginger-nuts. Ginger-nuts are so called because they contain ginger as
|
|
one of their peculiar constituents, and the final flavoring one. Now what
|
|
was ginger? A hot, spicy thing. Was Bartleby hot and spicy? Not at all.
|
|
Ginger, then, had no effect upon Bartleby. Probably
|
|
he preferred it should have none.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive
|
|
resistance. If the individual so resisted be of a not inhumane
|
|
temper, and the resisting one perfectly harmless in his passivity; then,
|
|
in the better moods of the former, he will endeavor charitably to construe
|
|
to his imagination what proves impossible to be solved by
|
|
his judgment. Even so, for the most part, I regarded Bartleby and his ways.
|
|
Poor fellow! thought I, he means no mischief; it is plain he intends no
|
|
insolence; his aspect sufficiently evinces that his eccentricities are
|
|
involuntary. He
|
|
is useful to me. I can get along with him. If I turn him
|
|
away, the chances are he will fall in with some less indulgent employer,
|
|
and then he will be rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably
|
|
to starve. Yes. Here I
|
|
can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval. To befriend
|
|
Bartleby; to humor him in his strange willfulness, will cost me little
|
|
or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually prove a sweet
|
|
morsel for my conscience. But this mood was not invariable
|
|
with me. The passiveness of Bartleby sometimes irritated me. I felt strangely
|
|
goaded on to encounter him in new opposition, to elicit some angry spark
|
|
from him answerable to my own. But indeed I might as well have essayed
|
|
to strike fire with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor
|
|
soap. But one afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered
|
|
me, and the following little scene ensued:</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby," said I, "when those papers are all copied, I will compare
|
|
them with you."</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
|
|
<p>"How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish
|
|
vagary?"</p>
|
|
<p>No answer.</p>
|
|
<p>I threw open the folding-doors near by, and turning upon Turkey and Nippers,
|
|
exclaimed in an excited manner--</p>
|
|
<p>"He says, a second time, he won't examine his papers. What do you think
|
|
of it, Turkey?"</p>
|
|
<p>It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey sat glowing like a brass boiler,
|
|
his bald head steaming, his hands reeling among his blotted papers.</p>
|
|
<p>"Think of it?" roared Turkey; "I think I'll just step behind his screen,
|
|
and black his eyes for him!"</p>
|
|
<p>So saying, Turkey rose to his feet and threw his arms into a pugilistic
|
|
position. He was hurrying away to make good his promise,
|
|
when I detained him, alarmed at the effect of incautiously rousing Turkey's
|
|
combativeness after dinner.</p>
|
|
<p>"Sit down, Turkey," said I, "and hear what Nippers has to say. What do
|
|
you think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justified in immediately dismissing
|
|
Bartleby?"</p>
|
|
<p>"Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct quite
|
|
unusual, and indeed unjust, as regards Turkey and myself. But it may only
|
|
be a passing whim."</p>
|
|
<p>"Ah," exclaimed I, "you have strangely changed your mind then--you speak
|
|
very gently of him now."</p>
|
|
<p>"All beer," cried Turkey; "gentleness is effects of beer--Nippers and
|
|
I dined together to-day. You see how gentle I am, sir. Shall I go and black
|
|
his eyes?"</p>
|
|
<p>"You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey," I replied;
|
|
"pray, put up your fists."</p>
|
|
<p>I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I felt additional
|
|
incentives tempting me to my fate. I
|
|
burned to be rebelled against again. I remembered that Bartleby
|
|
never left the office.</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby," said I, "Ginger Nut is away; just step round to the Post
|
|
Office, won't you? (it was but a three minutes walk,) and
|
|
see if there is any thing for me."</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
|
|
<p>"You<i> will</i> not?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I <i>prefer</i> not."</p>
|
|
<p>I staggered to my desk, and sat there
|
|
in a deep study. My blind
|
|
inveteracy returned. Was there any other thing in which I
|
|
could procure myself to be ignominiously repulsed by this lean,
|
|
penniless with?--my
|
|
hired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable,
|
|
that he will be sure to refuse to do?</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby!"</p>
|
|
<p>No answer.</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby," in a louder tone.</p>
|
|
<p>No answer.</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby," I roared.</p>
|
|
<p>Like a
|
|
very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation,
|
|
at the third summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.</p>
|
|
<p>"Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me."</p>
|
|
<p>"I prefer not to," he respectfully
|
|
and slowly said, and mildly disappeared.</p>
|
|
<p>"Very good, Bartleby," said I, in a quiet sort of serenely severe self-possessed
|
|
tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible
|
|
retribution very close at hand. At the moment I half intended
|
|
something of the kind. But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my
|
|
dinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the day,
|
|
suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind.</p>
|
|
<p> Shall
|
|
I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was
|
|
that it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener,
|
|
by the name of Bartleby, had a desk there; that he copied for me at the
|
|
usual rate of four
|
|
cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently
|
|
exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred
|
|
to Turkey and Nippers, one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness;
|
|
moreover, said Bartleby was never on any account to be dispatched on the
|
|
most trivial errand of any sort; and that even if entreated to take upon
|
|
him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would prefer not
