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- the crisp particles in his mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders
and flurried rashnesses of Turkey, was his once moistening a
ginger-cake between his lips, and clapping it on to a mortgage, for a
seal. I came within an ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified me
by making an oriental bow, and saying—
“With submission, sir, it was generous of me to find you in stationery
on my own account.”
Now my original business—that of a conveyancer and title hunter, and
drawer-up of recondite documents of all sorts—was considerably
increased by receiving the master’s office. There was now great work
for scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I
must have additional help.
In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning stood
upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can
see that figure now—pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably
forlorn! It was Bartleby.
After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to
have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an
aspect, which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty
temper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers.
I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my
premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners,
the other by myself. According to my humor, I threw open these doors,
or closed them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the
folding-doors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man
within easy call, in case any trifling thing was to be done. I placed
his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a
window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy
backyards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections,
commanded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within
three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far
above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a
dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured a high
green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from my
sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner,
privacy and society were conjoined.
At first, Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long
famishing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my
documents. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night
line, copying by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been
quite delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully
industrious. But he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically.
It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener’s business to
verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or
more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this
examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original.
It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily
imagine that, to some sanguine temperaments, it would be altogether
intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet,
Byron, would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law
document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand.
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