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- 1139
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.023Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1066
- text
- 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.
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:
“Bartleby,” said I, “when those papers are all copied, I will compare
them with you.”
“I would prefer not to.”
“How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary?”
No answer.
I threw open the folding-doors near by, and, turning upon Turkey and
Nippers, exclaimed:
“Bartleby a second time says, he won’t examine his papers. What do you
think of it, Turkey?”
It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey sat glowing like a brass
boiler; his bald head steaming; his hands reeling among his blotted
papers.
“Think of it?” roared Turkey; “I think I’ll just step behind his
screen, and black his eyes for him!”
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“Ah,” exclaimed I, “you have strangely changed your mind, then—you
speak very gently of him now.”
“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?”
“You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey,” I replied;
“pray, put up your fists.”
- title
- Chunk 2