Here is the Dropbox link: https://www.dropbox.com/s/6639394cfpvivyv/Bartelby%20the%20Scrivener%20Prequel.docx?dl=0
But, I personally HATE leaving sites to follow links to new sites, soo:
Here is the text:
Bartelby the Scrivener
“I would prefer not to” elaborate on my own
life. It seems so shortcoming and tedious. The same old things, the same work,
the same family, or rather lack thereof, the same business and house in New
York. The same lack of family, of romance, of anything in the world happy and
good. I am not a very interesting person to be around, a simple business owner.
“You see, I am a rather elderly
man. The nature of my avocations for the last thirty years has brought me into
more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting and somewhat
singular set of men, of whom as yet nothing that I know of has ever been
written:—I mean the law-copyists or scriveners.” *
I have the time, now that I have
sold the Dead Letter Office, to tell about Bartleby, one of the most famous
scriveners I knew, who is dead, to recount the stories of his life told to me
before he arrived at No. - Wall Street in search of immediate employment. As we
know from the original story, put down by my dear friend, a New York City
attorney.
Before he became the classic
reminder of passive resistance, he was just another scrivener at my old
company, the Dead Letter office. Bartleby was a soft- spoken, reticent man,
strong and silent, or, at least silent. No one really knew who he was or where
he had come from, or why he was here. Many people speculated that he was
idiosyncratic.
Bartleby was the type that did
amazing work, kept to himself, and, when the day ended, he went straight home.
He never chatted, or really let anyone get to know him. No wonder people
thought he was a bit touched. He may have been anti-social, and the people who
worked with him would have gone farther than that.
Employees of the Office and Clients
both thought that Bartleby may have been a criminal in his past life. The type
that kept to himself, spoke to next to no one, spent time staring at documents
before he copied them, and then copied them wicked fast. “He’s stealing information
from the documents!” Many people said “He was a thief, cutlass, and outlaw!”
said others.
I have no idea how long this
behavior went on. I know not when it began. I wonder, sometimes, that Bartleby
stood it, that he did not leave the Dead Letter Office when people began to
ruminate on his identity.
I do know that Bartleby was the
last person one would ever suspect to be a tortured charlatan, or an
accomplished artisan, or anything else memorable in the world. He was, in fact,
one of our worlds ‘invisibles.’ He often went unnoticed, unneeded. He was one
that everyone seemed to take advantage of. The type everyone seemed to encroach
and overlook… until they were in need of his services. I suspected that he had
a tortured and acrimonious past, but not as romantic as his story, as told to
me, tended to place him.
“Bartleby must be strong spirited.”
I thought to myself one morning. Turns out, he was stronger than I realized.
The next day, Bartleby came into
the office and asked to speak to me. I of course received him with an open door
and an easy grace. “Mr. Whence.” he said “Why, yes Bartleby.” “I must tell you
something, Mr. Whence. There has been a word going around that some people have
been speculating upon my past existence.” “Well, only naturally, Bartleby, you
never did bother to tell us anything about yourself.” “I know, Mr. Whence. I
would like to tell you about my past, about my origins and history.” He
started. I sat down, knowing that this would be a lengthy appointment.
“I was born Jonathan Bartleby the
Fourth in an area of Massachusetts called Boston. My mother was Elizabeth
Bartleby and my father was Jonathan Bartleby the Third. We were a wealthy
Boston family. I was born with a 100- dollar bill practically hanging out of my
mouth. My servants taught me well in areas of decorum and academics, although I
never would have been expected to use the skills, as the expected life for me
would be a frivolous, meaningless thing, watching people do my work. My family
had plantations in the South, where most of our profit originated. My father
and his brother handled financial issues in the North, while my Uncles handled
oversight of the plantation and their wives oversaw the house.
My childhood was the best a child
could hope for. I studied Music and Art along with Mathematics, Sciences, and
the Classics. I was able to read great books of the philosophies and the
geography of the world. I read all the great minds, thoughts of Liberty,
Freedom, and Tolerance. I played with my brothers, James and David, and our
servants always entertained us with toys, games, and even books. .
The servants always did exactly as
they were told. You would tell them to do something, and they would respond: ‘I
would always prefer to serve you.’ It was quite the blessing. I sincerely
enjoyed my childhood. It was the best a child could ask for.
Then, one day, a young woman showed
up looking for a job. Our old maid had just left, and my mother, a great and
upstanding lady of society, was hopeless in matters of the kitchen and
household. Due to this circumstance, as well of our financial good fortune, my
father simply kept our large house and grounds manicured by the employment of
several hundred servants, plus some to run the accounts with him. He had sent
out a message of immediate employment and good work, fair pay, for a new
caretaker.
I walked up and opened the door
‘Hello, Welcome to our grand estate.’ I said as I ushered her in. ‘Thank you.’
she responded. She had long, chestnut hair and gray eyes. In my assessment, she
was very charming. She walked straight to the Parlor, where my father was sitting,
attending to one of the accounts.
