A Companion to the American Short Story
Page 10
name - dropping as he points out that he worked for John Jacob Astor, who compli-
mented his “ prudence ” and “ method. ” The narrator admits that he loves to repeat the
name “ for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion ”
(636). The simile is the narrator ’ s momentary poetic fl ourish and works well to express
a love of sound. Then we realize that the simile is also dependent upon the assump-
tion that the ring of bullion is a good sound for reasons that go well beyond the pure
love of sound (as is the love of the musical name “ John Jacob Astor ” ). Thus Melville
takes us into the narrator ’ s values simply through the choice of vehicle. Like his
struggle to contain his temper, the narrator tries to disguise his love of wealth beneath
his “ unambitious ” demeanor. Again, this does not refl ect hypocrisy but rather the
more common contrast between self - defi nitions and a larger, more complex reality
that lies beneath.
Two important characteristics of the narrator are: (1) his defense of his own domain,
and (2) his desire to rely upon a simplistic materialism in interpreting reality. These
two are closely aligned, for it is in defense of his domain that his simplistic material-
ism often appears. We must fi rst note how the narrator couches his professional choices
in language that never suggests that such things as timidity and greed play any role
in addition to his lack of vanity and his equanimity. His slanting becomes more
extreme when he dismisses the “ landscape painters ” who would fi nd his offi ce defi cient
in “ life ” (636) and brags of the wall within ten feet of his windows, “ black by age
and everlasting shade ” as “ requiring no spy - glass to bring out its lurking beauties ”
(wit credited to Melville, not the straight - shooting narrator).
His early description of Turkey and Nippers, as will be true of his central treatment
of Bartleby, reveals as much about the narrator and his world as about his employees.
For example, note the description of Turkey ’ s disruptive behavior in the afternoon as
he “ made an unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand - box; in mending his
pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them on the fl oor in a sudden
passion; stood up and leaned over his table, boxing his papers about in a most inde-
corous manner ” (637). Now note the similarity to Nippers ’ s disruptive behavior in
the morning:
38
Steven T. Ryan
Nippers could never get his 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 fi nal pieces of folded plotting paper. But no invention would answer. If, for the sake
of easing his back, he brought the table lid at a sharp angle well up 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, then 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 any thing, it was to be rid of a scrivener ’ s table altogether. (639)
Rid of the scrivener ’ s table indeed. The similar discomfort and irritation refl ected in
both descriptions would suggest that the behavior has something to do with the work
itself. If Turkey could actually afford to become a half - time employee, the narrator ’ s
recommendation that he reduce to such employment would make good sense, but the
lawyer drops several clues as to the low pay of the scriveners, like his reference to “ so
small an income ” (640). The long hours are suggested by the long days of Bartleby ’ s
diligent performance: “ He ran a day and night line, copying by sunlight and by
candle - light ” (642). One may safely conclude that Turkey and Nippers often fi nd
these long hours of tedious copying within this stark setting unbearable. It ’ s not
surprising that the body and mind rebel in either the morning or afternoon.
However, the analysis of the narrator avoids this obvious interpretation. He consid-
ers the age and drinking habits of Turkey, then goes into greater detail in analyzing
the “ ambition and indigestion ” of Nippers (638). In each case we are encouraged to
believe that the weakness lies within the man ’ s constitution. This is preparation for
the narrator ’ s attempt to interpret the odd behavior of Bartleby. The most striking
moment occurs after Bartleby tells the narrator that “ he had decided upon doing no
more writing ” (656). At this moment Bartleby is again in his “ dead - wall revery ”
(656). The narrator is shocked and asks for a reason, to which Bartleby responds, “ Do
you not see the reason for yourself? ” (656). The narrator ’ s reaction is to look “ stead-
fastly ” at Bartleby (656). It is at this point that the narrator judges that the eyes are
“ dull and glazed ” and concludes that Bartleby ’ s “ unexampled diligence in copying by
his window for the fi rst few weeks ” has “ temporarily impaired his vision ” (656). The
narrator is “ touched ” and concludes that Bartleby should abstain from writing (656).