|
|
to--in other words, that he would refuse point-blank.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>32 As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His
|
|
steadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry (except
|
|
when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his screen),
|
|
his great stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all circumstances,
|
|
made him a
|
|
valuable acquisition. One prime thing was this,--he was
|
|
always there;--first in the morning, continually through the day, and the
|
|
last at night. I had a singular confidence in his honesty. I felt my most
|
|
precious papers perfectly safe in his hands. Sometimes to be sure I could
|
|
not, for
|
|
the very soul of me, avoid falling into sudden spasmodic
|
|
passions with him. For it was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the
|
|
time those strange peculiarities, privileges, and unheard of exemptions,
|
|
forming the tacit stipulations on Bartleby's part under which he remained
|
|
in my office. Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing business,
|
|
I would inadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his
|
|
finger, say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was
|
|
about compressing some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the usual
|
|
answer, "I prefer not to," was sure to come; and then, how
|
|
could a human creature with the common infirmities of our
|
|
nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming upon such perverseness--such unreasonableness.
|
|
However, every added repulse of this sort which I received only tended
|
|
to lessen the probability of my repeating the inadvertence.</p>
|
|
<p>Here is must be said, that according to the custom of most legal gentlemen
|
|
occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, there were several
|
|
keys to my door. One was kept by a woman residing in the attic, which person
|
|
weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my apartments. Another was kept
|
|
by Turkey for convenience sake. The third I sometimes carried in my own
|
|
pocket. The fourth I knew not who had.</p>
|
|
<p>Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to
|
|
hear a celebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early
|
|
on the ground, I thought I would walk round to my chambers for a while.
|
|
Luckily I had my key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found
|
|
it resisted by something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called
|
|
out; when to my consternation a key was turned from within; and thrusting
|
|
his lean visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the
|
|
apparition of Bartleby appeared, in his shirt sleeves, and
|
|
otherwise in a strangely tattered dishabille, saying quietly that he was
|
|
sorry, but he was deeply engaged just then, and--preferred not admitting
|
|
me at present. In a brief word or two, he moreover added, that perhaps
|
|
I had better walk round the block two or three times, and by that time
|
|
he would probably have concluded his affairs. Now, the utterly unsurmised
|
|
appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my law-chambers of a Sunday
|
|
morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly nonchalance,
|
|
yet withal firm and self-possessed, had such a strange effect upon me,
|
|
that incontinently I slunk away from my own door, and did as desired. But
|
|
not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion against the mild effrontery
|
|
of this unaccountable scrivener. Indeed, it was his wonderful mildness
|
|
chiefly, which not only disarmed me, but unmanned me, as it were. For I consider
|
|
that one, for the time, is a sort of unmanned when he tranquilly permits
|
|
his hired clerk to dictate to him, and order
|
|
him away from his own premises. Furthermore, I was full of
|
|
uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in my office in
|
|
his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition of a Sunday
|
|
morning. Was any thing amiss going on? Nay, that was out of the question.
|
|
It was not to be thought of for a moment that Bartleby was an immoral person.
|
|
But what could he be doing there?--copying? Nay again, whatever might be
|
|
his eccentricities, Bartleby was an eminently decorous person. He would
|
|
be the last man to sit down to his desk in any state approaching to nudity.
|
|
Besides, it was Sunday; and there was something about Bartleby that forbade
|
|
the supposition that we would by any secular occupation violate the
|
|
proprieties of the day.</p>
|
|
<p>Nevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless curiosity,
|
|
at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted my key, opened
|
|
it, and entered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked round anxiously,
|
|
peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon
|
|
more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an indefinite period
|
|
Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my office, and that too without
|
|
plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat of a rickety old sofa in one
|
|
corner bore t faint impress of a lean, reclining form. Rolled away under
|
|
his desk, I found a blanket; under the empty grate, a blacking box and
|
|
brush; on a chair, a tin basin, with soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper
|
|
a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. Yet, thought I, it
|
|
is evident enough that Bartleby has been making his home here, keeping
|
|
bachelor's hallall by himself. Immediately then the thought came sweeping
|
|
across me, What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed!
|
|
His poverty is great; but his solitude, how
|
|
horrible! Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall-street is deserted
|
|
as Petra; and every night of every day
|
|
it is an emptiness. This building too, which of week-days hums with industry
|
|
and life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Sunday
|
|
is forlorn. And here Bartleby makes his home; sole spectator of a solitude
|
|
which he has seen all populous--a sort of innocent and transformed Marius
|
|
brooding among the ruins of Carthage!
