- end_line
- 1741
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1691
- text
- 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.
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 anything; and besides, he has seen
hard times, and ought to be indulged.
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 dead-wall
reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That
afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him.
Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a
little into “Edwards on the Will,” and “Priestley 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 allwise 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 last 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.
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