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- 1726
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.023Z
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- 1657
- text
- suffice—in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why,” I
added, unaffectedly starting, “you have not even touched that money
yet,” pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.
He answered nothing.
“Will you, or will you not, quit me?” I now demanded in a sudden
passion, advancing close to him.
“I would prefer _not_ to quit you,” he replied gently emphasizing the
_not_.
“What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you
pay my taxes? Or is this property yours?”
He answered nothing.
“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
anything at all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the
premises?”
He silently retired into his hermitage.
I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but
prudent to 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.
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.
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