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>For the first
|
|
time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging melancholy
|
|
seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not-unpleasing sadness.
|
|
The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal
|
|
melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons
|
|
of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces
|
|
I had seen that day in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi
|
|
of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought
|
|
to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay;
|
|
but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad
|
|
fancyings-- chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and
|
|
silly brain--led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the
|
|
eccentricities of Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered
|
|
round me. The scrivener's pale form appeared to me laid
|
|
out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding
|
|
sheet.</p>
|
|
<p>Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby's closed desk, the key in open sight
|
|
left in the lock.</p>
|
|
<p> I
|
|
mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless
|
|
curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too,
|
|
so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged,
|
|
the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the
|
|
files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something
|
|
there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and
|
|
knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings' bank.</p>
|
|
<p>I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I
|
|
remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals
|
|
he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him reading--no,
|
|
not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand looking out,
|
|
at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite
|
|
sure he never visited any refectory or eating house; while his pale face
|
|
clearly indicated that he never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee
|
|
even, like other men; that he never went any where in particular that I
|
|
could learn; never went out for a walk, unless indeed that was the case
|
|
at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or whence he came,
|
|
or whether he had any relatives in the world; that though so thin and pale,
|
|
he never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain
|
|
unconscious air of pallid--how shall I call it?--of pallid
|
|
haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him,
|
|
which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities,
|
|
when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me,
|
|
even though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that
|
|
behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall
|
|
reveries of his.</p>
|
|
<p>Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered
|
|
fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not
|
|
forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential
|
|
feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been
|
|
those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as
|
|
the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my imagination, did that same
|
|
melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So
|
|
true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought
|
|
or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special
|
|
cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably
|
|
this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather
|
|
proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic
|
|
ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it
|
|
is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succor, common sense
|
|
bids the soul be rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the
|
|
scrivener was the victim of
|
|
innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body;
|
|
but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his
|
|
soul I could not reach.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning.
|
|
Somehow, the
|
|
things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going.
|
|
I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I
|
|
resolvedupon this;--I would put certain calm questions to him the
|
|
next morning, touching his history, &c., and if he declined to answer
|
|
then openly and reservedly (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to
|
|
give him a twenty dollar bill over and above whatever I might owe him,
|
|
and tell him his services were no longer required; but that if in any other
|
|
way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, especially if he desired
|
|
to return to his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly
|
|
help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if after reaching home, he found
|
|
himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of
|
|
a reply.</p>
|
|
<p>The next morning came.</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby," said I, gently calling to him behind the screen.</p>
|
|
<p>No reply.</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby," said I, in a still gentler tone, "come here; I am not going
|
|
to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do--I simply wish to
|
|
speak to you."</p>
|
|
<p>Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.</p>
|
|
<p>"Will you tell me, Bartleby, where
|
|
you were born?"
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
|
|
<p>"Will you tell me <i>anything </i>about yourself?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
|
|
<p>"But what reasonable
|
|
objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly towards
|
|
you."</p>
|
|
<p>He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my
|
|
bust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some
|
|
six inches above my head. "What is your answer, Bartleby?" said I, after
|
|
waiting a considerable time for a reply, during which his countenance remained
|
|
immovable, only there was the faintest
|
|
conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth.</p>
|
|
<p>"At present I prefer to give no answer," he said, and retired into his
|
|
hermitage.</p>
|
|
<p>It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled
|
|
me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain disdain, but his
|
|
perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable
|
|
good usage and indulgence he had received from me.</p>
|
|
<p>Again I sat ruminating what I should do.Mortified as I was at his behavior,
|
|
and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my office, nevertheless
|
|
I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding
|
|
me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared
|
|
to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last,
|
|
familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: "Bartleby,
|
|
never mind then about revealing your history; but let me entreat you,
|
|
as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office.
|
|
Say now you will help to examine papers tomorrow or next day: in short,
|
|
say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:--say
|
|
so, Bartleby."</p>
|
|
<p>"At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable
|
|
was his idly cadaverous reply.,"</p>
|
|
<p>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.</p>
|
|
<p><i>"Prefer</i> not,
|
|
eh?" gritted Nippers--"I'd<i> prefer</i> him, if I were you, sir," addressing
|
|
me--"I'd <i>prefer</i> him; I'd give him preferences, the stubborn mule!
|
|
What is it, sir, pray, that he <i>prefers</i> not to do now?"</p>
|
|
<p>Bartleby moved not a limb.</p>
|
|
<p>"Mr.
|
|
Nippers," said I, "I'd prefer that you would withdraw for the present."