‘I am looking for Mr. Jonathan
Bartleby the Third. I believe he is the master of this household?’ She said as
she stood at the Parlor door ‘I have seen his invitation for a new caretaker
and would like the job.’ ‘I am Jonathan Bartleby the Third.’ my father said,
standing up ‘And I have seen several new caretakers, none quite adequate for a
great house like ours. I hope you will fill our utmost expectations. Can you
cook well and assist the kitchens?’ ‘Yes sir.’ she said ‘Can you clean and
oversee the chambermaids?’ ‘Yes sir.’ ‘Can you oversee the gardens and grounds
adequately?’ ‘Yes sir.’ ‘What is your name?’ ‘Sara Bennet.’ ‘Well, Miss.
Bennet, you shall have a trial day, overseeing the grounds and house, and depending
upon your performance, you shall have a job or not.’ ‘Thank you Sir.’ ‘You are
dismissed.’
‘Jonathan.’ My father called me
‘Come here to the Parlor my dear son.’ My father seldom spoke to me, and this
came as a surprise. ‘Yes Father.’ I rushed to the Parlor, and stood near to the
fireplace, the designated spot for our conversations. ‘It is time you are
educated in the Politics of our nation.’ ‘Yes Father’ ‘Jonathan, do you even
know the current president?’ ‘Yes, Father, President Andrew Jackson.’ ‘Wrong!
You are wrong, young sir! Martin Van Buren is the President of these United
States. Don’t you pay attention in life? Do you even know who gets the vote?’
‘Everyone Father.’ ‘No! Only white men. I vote, your mother does not, the
slaves on your Uncle’s plantation do not. I will have the governess know that
you are lacking in the skills necessary to our social liberties and have her
thoroughly educate you in them.’ ‘I have no governess, I have a tutor.’ I said
with a haughty smirk ‘You are dismissed.’ He said, seriously.
After that conversation, I spent
the rest of the day learning about the President, the Governor, the Senate and
House, and the policies and laws of the nation. It was quite boring, yet,
exceptionally educational. I was fifteen years old. I studied these things, and
wished to become a lawyer, although my fate would spin me other places.
The caretaker, Sara Bennet, was
employed by my father. She did quite an excellent job, and, as I got to know
her, I slowly realized that I was in love. She told me her story, where she had
come from, how her family had been rich, but that her father lost everything in
the Panic of 1819, before we were even born. She slowly fell in love with me,
and we resolved to ask my parents if I could marry her. I was eighteen years
old, and she was twenty. We hoped that my parents would allow it, but they were
classicists and would not allow such a marriage.
We resolved to run away together.
We planned for almost a year, when she was dismissed from our household. We ran
that night, and my father disinherited me. I was to come in to tens of
thousands of dollars. Now, except for our small savings and what we had taken
from my father’s house, we had nothing. Sara had a friend who let us stay at
her apartment until she found a job as a caretaker and I as a Scrivener. We had
no luck in Boston, everyone knowing who we were, so we decided to run away. I
got a job at the Dead Letter Office and she at the couturier. That brings us to
this conversation. I am reserved because I have always been so.” He
finished this lengthy dialogue and looked at me expectantly.
“Bartleby.” I said “This is all
very touching and quite romantic, but the truth is that it frankly doesn’t
relate to the work we do here.” “Mr. Whence, she is deceased as of yesterday.”
“My deepest apologies, Bartleby, however, you are dismissed.” He walked out of
my office and I signed the papers that sold away the Dead Letter Office.
We all know what happened next.
Bartleby lost the Dead Letter Office job, and he went to work as a copyist
elsewhere. He refused to do work, instead mourning for his deceased wife. He
refused to eat, preferring to starve and join his wife on the other side of
this life.
What no one knows is what happened
in between the Dead Letter Office and the Law Office. We can guess that he
looked for employment and grieved for about a week (The Lawyer and I compared
dates.)
If I knew Bartleby the way I think
I knew Bartleby, he would have felt right at home with the solitude of grief.
He was the type of man who I could imagine would be sad, yet still, very much
in love with his deceased wife.
Bartleby was a man of character and
one that some will only see the bad side of. I put this all down to let the
world see his true identity and his motivations and history. In truth, all
people should love Bartleby. He was just a man in love. And, normally, any man
in love is a hero. The story of Bartleby is one of forbidden love, hope, and
faith.
This interpretation may seem like
that of a romantic. I can swear to you that I am not a romantic. I have never
fallen in love, and, now that I am in my old age, I can only think that “I
would prefer not to.” The age of romantics has passed me by and left me behind,
and I can think only the better of it. Romanticism would cause my heart to
break many times over.
I am not a romantic, no matter what
they say. I simply understand the world as it becomes more and more difficult
to comprehend.
*- Taken from Herman Melville’s Bartleby
the Scrivener, a Story of Wall Street, 1853
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