I am an older gentleman. My long-term pursuits have allowed me to engage with what might appear to be a unique and intriguing group of individuals, specifically the law-copyists, or scriveners. I have interacted with many of them in both professional settings and personal circumstances, and I could share various tales, some of which might amuse others, while some might evoke tears. However, I will focus solely on a few anecdotes regarding Bartleby, an unusually remarkable scrivener I encountered. Although I could provide detailed accounts of other copyists, Bartleby's story is not so straightforward. Unfortunately, it seems there are no substantial materials available to create a comprehensive biography about him, which is a tragic shortcoming for literature. Bartleby was a person about whom little is known beyond what I personally witnessed, along with a nebulous piece of information that will be revealed later.
Before I present Bartleby's character as I first came to know him, I feel it is necessary to describe myself, my employees, my line of work, my office, and my general environment; this context is crucial for understanding the main character who will be discussed. To begin with: I am someone who has always believed that the simplest way of living is the most desirable. Therefore, despite belonging to a profession noted for its high energy and sometimes chaotic nature, I have managed to maintain my peace and never allowed such turbulence to disrupt me. I am one of those lawyers who avoids public attention and jury duty, instead preferring to conduct my work in quietude from my comfortable office, dealing with affluent individuals' bonds, mortgages, and property documents. People who know me consider me a secure and reliable individual. The late John Jacob Astor, who was not typically one to indulge in romanticism, once declared prudence to be my foremost quality, followed closely by methodical execution. I mention this not out of arrogance but as truth that the late Astor sought my services in legal matters. His name, rich in sound as it is, has a certain musical quality that I find pleasing, and I must admit, I cherished his favorable view of me.
Some time before this narrative commences, my work obligations had grown significantly. I was honored to be appointed as a Master in Chancery, a role now defunct in New York. While it was not particularly strenuous, it was quite rewarding financially. Generally, I keep my composure and rarely feel anger or indignation. Still, I must express my disappointment regarding the abrupt termination of the Master in Chancery position by the new Constitution; I had hoped for a long-term benefit from it but instead enjoyed only a few brief years. Yet, that is by the way. My office was located on the upper floor at No. Wall Street. From one side, it overlooked a stark white wall within a large skylight shaft that extended throughout the building. This view could be seen as dull, lacking what landscape artists refer to as 'life.' Conversely, the outlook from the other side of my office provided a different perspective; it offered a clear view of a tall, aged brick wall shrouded in shadows, which was so close that one's eyesight could easily reveal its hidden details. Due to the surrounding tall structures and my second-floor office, the space between my window and this wall resembled an enormous square pit.