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntary 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
|
|
means.</p>
|
|
<p>As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly
|
|
and deferentially approached.</p>
|
|
<p>"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 towards mending him, and enabling him to assist
|
|
in examining his papers."</p>
|
|
<p>"So you have got the word too," said I, slightly excited.</p>
|
|
<p>"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?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer to be left alone here," said Bartleby, as if offended
|
|
at being mobbed
|
|
in his privacy.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>"<i>That's</i> the word, Turkey," said I--<i>"that's</i> it."</p>
|
|
<p>"Oh,<i> prefer</i> oh yes--queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir
|
|
as I was saying, if he would but prefer--"</p>
|
|
<p>"Turkey," interrupted I, "you will please withdraw."</p>
|
|
<p>"Oh, certainly, sir, if
|
|
you prefer that I should."</p>
|
|
<p>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.</p>
|
|
<p>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.</p>
|
|
<p>"Why, how now? what next?" exclaimed I, "do no more writing?"</p>
|
|
<p>"No more."</p>
|
|
<p>"And what is the reason?"</p>
|
|
<p>"Do
|
|
you not see the reason for yourself," he indifferently replied.</p>
|
|
<p>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.</p>
|
|
<p>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.</p>
|
|
<p>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.</p>
|
|
<p>"What!" exclaimed I; "suppose your eyes should get entirely well- better
|
|
than ever before--would you not copy then?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I have given up copying," he answered, and slid
|
|
aside.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>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</font> 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."</p>
|
|
<p>At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo!
|
|
Bartleby was there.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>I buttoned
|
|
up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him,
|
|
touched his shoulder, and said, "The time has come; you must quit this
|
|
place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go."</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer not," he replied, with his back still towards me.</p>
|
|
<p>"You<i> must</i>."</p>
|
|
<p>He remained silent.</p>
|
|
<p>Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man's common honesty. He had
|
|
frequently restored to me six pences and shillings carelessly dropped upon
|
|
the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button
|
|
affairs. The proceeding then which followed will not be
|
|
deemed extraordinary. "Bartleby,"
|
|
said I, "I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the
|
|
odd twenty are yours.--Will you take it? and I handed the
|
|
bills towards him.</p>
|
|
<p>But he made no motion.</p>
|
|
<p>"I will leave them here then," putting them under a weight on the table.
|
|
Then taking my hat and cane and going to the door I tranquilly turned and
|
|
added--"After you have removed your things from these offices, Bartleby,
|
|
you will of course lock the door--since every one is now gone for the day
|
|
but you--and if you please, slip your key underneath the mat, so that I
|
|
may have it in the morning. I shall not see you again; so good-bye to you.
|
|
If hereafter in your new place of abode I can be of any service to you,
|
|
do not fail to advise me by letter. Good-bye, Bartleby, and fare you well."</p>
|
|
<p>But he answered not a word; like the
|
|
last column of some ruined temple, he remained standing
|
|
mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise deserted room.</p>
|
|
<p>As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity
|
|
got the better of my pity. I could not but highly plume
|
|
myself on my masterly management in getting rid of Bartleby. Masterly I
|
|
call it, and such it must appear to any dispassionate thinker. The beauty
|
|
of my procedure seemed to consist in its perfect quietness. There was
|
|
no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any sort, no choleric hectoring
|
|
and striding to and fro across the apartment, jerking out vehement commands
|
|
for Bartleby to bundle himself off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of
|
|
the kind. Without loudly bidding Bartleby depart--as an
|
|
inferior genius might have done--I assumed the ground that
|
|
depart he must; and upon the assumption built all I had to say. The more
|
|
I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with it. Nevertheless,
|
|
next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts,--I had somehow slept off
|
|
the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest hours a man has, is
|
|
just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as
|
|
ever,--but only in theory. How it would prove in practice--there was the
|
|
rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby's departure;
|
|
but, after all, that assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby's.
|
|
The great point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but
|
|
whether he would prefer so to do. He was more a man
|
|
of preferences than assumptions.</p>
|
|
<p>After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and
|
|
con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby
|
|
would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment it seemed
|
|
certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering about.
