A Story of Wall-Street

[adapted]

by
Herman Melville

I am a rather elderly man. The kind of work I have done for the last thirty years has brought me into close contact with a group of men who seem interesting and somewhat unusual, and, as far as I know, no one has yet written about them: — I mean the law-copyists, or scriveners. I have known very many of them, at work and in private, and, if I wished, could tell many stories at which kind gentlemen might smile, and sensitive people might weep. But I skip the lives of all other scriveners for a few parts of the life of Bartleby, who was the strangest scrivener I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might write the complete life, with Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe there are not enough facts for a full and good life story of this man. It is a loss to literature that cannot be fixed. Bartleby was one of those people about whom nothing can be found out, except from direct sources, and in his case those are very few. What my own surprised eyes saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one unclear report which will appear later.

Before introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is right that I say something about myself, my employees, my work, my offices, and my surroundings. This description is needed to understand well the main person I am going to present.

First: I am a man who, since my youth, has had a strong belief that the easiest way of life is the best. So, though I work in a job known to be very active and nervous, even wild at times, I have never let that disturb my peace. I am one of those not ambitious lawyers who never speaks to a jury, or in any way looks for public applause; but in the calm quiet of a small office, I do a small business with rich men’s bonds, mortgages, and title deeds. All who know me think I am a very safe man. The late John Jacob Astor, a man not given to poetic feelings, did not hesitate to say my first best point was carefulness; my next, order. I do not say this with pride, but simply state the fact, that the late John Jacob Astor employed me in my work; a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it has a full, round sound, and rings like money. I will also add, that I liked the late John Jacob Astor’s good opinion.

Some time before this story begins, my work had greatly increased. I had been given the good old job, now gone in New York State, of a Master in Chancery. It was not a very hard job, but it paid very well. I rarely lose my temper; I even more rarely get dangerously angry at wrongs and cruel acts; but let me be bold here and say that I think the new Constitution ended the job of Master in Chancery too suddenly and too harshly. It was too soon, because I had hoped to earn its profits for life, but I got them only for a few short years. But this is not the main point.

My rooms were upstairs at No. — Wall Street. At one end they faced the white wall inside a wide skylight space that went through the building from top to bottom. This view might be called dull, lacking what landscape painters call “life.” But if so, the view from the other end of my rooms gave at least a contrast. In that direction my windows had a clear view of a tall brick wall, black from age and constant shade. It needed no telescope, for the good of all people with poor sight, as it stood within ten feet of my window glass. Because the other buildings were very tall, and my rooms were on the second floor, the space between this wall and mine looked a lot like a huge square water tank.

At the time just before Bartleby came, I had two people who copied papers working for me, and a good boy as an office-boy. First, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem like names not usually found in a list of people. In fact, they were nicknames, given to each other by my three clerks, and they thought the names showed what each one was like. Turkey was a short, fat Englishman of about my own age, that is, somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, his face was a fine red color, but after twelve o’clock — his dinner time — it shone like a fire full of Christmas coals; and it kept shining — slowly getting weaker — till about 6 o’clock in the evening, after which I saw no more of him. His face got red at noon with the sun, then seemed to go down with it, and the next day it rose, got bright, and went down again, just as regular and just as bright.

I have seen many strange things that happened at the same time in my life. One was this: at noon, when Turkey’s red face shone the brightest, that was also when, every day, his ability to work became poor for the rest of the day. He was not lazy then, or unwilling to work; not at all. The problem was, he was too energetic. He was hot, in a hurry, and careless. He dipped his pen into the ink carelessly. All the ink spots on my papers came after twelve o’clock, at noon.