The narrator ’ s response is an excellent example of how Melville gives the man his due
while more quietly suggesting an undeniable level of obtuseness. What the narrator
observes and his response to it are logical and humane. He ’ s an employer who can see
his employee as more than a machine and can even appreciate the diffi culty of the
work and potential damage incurred. At the same time, how very strange that the
narrator reacts to the question, “ Do you not see the reason for yourself? ” by looking
at Bartleby rather than where Bartleby is looking. If he were to look at the wall, the
next question would have to be, “ What do you see in that wall, Bartleby? ” The nar-
rator will never ask such a question because he will never go so far in sharing Bartleby ’ s
vision. Whatever Bartleby sees is more metaphysical than physical, and despite the
lawyer ’
s convenient, momentary ruminations on Jonathan Edwards and Joseph
“Bartleby, the Scrivener”
39
Priestley – on will and necessity – he senses at some level the metaphysical risk and
prefers not to plummet. In addition, whatever Bartleby sees is clearly too close to
home; it implicates the narrator ’ s own world in ways that extend well beyond a tem-
porary impairment of physical vision. After all, the narrator truly is “ an eminently
safe man ” (635). When he examines the weaknesses of Turkey and Nippers, he is
telling us with some accuracy what he can see. While Melville is not contradicting
him, he is inviting us to consider how carefully the narrator avoids implicating his
own world and his own life in a way that may go well beyond “ temporarily impair-
ing ” our vision.
In 1953 Leo Marx published the fi rst in - depth analysis of “ Bartleby, ” and his article
has remained one of the most respected and quoted essays on the story. He builds
upon the autobiographical connection between author and text which had been sug-
gested since the 1920s Melville revival, but he offers a more extensive and perceptive
analysis. He also takes a position that establishes a central debate in regard to the
portrayal of the narrator. In the conclusion of his essay, Marx argues that on the one
hand the narrator “ does not understand Bartleby then or at any point until their dif-
fi cult relationship ends ” (Marx 606), yet, in the end, Marx sees the blades of grass
mysteriously located in the Tombs as affi rmation associated with the narrator ’ s “ deeply
felt and spontaneous sympathy ” (626). While Marx is well aware of the limitations
of the narrator, noting that “ Wall Street was American ” (618) and that “ the difference
between Wall Street and the Tombs was an illusion of the lawyer ’ s, not Bartleby ’ s ”
(618), his fi nal movement is to shift responsibility toward Bartleby as writer, noting
that “ Melville does not exonerate the writer by placing all the onus upon society ”
(620). While “ Bartleby ’ s state of mind may be understood as a response to the hostile
world of Wall Street ” (619), Marx sees Bartleby as Melville ’ s “ compassionate rebuke
to the self - absorption of the artist ” who rejects the bonds of mankind (620) and errs
in his interpretation of the social world as equivalent to the natural state: “ In his
disturbed mind metaphysical problems which seem to be timeless concomitants of
the conditions of man and problems created by the social order are inextricably joined,
joined in the symbol of the wall ” (619). Marx ’ s reading seems to associate Melville ’ s
position with Hawthorne ’ s frequent rebuke of the intellectual/writer who becomes
isolated within his/her ego and loses his/her awareness of communal love. Thus the
narrator may represent the social order with all of its weaknesses, but his fi nal sym-
pathy is like the blades of grass and offers the affi rmation of community bonding – the
ultimate redemption to which Bartleby is blind. Marx ’ s view is reminiscent of Cleanth
Brooks ’ s New Critical approach to Faulkner. Within this view, society ’ s fl aws are
dissected but are secondary to the fl awed vision of the outcast who divorces himself
from society. Thus the narrator is too blind at the intellectual level to appreciate what
Bartleby reacts to within his social world; however, Bartleby is too stunted emotion-
ally to appreciate the sympathy the narrator experiences through the redemptive
power of nature.
Curiously, this ironic defense of the narrator surfaces frequently within the fi fty -
plus years of “ Bartleby ” criticism. For example, Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock in 2003
40
Steven T. Ryan
offers a post - structural, linguistic - based analysis of “ Bartleby ” based upon Derrida ’ s
idea “ that every letter is potentially a ‘ dead letter ’ ” (Weinstock 23). According to
Weinstock,
“
Bartleby
’
s
‘
textualization,
’
that is, the identifi cation of him with an
unreadable letter, points to the ways in which all human subjects are ‘ texts, ’ are
socially constructed and endowed with meaning by virtue of their places within lan-
guage and culture ” (27). To Weinstock, the mystery of “ Bartleby ” “ foregrounds lack,
which is the nature of haunting, and in haunting, intimates that to be human is
precisely to be haunted ” (23). Thus Bartleby and his story “ are lost – and dramatize
the loss at the heart of language and life ” (30). Yet, like Marx, in Weinstock ’ s fi nal
moment, he looks for redemption in the attempt of the hapless narrator ’ s struggle for
comprehension: “ What Bartleby compels the narrator to do is to tell the story of why
he cannot tell the story of Bartleby ” (40), and in doing so the lawyer - narrator ’ s “ dead
letter ” becomes his “ love letter, ” which permits him to mourn the loss.
