retreat, ” disintegrate, and Bartleby is the catalyst for this disintegration. The narra-
tor ’ s world, more a construct of mind than a specifi c place, does not literally crumble
into a tarn, but as long as the narrator cannot stop telling his story, his offi ce must
remain what it is and not what he would like it to be. Like the House of Usher and
Hester ’ s village, it is a place that sucks away life rather than rejuvenating life (to be
healed from the imagined effects of the Dead - Letter Offi ce).
We will never be fully satisfi ed to see Bartleby as mere catalyst, nor should we be.
We follow the clues of the dead - wall revery, the repetitive “ prefer not to, ” or the
gazing upon the bust of Cicero to glean what we can of a human character. We know
that what we are given is suggestive and fragmentary, and from this, we either try to
make a whole picture, or we conclude that the suggestive and fragmentary always
is the whole picture (a very postmodern picture that questions the concept of
identity).
For the sake of argument, I would like to consider the moment in which the nar-
rator returns to his “ old haunt, ” fi nds Bartleby sitting upon the banister, and directs
Bartleby back into the offi ce they have previously shared. The conversation that
follows deserves more attention than it normally receives given that the “ unwonted
wordiness ” of Bartleby “ inspirited ” the narrator (667). Essentially, the narrator intro-
duces fi ve possibilities of employment, followed by his invitation into his home.
Bartleby rebuffs each idea and the fi nal invitation with slight variations in his rejec-
tions. Of course, the narrator ’ s expression of “ unwonted wordiness ” is comical given
that Bartleby ’ s six statements total one hundred words, but, relatively speaking, this
is a verbal explosion from Bartleby. It does seem clear that we are to believe that
Bartleby is actually thinking about each option, as though the narrator may hit upon
the fi nal solution that could bring Bartleby out of his stupor. The fi ve options are:
“Bartleby, the Scrivener”
47
(1) “ re - engage in copying, ” (2) “ a clerkship in a dry - goods store, ” (3) “ a bar - tender ’ s
business, ” (4) “ travel through the country collecting bills for the merchants, ” and (5)
“ going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young gentleman with your
conversation ” (667). Wilson ’ s Marxist perspective is one of the few analyses of this
list. Wilson sees all but the last as “ Wall Street approved forms of slavery ” while “ the
last is simply ludicrous ” (Wilson 344). The key to Wilson ’ s response is expressed in
the statement that these proposals reveal “ the narrow limits of the lawyer ’ s imagina-
tion ” (343). This is logical and suits the Marxist perspective. The restrictions and
even the absurdity of the narrator ’ s list then mirror the narrowness of his own world.
He can envision nothing beyond menial, dull jobs that match those of his own employ-
ees or positions that are absurd mismatches for Bartleby ’ s character.
However, we might switch our focus and examine instead Bartleby ’ s responses. He
would “ prefer not to make any change, ” sees “ too much confi nement ” in a clerkship,
would not like “ at all ” bartending despite not being “ particular, ” would prefer to do
“ something else ” rather than collect bills, fi nds being a companion on a Grand Tour
lacking in something “ defi nite ” and would like to be “ stationary, ” and to the fi nal
offer of the narrator ’ s home, would “ prefer not to make any change at all ” (667).
Despite what the narrator sees as maddening contradictions (How can one choose such
stasis, yet dislike confi nement?), Bartleby ’ s responses do suggest that he is trying to
discover something that will satisfy him, something that he may fi nd rewarding. He
has become resistant to change and movement, yet does not see himself as “ particular. ”
The narrator is not necessarily justifi ed in equating “ confi nement ” with desire to
remain “ stationary ” or avoid change. This may suggest that Bartleby truly sees an
unpleasant change in his confi nement in the Tombs. One may argue that Bartleby
vaguely envisions possibilities for an alternative life, but such possibilities do not
surface within the lawyer ’ s list.
