Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-StreetMelville, Herman
General
Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-Street
Melville, Herman
Copyists -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Psychological fiction; Wall Street (New York, N.Y.) -- Fiction; Young men -- Fiction
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, and 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 pointblank.
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.
Here it 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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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