ولكنك ترى قوة الحوت في لعبه عندما يرفع الراحتين العريضتين من ذنـَبه عاليتين في الفضاء، ثم يلطم وجه الماء فيتردد هزيم اللطمة على مدى أميال حتى لتظن أن مدفعا ضخما قد انطلق، وإذا لحظتَ الأكاليل الخفيفة من البخار الصاعد من الفوهة في طرفه الآخر ظننتَ أن هذا هو الدخان المنبعث من الثقب حيث تدس النار في البارود.
So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul rid of it.
It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener's business to verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand.
The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in pronouncing my first grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do not speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not insensible to the late John Jacob Astor’s good opinion.
As minhas primeiras emoções tinham sido a melancolia mais pura e a compaixão mais sincera, mas na mesma proporção em que o desamparo de Bartleby crescia na minha fantasia, aquela melancolia se transformava em medo, e a compaixão, em repulsa. É tão verdadeiro e ao mesmo tempo tão terrivel o fato de que, ao vermos ou presenciarmos a miséria, os nossos melhores sentimentos são despertados até um certo ponto; mas, em certos casos especiais, não passam disso. Erram os que afirmam que é devido apenas ao egoísmo inerente ao coração humano. Na verdade, provém de uma certa impotência em remediar um mal excessivo e orgânico. Para uma pessoa sensivel, a piedade é quase sempre uma dor. Quando afinal percebe que tal piedade não significa um socorro eficaz, o bom senso compele a alma a desvencilhar-se dela. O que vi naquela manhã convenceu-me de que o escrivão era vítima de um mal inato e incurável. Eu podia dar esmolas ao seu corpo, mas o seu corpo não lhe doía; era a sua alma que sofria, e ela estava fora do meu alcance.