We must then ask ourselves: is this because of “ the narrow limits of the lawyer ’ s
imagination, ” or is this because such vague possibilities are not of this world? To say
that Bartleby is not at home in the world can express Bartleby ’ s individual frailty
(suggesting a variety of psychological readings) or that the frailty of the narrator ’ s
world is defi ned by the narrator ’ s limits or that the frailty of physical existence is
expressed by the list. Any one of these possibilities can suggest a way of approaching
the character of Bartleby: victim of himself, victim of capitalism, victim of life. I do
see importance in this list mainly because within the fi ctive construct of the story, it
is Melville ’ s opportunity to extend to a world outside the narrator ’ s offi ce and the
Tombs. In doing so, does he at least hint at an exit, an alternative to the stultifying
environment of the narrator? I believe the answer is “ no ” – nothing within the frame-
work of the story suggests such an exit to the Gothic edifi ce. The most revealing
option is bill collecting in the country, which the narrator sees as a great opportunity
for improving Bartleby ’ s health (667). The “ thud ” to any romantic suggestion of
nature ’ s healing power is bill collecting – yet one more image of culture ’ s dead docu-
mentation. “ Stationary ” and “ defi nite ” both suggest that Bartleby longs for perma-
nence, for an absolute or ideal state, for the refreshing fi xed point. The lawyer would
48
Steven T. Ryan
seem to share this distant dream, given his frustration over losing a “ life - lease of the
profi ts ” as Master of Chancery and having to settle for “ a few short years ” (636). This
may suggest that Bartleby ’ s dream is not of this world and that his state is similar to
Hamlet ’ s. However, the other options in interpreting Bartleby remain viable. For
example, when the narrator fi nally offers his home as a refuge, some critics see this as
the narrator ’ s grand gesture – a moment in which he breaks through his own limita-
tions – but to view it in this way, one must ignore what the narrator ’ s home would
be. He is the nameless bachelor whose home can offer nothing but momentary respite
from his real life which is in his offi ce. Despite the obvious generosity of the narrator,
can this possibly be seen as an alternative for Bartleby? I can see no difference between
bill collecting in the country and living in the narrator ’ s home: both introduce par-
ticular dream images that are based upon the redemptive force of nature and the
hearth, but both are negated by the qualifi ers. Yet, here again, no argument can be
settled between Marxist/existentialist readings. The story apparently offers no exit
from the confi nes of a quiet, entropic nightmare, possibly because Melville has con-
structed the story to ex
press what he sees as the inevitable limitations of human
existence, or it may be because Melville has successfully limited the story to the
restrictive vision of the narrator. So in the end we have returned to the wall and our
shared gaze along with Bartleby.
Conclusion: On Teaching “ B artleby ”
One of the fi nest critical essays ever written on American literature was Randall
Jarrell ’ s study of Robert Frost ’ s “ Home Burial. ” In a careful textual reading, Jarrell
explains how the text contrasts the positions of the husband and wife as they react to
the death of their child. Although both positions are given their due, Jarrell clarifi es
how Frost has constructed his poem so as to demonstrate a very real, harsh worldliness
within the husband and, in so doing, justify the wife ’ s recoil from him and his world.
When I teach “ Home Burial, ” a class will often divide down the middle in its support
of either the husband or the wife. When students defend the husband, they usually
emphasize that he tries to communicate and to achieve intimacy whereas she doesn ’ t.
My experience in teaching “ Bartleby ” is very similar. Classes will often divide evenly
in their support of either the narrator or Bartleby and will argue their cases vehe-
mently. Again, the lawyer scores points for trying. To be honest, I no longer encourage
my students to take a position quickly in this regard. Although it can lead to lively
discussion, once students take a position, they tend to dig in their heels. Instead, I
prefer to read the lawyer ’ s opening description of himself and his offi ce – including
that wonderful dash. I believe students need to think about how the author under-
mines the narrator ’ s authority from the beginning of the story. (In my upper - division
classes, I compare this to Melville ’ s treatment of Captain Delano in “ Benito Cereno, ”
a man whose surprising survival reminds me of Mr. McGoo.) Once the reader has
begun to grasp the complexity of the narrator ’ s character, then consideration of such
“Bartleby, the Scrivener”
49
key matters as the symbolism of walls, the thematic treatment of communication,
and the identity of Bartleby can better be considered. Of the wife ’ s position in “ Home
Burial, ” Jarrell argues that Frost gives great weight to it, for there is something she
has discovered that the reader is expected to contemplate. In other words, she goes
where her husband cannot or will not go, and the reader is expected to share this
deeper perception of the woman whose mourning has led her into a profound level of
disillusionment. Yet, in the end, Jarrell notes that we can only follow her so far, for
to follow her any further is to follow her into the grave. Thus, we are fi nally left
holding back, ironically sharing something with the less perceptive husband. I would
argue that in “ Bartleby ” our position is likely to be very similar. We can follow
Bartleby by recognizing the limitations of the narrator. But at some point, we too
must hold back and share our world with the narrator.
References and Further Reading
Barnett , Louise K. “ Bartleby as Alienated Worker . ”
Reed , Naomi C. “ The Specter of Wall Street:
Studies in Short Fiction 11 ( 1974 ): 379 – 85 .
‘
Bartleby, the Scrivener
’
and the Language of
Bickley , R. Bruce , Jr. The Method of Melville ’ s Short
Commodities . ” American Literature 76 ( 2004 ):
Fiction . Durham, NC : Duke University Press ,
247 – 73 .
1975 .
Rowe , John Carlos . Through the Custom
-
House:
Foley , Barbara . “ From Wall Street to Astor Place:
Nineteenth - Century American Fiction and Modern
Historicizing Melville ’ s ‘ Bartleby. ’ ” American
Theory . Baltimore : Johns Hopkins University
Literature 72 ( 2000 ): 87 – 116 .
Press , 1982 .
