Bartleby, The Scrivener | Page 5

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.
Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some
brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in
placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on
such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before
any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried
to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and
natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my
desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so
that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to
business without the least delay.
In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted
him to do--namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my
consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm
voice, replied, "I would prefer not to."
I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to
me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I
repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came
the previous reply, "I would prefer not to."
"Prefer not to," echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride.
"What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet
here--take it," and I thrust it towards him.
"I would prefer not to," said he.
I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not
a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience
or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human
about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it

was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out
of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then
reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But
my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for
my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily
examined.
A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates
of a week's testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became
necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative.
Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room,
meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from
the original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats in a row,
each with his document in hand, when I called to Bartleby to join this interesting group.
"Bartleby! quick, I am waiting."
I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared
standing at the entrance of his hermitage.
"What is wanted?" said he mildly.
"The copies, the copies," said I hurriedly. "We are going to examine them. There"--and I
held towards him the fourth quadruplicate.
"I would prefer not to," he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen.
For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated
column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the
reason