I can get along with him. If I turn him away, the
chances are he will fall in with some less indulgent employer, and then
he will be rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably to starve.
Yes. Here I can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval. To
befriend Bartleby; to humor him in his strange willfulness, will cost me
little or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually prove
a sweet morsel for my conscience. But this mood was not invariable with
me. The passiveness of Bartleby sometimes irritated me. I felt
strangely goaded on to encounter him in new opposition, to elicit some
angry spark from him answerable to my own. But indeed I might as well
have essayed to strike fire with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor
soap. But one afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered me, and the
following little scene ensued:
"Bartleby," said I, "when those papers are all copied, I will compare
them with you."
"I would prefer not to."
"How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary?"
No answer.
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