|
|
At the corner of Broadway and Canal- street, I saw quite an excited group
|
|
of people standing in earnest conversation.</p>
|
|
<p>"I'll take odds he doesn't," said a voice as I passed.</p>
|
|
<p>"Doesn't go?--done!" said I, "put up your money."</p>
|
|
<p>I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when
|
|
I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore
|
|
no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some candidate
|
|
for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagined
|
|
that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were debating
|
|
the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of
|
|
the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness.</p>
|
|
<p>As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood
|
|
listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob.
|
|
The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed
|
|
must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost
|
|
sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the
|
|
door mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when
|
|
accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound,
|
|
and in response a voice came to me from within--"Not yet; I am occupied."</p>
|
|
<p>It was Bartleby.</p>
|
|
<p>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 any thing 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.</p>
|
|
<p>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 the money yet," pointing
|
|
to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.</p>
|
|
<p>He answered nothing.</p>
|
|
<p>"Will you, or will you not, quit me?" I now demanded in a sudden
|
|
passion, advancing close to him.</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer <i>not</i> to quit you," he replied, gently
|
|
emphasizing the<i> not</i>.</p>
|
|
<p>"What earthly
|
|
right have you to stay here? do you pay any rent? Do you
|
|
pay my taxes? Or is this property yours?"</p>
|
|
<p>He answered nothing.</p>
|
|
<p>"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 any thing at all,
|
|
to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?"</p>
|
|
<p>He silently
|
|
retired into his hermitage.</p>
|
|
<p>I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but
|
|
prudentto check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bartleby
|
|
and I were alone. I
|
|
remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and the still
|
|
more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the latter; and how poor
|
|
Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting himself
|
|
to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal
|
|
act--an act which certainly no
|
|
man could possibly deplore more than the actor himself. Often
|
|
it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon the subject, that had
|
|
that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence,
|
|
it would not have terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being
|
|
alone in a solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed
|
|
by humanizing domestic associations--an uncarpeted
|
|
office, doubtless of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;--this
|
|
it must have been, which greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation
|
|
of the hapless Colt.</p>
|
|
<p>But when this old
|
|
Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby,
|
|
I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine
|
|
injunction: "A new commandment give I unto you, that ye
|
|
love one another." Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from higher considerations,
|
|
charity often operates as a
|
|
vastly wise and prudent principle--a great safeguard to its
|
|
possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy's sake, and anger's sake,
|
|
and hatred's sake, and selfishness' sake, and spiritual pride's sake; but
|
|
no man that ever I heard of, ever committed
|
|
a diabolical murder for sweet charity's sake. Mere
|
|
self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted,
|
|
should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity
|
|
and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove
|
|
to drown
|
|
my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently
|
|
construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don't mean
|
|
any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be indulged.</p>
|
|
<p>I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time
|
|
to comfort my despondency.I tried to fancy that in the course of the
|
|
morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him, Bartleby, of his
|
|
own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided
|
|
line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o'clock
|
|
came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become
|
|
generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy;
|
|
Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his
|
|
window in one of his profoundest deadwall reveries. Will
|
|
it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon
|
|
I left the office without saying one further word to him.</p>
|
|
<p>Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little
|
|
into Edwards
|
|
on the Will," and "Priestly on Necessity." Under the circumstances,
|
|
those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid
|
|
into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching
|
|
the scrivener, had been all predestinated
|
|
from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious
|
|
purpose of an all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like
|
|
me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought
|
|
I; I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless
|
|
as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I
|
|
know you are here. At least I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated
|
|
purpose of my life. I am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact;
|
|
but my
|
|
mission in this world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room
|
|
for such period as you may see fit to remain.</p>
|
|
<p>I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued
|
|
with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks obtruded
|
|
upon me by my
|
|
professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus it often
|
|
is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last the
|
|
best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when
|
|
I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my office
|
|
should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable Bartleby,
|
|
and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning him.
|
|
Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my office,
|
|
and finding no one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some
|
|
sort of precise information from him touching my whereabouts; but without
|
|
heeding his idle
|
|
talk, Bartleby would remain standing immovable in the middle
|
|
of the room. So after contemplating him in that position for a time, the
|
|
attorney would depart, no wiser than he came.</p>
|
|
<p>Also, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and
|
|
witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman
|
|
present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him to run round
|
|
to his (the legal gentleman's) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon,
|
|
Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and remain idle as before. Then the
|
|
lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say?
|
|
At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional
|
|
acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to
|
|
the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried
|
|
me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly
|
|
turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers, and denying
|
|
my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing
|
|
my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises;
|
|
keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless
|
|
he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive
|
|
me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual
|
|
occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more,
|
|
and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition
|
|
in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all
|
|
my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable
|
|
incubus.</p>
|
|
<p>Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I
|
|
first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure.
