AJ Hennenberg (25:42)
Nope. It starts right here. Okay. In Primus, I am a man who, from his youth upwards has been filled with the profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I'm one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury or in any way draws down public applause, but in the cool tranquility of a snug retreat do a snug business among rich men's bonds and mortgages and title deeds. All who know me consider me an eminently safe man. So he's not a particularly interesting fellow. Does his business, continues on. Okay. And here he describes his office. My chambers were upstairs at number Blank Wall Street. You know how they do that in British things where they blank it out? Yeah. So number Blank Wall Street. At one end they looked upon the white wall of the interior space of a spacious skylight shaft penetrating the building from top to bottom. This view might have been considered rather tame than otherwise deficient in what landscape painters call life. But if so, the view from the other end of my chambers offered at least a contrast, if nothing more. In that direction my windows commanded an unobstructed view of a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade, which wall required no spy glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but for the benefit of all near sighted spectators, was pushed up to within 10ft of my window panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding buildings and my chambers being on the second floor, the interval between this wall and mine not a little resembled a huge square cistern. So not an interesting office. Right, okay. He describes a little bit his two current scriveners. So we have Turkey, to quote Turkey was a short Percy Englishman of about my own age, that is somewhere not far from 60 in the morning, one might say. His face was of a fine florid hue. But after 12 o'clock meridian, his dinner hour, it blazed like a grateful of Christmas coals and continued blazing, but as it were with a gradual wane till 6 o'clock PM or thereabouts. After which I saw no more of the proprietor of the face which, gaining its meridian with the sun seemed to set with it to rise, culminate and decline the following day with the like regularity and undiminished glory. So this guy's red face would sort of like get redder through the day and then set like the sun. And he's like. After that I saw no more of the man. So I don't know, like, you know, it rises and sets. He goes on to say that Turkey is. He's. He gets like more peppery as the day goes on. And it's hinted very much that he drinks around midday. And so like he has his own private vice and his own private vice is alcohol. That's why his face gets redder and he gets in the latter half of the day, he gets a little more testy and irritable and loose with his ink. Like, he puts blots everywhere. And at one point he sort of suggests the. The proprietor suggests to Turkey. He's like, hey, man, you're pretty old. How about after lunch you just go home? He's more of a problem after lunch than anything. And the guy's like, no, I come and I do my business and I gotta do it right. And he's like, but the blots. The blot you'll be getting all over the papers. And he's like, yes, sir, I might blot here and there, but I'm gonna do my. Yeah. So he sticks around Nippers. Oh, sorry. One. One last fun quote about Turkey one winter day. Because he dresses in, like greasy old clothes and doesn't do anything with them. He's just shabbily put together. So one winter day I presented Turkey with a highly respectable looking coat of my own. A padded gray coat, a most comfortable warmth, and which buttons straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would appreciate the favor and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons. But no, I verily believe that buttoning himself up in so danny and blanket like a coat had a pernicious effect upon him. Upon the same principle that too much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats. So Turkey felt his coat. It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed, which is a line that I love. Okay, nippers. Here is the description of nippers. Nippers. The second on my list was a whiskered sallow, and upon the whole rather piratical looking young man of about 5 and 20. I always deemed him the victim of two evil powers, ambition and indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the duties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly professional affairs, such as the original drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened on an occasional nervous testiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind together over mistakes committed in copying, unnecessary maledictions hissed rather than spoken in the heat of business, and especially by a continual discontent with the height of the table where he worked. Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn. Nippers could never get this table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts bits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite adjustment by final pieces of folded blotting paper. But no invention would answer if for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table lid to a sharp angle, well upwards towards his chin, and wrote there like a man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk, then he declared that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table to his waistbands and stooped over it in writing, there was a sore aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was nippers knew not what he wanted or if he wanted anything, it was to be rid of a scrivener's table altogether. It's also hinted that he does some sort of dark, underhanded work in the background. He. He has people visit of all hours, and he calls them his clients. And it seems like either he owes them money or they owe him money. There's something. There's something that nippers up to on the backside. It also points out that nippers gets less testy towards the afternoon. Like his indigestion sort of settles down. And so he's like, put together, they both kind of even each other out, right? Nippers is the worst in the morning. And then by the time he's mellowing out, that's when turkey gets a little agitated. And so. But also we find out that nippers does not have the same vice as turkey does. He does not drink. So he's there. The. The last in the. In the bunch. Gingernut is a little page boy, and mostly he exists so they can give him pennies and send him out for little cakes, which he supplies them with throughout the day. So he'll come back with six or seven cakes each. Eats five or six. It's like their office snack. Okay, so he's got this office and he decides to hire a fella named Bartleby. To quote now, my original business, that of a conveyancer and title hunter and drawer up of recondite documents of all sorts, was considerably increased by receiving the master's office. There was now great work for scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but. But I must have additional help. In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning stood upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can see that figure now. Pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn. It was Bartleby. After a few words touching his qualifications, I Engaged him. Glad to have him among my. Sorry. Glad to have among my core of copyists. A man of so singularly sedate. An aspect which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of Turkey and the fiery one of Nippers. So you want someone who's just even keel. Chill. So he puts him in his office. So his office is divided by a windowed wall. Kind of right down the middle, you know, like a double door. And his two clerks are on the other side of that. He has his own little office space. And so he sets up Bartleby kind of behind a folding screen in his office. To have him close at hand should he need anything. And, you know, Bartleby doesn't really bother anybody. So it's pretty. He feels pretty private, and it feels okay. And at first he is great. He's a great copyist. He gets a ton done. Until one weird day. So let me read you the first encounter 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 that it was 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 a while 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.
