Becoming America - An Exploration of American Literature from Precolonial to Post-Revolution, 2018a

BECOMING AMERICA
REVOLUTIONARY AND EARLY NATIONAL PERIOD LITERATURE
the scrivener was the victim of innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to
his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suered, and his soul
I could not reach.
I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning.
Somehow, the things I had seen disqualied me for the time from church-going.
I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I resolved
upon this;—I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touching
his history, etc., and if he declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I
supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above
whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer required; but
that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, especially if
he desired to return to his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly
help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at
any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply.
The next morning came.
“Bartleby,” said I, gently calling to him behind his screen.
No reply.
“Bartleby,” said I, in a still gentler tone, “come here; I am not going to ask you
to do any thing you would prefer not to do—I simply wish to speak to you.”
Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.
“Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“Will you tell me any thing about yourself?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly
towards you.”
He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance xed upon my bust of
Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six inches above my head.
“What is your answer, Bartleby?” said I, after waiting a considerable time for
a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only there was the
faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth.
“At present I prefer to give no answer,” he said, and retired into his hermitage.
It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me.
Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverseness
seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had
received from me.
Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortied as I was at his behavior,
and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my oces, nevertheless
I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me
to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared to breathe one
bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair
behind his screen, I sat down and said: “Bartleby, never mind then about revealing
your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the
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