Jarrell , Randall . “ Robert Frost ’ s ‘ Home Burial. ’ ”
Ryan , Steven T. “ Cicero ’ s Head in Melville ’ s
The Third Book of Criticism . New York : Farrar,
‘ Bartleby the Scrivener. ’ ” English Language Notes
Straus & Giroux , 1962 . 191 – 231 .
43 ( 2005 ): 116 – 33 .
John , Richard R. “ The Lost World of Bartleby,
— — — . The Gothic Formula of ‘ Bartleby. ’ ”
The Ex - Offi ceholder: Variations on a Venerable
Arizona Quarterly 34 ( 1978 ): 311 – 16 .
Literary Form . ” New England Quarterly 70
Springer , Norman . “ Bartleby and the Terror of
( 1997 ): 631 – 41 .
Limitation . ” Publications of the Modern Language
Kuebrich , David . “ Melville ’ s Doctrine of Assump-
Association 80 ( 1965 ): 410 – 18 .
tion: The Hidden Ideology of Capitalist Produc-
Weiner , Susan . Law in Art: Melville ’ s Major Fiction
tion in ‘ Bartleby. ’ ” New England Quarterly 69
and Nineteenth - Century American Law . New
( 1996 ): 381 – 405 .
York : Peter Lang , 1992 .
McCall , Dan . The Silence of Bartleby . Ithaca, NY :
Weinstock , Jeffrey Andrew . “ Doing Justice to
Cornell University Press , 1989 .
Bartleby . ” American Transcendental Quarterly 17
Marx , Leo . “ Melville ’ s Parable of the Walls . ”
( 2003 ): 23 – 42 .
Sewanee Review 61 ( 1953 ): 602 – 27 .
Widmer , Kingsley . “ Melville ’ s Radical Resistance:
The Method and Meaning of Bartleby . ” Studies
Story of Wall - Street . ” Pierre, Israel Potter, The
in the Novel 1 ( 1969 ): 444 – 58 .
Piazza Tales, The Confi
dence
-
Man, Uncollected Wilson , James C. “ ‘ Bartleby ’ : The Walls of
Prose, Billy Budd, Sailor . New York : Library of
Wall Street . ” Arizona Quarterly 37 ( 1981 ):
America , 1984 . 635 – 72 .
335 – 46 .
4
Towards History and Beyond:
Hawthorne and the A merican
Short Story
Alfred Bendixen
No one in the fi rst half of the nineteenth century did more to advance the American
short story than Nathaniel Hawthorne. He transformed the historical tale into a sig-
nifi cant literary form by skillfully incorporating Gothic elements in ways that led to
penetrating psychological insights. He also wrestled with a culture that rarely sup-
ported the development of art and artists, producing signifi cant fi ction on this subject
as well as engaging with the literary marketplace in ways that were both innovative
and creative. If his original visions for his early works could have been realized, we
would probably be praising him for inventing the modern short story cycle, which is
certainly one of the most important forms of short fi ction in the United States.
Although he rarely receives credit for this achievement, he is also one of the chief
inventors of the literary genre we now call science fi ction. A full appreciation of his
contributions to the American short story
requires an understanding of his lifelong
attempt to develop this form, his mastery of the historical tales, and his experiments
with a wide range of other forms. This chapter provides a starting point for such an
appreciation by offering three sections, one on each of these aspects of one of the most
versatile and productive careers in American letters.
Hawthorne: A Portrait of an Artist
It is not surprising that an author whose most famous works deal with secret sins,
strange obsessions, and various forms of repression and masochism should attract
psychological speculation from biographers as well as psychoanalytical criticism. 1 The
details of Nathaniel Hawthorne ’ s life seem to invite a wide range of conjecture. It is
diffi cult to ignore the fact that the fi rst author to make the American past into the
subject of complex art was born on the fourth of July, 1804, into a Salem family
whose ancestors included both one of the judges in the witchcraft trials (John Hathorne)
and a revolutionary war hero (Daniel Hathorne). Scholars have tended to emphasize
Hawthorne and the Short Story
51
the cruel judge and ignore the war hero. The author added a “ w ” to the spelling of
the family name, a sign that some commentators interpret as an attempt to distance
himself from his personal past, but may simply refl ect a desire to make the spelling
of the name conform to its pronunciation. Hawthorne never really knew his father, a
ship ’ s captain who spent much of the young boy ’ s childhood away on voyages and
perished abroad before his son reached his fourth birthday. Raised by his mother and
sisters, who apparently doted on him, the young Hawthorne also received a great deal
of support and attention from his mother ’ s extended family, particularly an uncle,
Robert Manning, a successful businessman. Thus, there may be biographical sources
for his fi ction ’ s frequent concern with absent or oppressive father fi gures, with nurtur-
ing or destructive women, and with healthy or dysfunctional families. Although he
had some formal schooling as well as work with tutors, the most important part of
Hawthorne ’ s pre - college education almost certainly came from his extensive reading
during private moments. Indeed, his best fi ction reveals a clear debt to the great