Weinstock uses the narrator ’ s entire narrative much as Marx fi fty years earlier uses
the narrator ’ s attempt to arouse hope in Bartleby through the image of grass in the
Tombs. In each case, the critic offers affi rmation through love, which suggests a fi nal
reversal of the positions of Bartleby and the narrator. Whether based upon the blades
of grass or the telling process, the core of the interpretation derives from the assump-
tion that the narrator ’ s fi nal words “ Ah Bartleby! Ah, humanity! ” ( “ Bartleby ” 672)
constitute a true crescendo. Thus, regardless how blind the narrator is, he has pro-
gressed by the end of the story. Both interpretations posit love or the social bond as
real despite the delusions of Wall Street and language. This does represent a viable
but minority position within “ Bartleby ” criticism, as critical analysis is more likely
to question the assumption that the story constitutes the narrator ’ s building to a
higher level of love and/or awareness. The most extreme defense of the narrator occurs
in Dan McCall ’s “ The Reliable Narrator ” in his book, The Silence of Bartleby . McCall
believes that twentieth - century critics often err in their analysis of supposedly unreli-
able narrators. Two major directions of twentieth - century interpretation, the existen-
tialist and Marxist inspired, tend to see the wall as the central symbol in the story
and doubt the narrator ’ s ability to see beyond the hegemony of his socially con-
structed, self - imposed prison.
The Wall
At the core of the story ’ s symbolism is the question, “ What does Bartleby see in his
dead - wall revery? ” The importance of walls has frequently been analyzed, and justifi -
ably so. The subtitle of the original publication is “ A Story of Wall - Street. ” Beyond
the key image of Bartleby staring at the wall three feet outside his window is the
narrator ’ s wall of windows that looks upon the “ lofty brick wall, black by age and
everlasting shade ” (636), the “ ground glass folding - doors ” that separate the narrator
from his employees, the “ high green folding screen ” that the narrator “ procured ” to
“ entirely isolate Bartleby ” from his sight, and fi nally Bartleby ’ s stay in the Tombs
“Bartleby, the Scrivener”
41
with frequent references to the walls: “ his face toward a high wall ” (669), “ took up a
position fronting the dead - wall ” (670), “ the surrounding walls, of amazing thickness,
kept all sound behind them ” (671), and “ Strangely huddled at the base of the wall,
… his head touching the cold stones ” (671). Walls constitute a leitmotif, and how
we see the story is inseparable from how we interpret the walls. An existential per-
spective builds upon Leo Marx ’ s early analysis of “ blankness ” in relationship to the
walls. More recent criticism has seen the wall images more as an expression of Wall
Street, thus of capitalistic culture. Since the 1990s, much of the best criticism has
focused on the historical context of walls/Wall Street, often with Marxist implications,
offering sharp insights into the labor struggles in the middle of the nineteenth
century.
Norman Springer ’ s “ Bartleby and the Terror of Limitation ” (1965) and Kingsley
Widmer
’
s
“
Melville
’
s Radical Resistance: The Method and Meaning of
Bartleby ”
(1969) are excellent readings from an existential perspective. Springer ’ s essay uses Leo
Marx ’ s equation of the wall and blankness but then departs from his position, arguing
that “ Blankness is the only truth ” and that the narrator attempts to “ make meaning
where there is no meaning ” (Springer 414). The nihilistic recognition associated with
the blank wall negates any attempt on the narrator ’ s part to appreciate Bartleby ’ s
condition. According to Springer, Bartleby “ is a kind of wall without reason, incom-
prehensible and blank ” (415). Springer does not deny that the narrator tries to pen-
etrate this wall, but he argues that he backs off each time he comes close to seeing
the wall for what it is (411). Rather than Leo Marx ’ s contention that the narrator
discovers the source of true affi rmation ignored by Bartleby, Springer argues that the
narrator is “ limited, fl awed, with a built - in protective device: his self - esteem ” (413).
Springer ’
s view also contradicts Weinstock
’
s argument that the lawyer
’
s narrative
constitutes an affi rmative “ love letter, ” for a human ’ s “ compassion can never be as
large as the need for it ” (415). Thus Springer substitutes, for the redemptive power
of love, the recognition of nothingness. For Springer, the “ dead - wall revery ” is an apt
representation for an existential moment – “ a choosing of nothing ” and the power of
the story lies within “ the fully - made paradox of a preference for no thing ” (416). This
existential perspective places primary emphasis on two factors: choice as refl ected in
Bartleby ’ s life of preference and the realization of nothingness or blankness as associ-
ated with the wall image.
Kingsley Widmer continues this focus on an existential perspective and defi nes the
existentialist ’ s attraction to Melville ’ s story as based upon Melville ’ s awareness of the
“ solitude and absurdity and nothingness we must face if we are to achieve authentic
awareness ” (Widmer 458). For Widmer, the wall and the lawyer are both at the source