|
|
In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature
|
|
consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised
|
|
me that his original determination remained the same; in short, that he
|
|
still preferred to abide
|
|
with me.</p>
|
|
<p>What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning
|
|
up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought
|
|
I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather
|
|
ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust
|
|
him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,--you will not thrust such a helpless
|
|
creature out of your door? you will not dishonor
|
|
yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that.
|
|
Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason
|
|
up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all
|
|
your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight
|
|
on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers
|
|
to cling to you.</p>
|
|
<p>Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you
|
|
will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor
|
|
to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing
|
|
to be done?--a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who
|
|
refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you
|
|
seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of
|
|
support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support
|
|
himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show
|
|
of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit
|
|
me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and
|
|
give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then
|
|
proceed against him as a common trespasser.</p>
|
|
<p>Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: "I find these chambers
|
|
too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose
|
|
to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services.
|
|
I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place."</p>
|
|
<p>He made no reply, and nothing more was said.</p>
|
|
<p>On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers,
|
|
and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours.
|
|
Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the
|
|
screen, which I directed to be removed the last thing. It
|
|
was withdrawn; and being folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless
|
|
occupant of a naked room. I stood in the entry watching him
|
|
a moment, while something from within me upbraided me.</p>
|
|
<p>I re-entered, with my hand
|
|
in my pocket--and--and my heart in my mouth.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>"Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going--good-bye, and God some way bless you;
|
|
and take that," slipping something in his hand. But it dropped to the floor,
|
|
and then,--strange
|
|
to say--I tore myself from him whom I had so longed to be
|
|
rid of.</p>
|
|
<p>Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked,
|
|
and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my rooms
|
|
after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an instant,
|
|
and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears were needless.
|
|
Bartleby never came nigh me.</p>
|
|
<p>I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited
|
|
me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms
|
|
at No.--Wall-street.</p>
|
|
<p>Full of forebodings, I replied that I was.</p>
|
|
<p>"Then, sir," said the stranger,
|
|
who proved a lawyer, "you are responsible for the man you
|
|
left there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to do any thing; he
|
|
says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises."</p>
|
|
<p>"I am very sorry, sir," said I, with assumed tranquillity, but an inward
|
|
tremor, "but, really, the
|
|
man you allude to is nothing to me --he is no relation or
|
|
apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for him."</p>
|
|
<p>"In mercy's name, who is he?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I employed
|
|
him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some time past."</p>
|
|
<p>"I
|
|
shall settle him then,--good morning, sir."</p>
|
|
<p>Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I often felt
|
|
a charitable prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet
|
|
a certain squeamishness of I know not what withheld
|
|
me.</p>
|
|
<p>All is over with him, by this time, thought I at last, when through another
|
|
week no further intelligence reached me. But coming to my room the day
|
|
after, I found several persons waiting at my door in a high state of nervous
|
|
excitement.</p>
|
|
<p>"That's the man--here he comes," cried the foremost one, whom recognized
|
|
as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone.</p>
|
|
<p>"You must take him away, sir, at once," cried a portly person among them,
|
|
advancing upon me, and whom I knew to be the landlord of No.--Wall-street.
|
|
"These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it any longer; Mr. B--" pointing
|
|
to the lawyer, "has turned him out of his room, and he now persists in
|
|
haunting the buildinggenerally, sitting upon the banisters of the
|
|
stairs by day, and sleeping in the entry by night. Every body is concerned;
|
|
clients are leaving the offices; some
|
|
fears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and
|
|
that without delay."</p>
|
|
<p> Aghast
|
|
at this torment, I fell back before it, and would fain have
|
|
locked myselfin my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby
|
|
was nothing to me--no more than to any one else. In vain:--I was the last
|
|
person known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the
|
|
terrible account. Fearful
|
|
then of being exposed in the papers (as one person present
|
|
obscurely threatened) I considered the matter, and at length said, that
|
|
if the lawyer would give me a confidential interview with the scrivener,
|
|
in his (the lawyer's) own room, I would that afternoon strive my best to
|
|
rid them of the nuisance they complained of.</p>
|
|
<p>Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting upon
|
|
the banister at the landing.</p>
|
|
<p>"What are you doing here, Bartleby?" said I.</p>
|
|
<p>"Sitting upon the banister," he mildly replied.</p>
|
|
<p>I motioned him into the lawyer's room, who then left us.</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby,"
|
|
said I, "are you aware that you are the cause of great tribulation
|
|
to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being dismissed from
|
|
the office?"</p>
|
|
<p>No answer.</p>
|
|
<p>"Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something or
|
|
something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you like
|
|
to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?"</p>
|
|
<p>"No; I would prefer not to make any change."</p>
|
|
<p>"Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?"</p>
|
|
<p>"There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship;
|
|
but I am not particular."</p>
|
|
<p>"Too much confinement," I cried, "why you keep yourself confined all the
|
|
time!"</p>
|
|
<p>"I would prefer not to take a clerkship," he rejoined, as if to settle
|
|
that little item at once.</p>
|
|
<p>"How would a bar-tender's business suit you? There is no trying of the
|
|
eyesight in that."</p>
|
|
<p>"I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular."</p>
|
|
<p>His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge.</p>
|
|
<p>"Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting bills
|
|
for the merchants? That would improve your health."</p>
|
|
<p>"No, I would prefer to be doing something else."</p>
|
|
<p>"How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young
|
|
gentleman with your conversation,--how would that suit you?"</p>
|
|
<p>"Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing definite about
|
|
that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.</p>
|
|
<p>"Stationary you shall be then," I cried, now losing all patience, and
|
|
for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly flying
|
|
into a passion. "If you do not go away from these premises before night,
|
|
I shall feel bound--indeed I am bound--to-- to--to quit the premises
|
|
myself!" I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what possible
|
|
threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance.