Indeed, in the afternoon he was careless and often made ink blots. Some days he went further and was noisy. At such times his face turned very red, like more coal put on a fire. He made an unpleasant noise with his chair. He spilled his sand box. While fixing his pens, he got impatient and broke them, and threw them on the floor in sudden anger. He stood up and leaned over his table, pushing his papers around in a rude, messy way. It was sad to see in an old man. Still, in many ways he was very valuable to me. Before noon he was the quickest and steadiest worker, doing a lot of work in a way hard to match. For these reasons I was willing to overlook his odd habits, though sometimes I spoke to him about them. I did this very gently, because in the morning he was the politest, even the calmest and most respectful man. But in the afternoon, if pushed, he could speak too quickly and be rude.

I valued his morning work and did not want to lose it. But after twelve he became angry and made me uncomfortable. I am a peaceful man and did not want to argue with him. So one Saturday at noon (he was always worse on Saturdays), I told him gently that, since he was growing old, he should work less. In short, he did not need to come to my office after twelve. After dinner, he should go home and rest until teatime. But no. He refused and said he must work in the afternoon. His face became very red, and he spoke like a public speaker, waving a long ruler from the other side of the room. He said that if his work in the morning was useful, then his work in the afternoon was even more needed.

“With respect, sir,” said Turkey this time, “I think I am your best helper. In the morning, I only set things in order; but in the afternoon I lead and bravely attack the enemy, like this!” — and he made a hard push with the ruler.

“But the ink spots, Turkey,” I said quietly.

“True, sir. But please look at my gray hair. I am getting old. Surely, sir, one or two blots on a warm afternoon should not be judged too hard. Old age — even if it makes a blot on the page — should be respected. Please, sir, we are both getting old.”

This touched my feelings and was hard to refuse. Anyway, I saw he would not go. So I decided to let him stay, but I would make sure that in the afternoon he worked only on my less important papers.

Nippers, the second on my list, was a young man of about twenty-five. He had whiskers, a pale yellow face, and looked a bit like a pirate. I thought he suffered from two bad things: ambition and stomach trouble. His ambition showed in his impatience with the simple duties of a copyist. He tried to take work that was not his, like writing legal documents from the start. His stomach trouble showed in a nervous, quick temper. He ground his teeth loudly over mistakes in copying. He hissed small curses during busy times. He was also always unhappy with the height of his work table. Although he was very handy, he could not make this table suit him. He put small chips of wood under it, blocks of different kinds, and pieces of cardboard. At last he even tried folded blotting paper for a perfect fix. But nothing worked. If, to ease his back, he raised the table lid to a sharp angle, up near his chin, and wrote there like a man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk, then he said it stopped the blood in his arms.

When he lowered the table to his waist and bent over to write, his back hurt. In short, Nippers did not know what he wanted. Or, if he wanted anything, he wanted to get rid of a scrivener’s table. His strange wish also showed in this: he liked to receive visits from some odd-looking men in old coats, whom he called his clients. I knew that, at times, he acted as a small local politician. He also sometimes did a little business at the courts, and people knew him on the steps of the Tombs, the city prison. However, I have good reason to think that one man who came to him at my office, whom he proudly said was his client, was really a debt collector, and what he called a title-deed was only a bill.

But with all his faults, and the trouble he gave me, Nippers, like Turkey, was very useful to me. He wrote a neat, quick hand; and, when he wished, he could behave like a gentleman. Also, he always dressed in a gentlemanly way, and so he made my office look good. But with Turkey, it was hard work to keep him from being a shame to me. His clothes often looked oily and smelled of restaurants. In summer his trousers were very loose and baggy. His coats were terrible; his hat was too dirty to touch. The hat did not matter to me, because his natural politeness, as a humble Englishman, made him take it off the moment he entered the room. But his coat was another matter. I talked with him about his coats, but nothing changed. The truth was, I think, that a man with so little money could not pay for both a shiny face and a shiny coat at the same time.

As Nippers once said, Turkey spent most of his money on red ink. One winter day I gave Turkey one of my own coats, a gray padded coat, very warm, that buttoned straight from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would be grateful and calmer in the afternoons. But no. I truly believe that wearing such a soft, blanket-like coat had a bad effect on him, like how too many oats are bad for a horse. Just as a wild, restless horse gets excited from oats, Turkey got excited from his coat. It made him rude. Good times were bad for him.