|
|
Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him, when
|
|
a final thought occurred to me--one
|
|
which had not been wholly unindulged before.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby," said I, in the kindest tone
|
|
I could assume under such exciting circumstances, "will you
|
|
go home with me now--not to my office, but my dwelling--and remain there
|
|
till we can conclude upon some convenient arrangement for you at our leisure?
|
|
Come, let us start now, right away."</p>
|
|
<p>"No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all."</p>
|
|
<p>I answered nothing; but effectualy dodging every one by the suddenness
|
|
and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran
|
|
up Wall-street towards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was
|
|
soon removed from pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly
|
|
perceived that I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect
|
|
to the demands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own
|
|
desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude
|
|
persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my
|
|
conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so successful
|
|
as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the
|
|
incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business
|
|
to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the upper part of the town and
|
|
through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken,
|
|
and paid fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact I almost
|
|
lived in my rockaway for the time.</p>
|
|
<p>When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon
|
|
desk. opened it with trembling hands. informed me that writer had sent
|
|
to police, and Bartleby removed the
|
|
Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more
|
|
about him than any one else, he wished me to appear at that place, and
|
|
make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a conflicting
|
|
effect upon me. At first I was indignant; but at last almost approved.
|
|
The landlord's energetic, summary disposition, had led him to adopt a procedure
|
|
which I do not think I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last
|
|
resort, under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.</p>
|
|
<p>As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be
|
|
conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his
|
|
pale unmoving way, silently
|
|
acquiesced.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and
|
|
headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the
|
|
silent procession filed its way through all the noise, and
|
|
heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon.</p>
|
|
<p>The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more
|
|
properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the
|
|
purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was
|
|
indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly
|
|
honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric.
|
|
I narrated all I knew,and closed by suggesting the idea of letting
|
|
him remain in as indulgent confinement as possible till something less
|
|
harsh might be done--though indeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if
|
|
nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I
|
|
then begged to have an interview.</p>
|
|
<p>Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all
|
|
his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and
|
|
especially in the inclosed grass-platted yards thereof. And so I found
|
|
him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face
|
|
towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the
|
|
jail windows, I thought I
|
|
saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby!"</p>
|
|
<p>"I
|
|
know you," he said, without looking round,--"and I want
|
|
nothing to say to you."</p>
|
|
<p>"It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby," said I, keenly
|
|
pained at his implied suspicion. "And to you, this should
|
|
not be so vile a place. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here.
|
|
And see, it
|
|
is not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is
|
|
the sky, and here is the grass."</p>
|
|
<p>"I know where I am," he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I
|
|
left him.</p>
|
|
<p>As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like
|
|
man in an apron, accosted me, and jerking his thumb over
|
|
his shoulder said--"Is that your
|
|
friend?"</p>
|
|
<p>"Yes."</p>
|
|
<p>"Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare,
|
|
that's all.</p>
|
|
<p>"Who are you?" asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially
|
|
speaking person in such a place.</p>
|
|
<p>"I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide
|
|
them with something good to eat."</p>
|
|
<p>"Is this so?" said I, turning to the turnkey.</p>
|
|
<p>He said it was.</p>
|
|
<p>"Well then," said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man's hands (for
|
|
so they called him). "I want you to give particular attention to my friend
|
|
there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite
|
|
to him as possible."</p>
|
|
<p>"Introduce me, will you?" said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression
|
|
which seemed to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a
|
|
specimen of his breeding.</p>
|
|
<p>Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and
|
|
asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.</p>
|
|
<p>"Bartleby, this is a
|
|
friend; you will find him very useful to you."</p>
|
|
<p>"Your
|
|
sarvant, sir, your sarvant," said the grub-man, making a
|
|
low salutation behind his apron. "Hope you find it pleasant
|
|
here, sir;--spacious grounds--cool apartments, sir--hope
|
|
you'll stay with us some time--try to make it agreeable. What will you
|
|
have for dinner today?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I prefer not to dine to-day," said Bartleby, turning away. "It would
|
|
disagree with me; I am unused to dinners." So saying he slowly moved to
|
|
the other side of the inclosure, and took up a
|
|
position fronting the dead-wall.</p>
|
|
<p>"How's this?" said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of astonishment.