Although I had my own ideas about Turkey’s bad habits, I was sure that Nippers, whatever his other faults, did not drink much alcohol. But nature seemed to be his wine-maker. At his birth she gave him an irritable, brandy-like temper, so he did not need any drinks after that. In the quiet of my rooms, Nippers would sometimes get up impatiently, bend over his table, spread his arms, grab the whole desk, and push and pull it hard on the floor, as if the table were a naughty thing trying to annoy him. I clearly see that for Nippers, brandy and water were not needed at all.

It was lucky for me that, because his trouble came from a bad stomach, Nippers was mostly in a bad mood and nervous in the morning. In the afternoon he was more calm. Turkey’s attacks came at about twelve o’clock. So I did not have to deal with both of their strange ways at the same time. Their fits took turns like guards. When Nippers had a fit, Turkey did not; and the other way round. This worked well for me.

Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a boy about twelve years old. His father drove a cart and hoped, before he died, to see his son work in a court, not with a cart. So he sent him to my office as a law student, errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, for one dollar a week. He had a little desk of his own, but he did not use it much. When I looked in the drawer, I saw many shells from different kinds of nuts. To this quick boy, all of law could fit in a nutshell. One of Ginger Nut’s jobs, which he did very fast, was to buy cakes and apples for Turkey and Nippers. Copying law papers is a very dry, boring job, so my two copyists liked to wet their mouths often with Spitzenberg apples from the many stalls near the Custom House and Post Office.

Also, they often sent Ginger Nut to buy a special cake. It was small, flat, round, and very spicy. They gave him his name because of this cake. On cold mornings, when business was slow, Turkey would eat many of these cakes, as if they were thin wafers. They sold six or eight for a penny. The scrape of his pen mixed with the crunch in his mouth. In the hot afternoons, Turkey made many quick, foolish mistakes. Worst of all, once he wet a ginger-cake with his lips and used it to seal a mortgage paper. I almost fired him then. But he made me less angry by making a deep bow, and he said, “With respect, sir, it was kind of me to give you stationery with my own money.”

Now my original business — making papers for property and checking titles, and writing many difficult documents — grew a lot when I received the Master’s office. There was now much work for scriveners (copy clerks). I had to push the clerks already with me, and I also needed more help. In answer to my advertisement, one morning a young man stood still at my office door. The door was open, for it was summer. I can still see that figure — pale and neat, sadly proper, hopelessly lonely. It was Bartleby.

After a few questions about his skills, I hired him. I was glad to add a very calm man to my team of copyists. I thought his calm way would help Turkey, who often changes his mood, and Nippers, who has a hot temper.

I should have said earlier that glass folding doors divided my office into two parts. My clerks, who copied papers, worked in one part, and I worked in the other. I opened or closed the doors as I wished. I decided to give Bartleby a corner near the folding doors, but on my side, so I could call this quiet man easily when there was a small task to do. I put his desk close to a small side window. Before, this window gave a side view of dirty back yards and bricks. Now, because new buildings were there, it gave no view at all, though it still gave some light. Only three feet from the window there was a wall, and the light came down from high above, between two tall buildings, like from a tiny hole. To make the plan better, I got a tall green folding screen. It could hide Bartleby from my eyes, but I could still speak to him. In this way, he had privacy, and we were still together.

At first, Bartleby wrote a lot. It was as if he had waited a long time to copy; he took many of my papers. He did not stop to rest. He worked day and night, copying in sunlight and by candlelight. I would have been very happy with his hard work, if he had been cheerful. But he kept writing silently. He looked pale and worked like a machine.

Of course, a scrivener must check his copy, word by word. When two or more scriveners work in one office, they help each other. One reads from the copy, the other holds the original. This work is very dull and tiring. I can easily imagine that some lively people cannot stand it at all. For example, I do not believe that the lively poet Byron would happily sit down with Bartleby to check a law paper of about five hundred pages, written in small, cramped handwriting.