|
|
"He's odd, aint he?"</p>
|
|
<p>"I think he is a little deranged," said I, sadly.</p>
|
|
<p>"Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that friend
|
|
of yourn was a gentleman
|
|
forger; they are always pale and genteel-like, them forgers.
|
|
I can't help pity 'em--can't help it, sir. Did you know Monroe Edwards?"
|
|
he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his hand pityingly on my
|
|
shoulder, sighed, "he died of consumption at Sing-Sing. so you weren't
|
|
acquainted with Monroe?"</p>
|
|
<p>"No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot stop
|
|
longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will see you
|
|
again."</p>
|
|
<p>Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and
|
|
went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding him.</p>
|
|
<p>"I saw him coming from his cell not long ago," said a turnkey, "may be
|
|
he's gone to loiter in the yards."</p>
|
|
<p>So I went in that direction.</p>
|
|
<p>"Are you looking for the silent man?" said another turnkey passing me.
|
|
"Yonder he lies--sleeping in the yard there. 'Tis not twenty minutes since
|
|
I saw him lie down."</p>
|
|
<p>The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common prisoners.
|
|
The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept
|
|
off all sound behind them. The Egyptian
|
|
character of the masonry weighed upon me with its gloom.
|
|
But a soft imprisoned
|
|
turf grew under foot. The heart of the eternal pyramids,
|
|
it seemed, wherein, by some strange magic, through the clefts, grass-seed,
|
|
dropped by birds, had sprung.</p>
|
|
<p>Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his
|
|
knees drawn up, and lying on his side, his head touching
|
|
the cold stones, I saw the wasted Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused;
|
|
then went close up to him; stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were
|
|
open; otherwise he seemed profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me
|
|
to touch him. I felt his hand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm
|
|
and down my spine to my feet.</p>
|
|
<p>The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. "His dinner is ready.
|
|
Won't he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?"</p>
|
|
<p>"Lives without dining," said I, and closed the eyes.</p>
|
|
<p>"Eh!--He's asleep, aint he?"</p>
|
|
<p>"With
|
|
kings and counsellors," murmured I.</p>
|
|
<p>* * * * * * * *</p>
|
|
<p>There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history. Imagination
|
|
will readily supply the meagre recital of poor Bartleby's interment. But
|
|
ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this little narrative
|
|
has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity as to who Bartleby
|
|
was, and what manner of life he led prior to the present narrator's making
|
|
his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in such curiosity I fully share,
|
|
but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet here I hardly know whether I should
|
|
divulge one
|
|
little item of rumor, which came to my ear a few months
|
|
after the scrivener's decease. Upon what basis it rested, I could never
|
|
ascertain; and hence how true it is I cannot now tell. But inasmuch as
|
|
this vague report has not been without a certain strange suggestive
|
|
interest to me, however said, it may prove the same with
|
|
some others; and so I will briefly mention it. The report was this: that
|
|
Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead
|
|
Letter Office at <a href="http://raven.cc.ukans.edu/%7Ezeke/bartleby/parker.html" target="_blank">Washington</a>, from which he had been suddenly removed
|
|
by a change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, I cannot
|
|
adequately express the emotions which seize me. Dead
|
|
letters! does it not sound like dead men? Conceive a man
|
|
by nature and misfortune prone to a pallid hopelessness, can any business
|
|
seem more fitted to heighten it than that of continually handling these
|
|
dead letters and assorting them for the flames? For by the cart-load they
|
|
are annually burned. Sometimes from out the folded paper
|
|
the pale clerk takes a ring:--the bank-note sent in swiftest charity:--he
|
|
whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those
|
|
who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for
|
|
those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On
|
|
errands of life, these letters speed to death.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p> Ah
|
|
Bartleby! Ah humanity!</p>
|
|
</div> |