Sometimes, when work was busy, I helped to check a short document myself. I called Turkey or Nippers to help. I had put Bartleby close to me, behind the screen, so I could use his help for such small jobs. On the third day he was with me, before we needed to check his own writing, I was in a hurry to finish a small matter. I called to Bartleby suddenly. Expecting him to obey at once, I kept my head bent over the original paper on my desk. My right hand held out the copy to the side, a little shaky, so that as soon as he came out from behind the screen, Bartleby could take it and start at once.

I was sitting just like this when I called to him. I quickly told him what I wanted: to look at a small paper with me. I was very surprised, even shocked, when, without moving from his place, Bartleby said in a quiet but firm voice, “I would prefer not to.”

I sat for a while in silence, trying to think again. Right away I thought I had heard wrong, or that Bartleby did not understand me at all. I asked again, very clearly. He answered, just as clear as before, “I would prefer not to.”

“Prefer not to,” I said again. I stood up, very upset, and walked across the room. “What do you mean? Are you crazy? I want you to help me check this paper — take it,” I said, and pushed it toward him.

“I don’t want to,” he said.

I looked at him for a long time. His face was thin and calm; his gray eyes were quiet. Not a line of worry moved on him. He showed no worry, no anger, no impatience, no rudeness. If he had shown any normal feeling, I would have sent him out at once. But he seemed like a statue, like my white plaster statue of Cicero. I watched him as he kept writing. Then I sat down at my desk again. This is very strange, I thought. What should I do? But my work hurried me. I decided to forget it for now and save it for later, when I had time. So I called Nippers from the other room, and we checked the paper quickly.

A few days later, Bartleby finished four long papers. They were four exact copies of a week of testimony taken before me in the High Court of Chancery. We needed to check them. The case was important, and we had to be very accurate. When all was ready, I called Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut from the next room. I planned to give the four copies to my four clerks, while I read from the original. Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut sat in a row, each holding his paper. Then I called Bartleby to join the group.

Bartleby, hurry! I am waiting.

I heard his chair legs scrape slowly on the bare floor. Soon he stood at the door of his little room.

“What do you want?” he said calmly.

“The copies, the copies,” I said quickly. “We are going to look at them. There,” and I held out to him the fourth copy.

“I don’t want to,” he said, and quietly went behind the screen.

For a few moments, I stood still like a stone at the head of my row of sitting clerks. After I calmed down, I walked toward the screen and asked the reason for such strange behavior.

Why do you say no?

I don’t want to.

With any other man, I would have become very angry. I would have stopped talking and told him to go away. But something about Bartleby strangely calmed me. It also touched me and confused me. I began to talk with him and try to reason.

These are your own copies that we are going to check. This saves you work, because one check is enough for your four papers. This is the usual way. Every copyist must help check his own copy. Is that so? Will you speak? Answer!

“I prefer not to,” he said in a soft, high voice. It seemed to me that while I was speaking to him, he thought about every word I said and understood it well. He could not disagree with the clear result, but still, some strong reason made him answer that way.

“So, you have decided not to do what I asked, even though my request is normal and makes sense?”

He told me quickly that I was right about that. Yes, his decision could not be changed.

Often, when a person is bullied in a new and very unfair way, he starts to doubt his own simple beliefs. He begins to think, strange as it may be, that maybe all the justice and all the reason are on the other side. So, if any people who are not involved are there, he turns to them for support, because he feels unsure.

“Turkey,” I said, “what do you think of this? Am I right?”

“With respect, sir,” said Turkey in his most polite voice, “I think you are.”

“Nippers,” I said, “what do you think of it?”

I think I should make him leave the office.

(A careful reader will notice that, because it is morning, Turkey answers politely and calmly, but Nippers answers angrily. In other words, Nippers is in a bad mood now, and Turkey is not.)

“Ginger Nut,” I said. I hoped for even a little help on my side. “What do you think of it?”

“I think, sir, he is a little crazy,” said Ginger Nut, smiling.