afford the emotional and intellectual stimuli he had craved from childhood. Yet the headphones within his reach remained unused. It was as if he had no need to have his savage breast calmed and soothed.
— I would prefer not to listen. That is my preference.
— Bartleby?
— I have answered to that name on occasion.
— Not today?
— Today I would prefer not to.
Ah, that phrase, that metaphysical decision to neither do nor say anything practical, anything that exerted the body or mind, was as the loveliest solemn music to Harry Chapman’s ears. Bartleby’s preferred pronouncements were like plainsong.
There he stood, the shadowy scrivener, in what looked like a nightgown.
— Are you a patient here?
— I am beyond being cared for.
— I wish I were.
— You do not wish any such thing. You would prefer to live. You would prefer not to die.
It was true, and he was gratified to hear it from such a sepulchral source, who stood there no longer.
— You’re right, Bartleby. I wish to go on living.
If only, Harry Chapman thought, to read about you again, to enjoy your cheerless company. He had come to Herman Melville’s ‘Bartleby’ late in life, when he was forty, in the Midwestern wastes of North America, and the skeletal clerk had been by his side ever since. He was still unsure, careful reader that he was, what the short, beautiful novel really meant. It refused to be summed up neatly, to be encapsulated in a paragraph or so, for Bartleby lived on beyond the confines of a closed book. He had faded away into death, but he was nevertheless immortal.
Shortly after waking, Harry Chapman realised that he’d been granted Maciek Nazwisko’s ‘best sleep’. And then he wondered if he had simply dozed off for a few minutes.
— The weather today is simply glorious, he heard a woman trumpeting from somewhere down the ward. — There’s lovely misty sunshine and the leaves that are still on the trees are either golden or red. That heavenly russet colour. You must get better, Maurice, before autumn turns to winter.
If Maurice, whoever Maurice was, made a reply, Harry Chapman didn’t hear it.
— I was thinking to myself as I was driving along how Maurice would appreciate those divine autumnal hues. Who was it described autumn as a ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’?
In case Maurice didn’t know, or was too ill to answer, Harry Chapman shouted:
— Keats. It was John Keats.
The trumpeter did not respond. Perhaps he had embarrassed her.
— Oh, I remember, she continued after a long pause. — Am I right in thinking it was Keats?
Tell her she’s right, Maurice, he refrained from saying. Tell her she is spot on.
— Keats was how old when he went over to the other side, Maurice? Twenty-five at the most. And here you are, you rogue, at seventy plus. You’ve been a very lucky boy.
Harry Chapman was intrigued now. Who was this woman and what did she have to do with Maurice?
— Very lucky, and very, very naughty, she went on, with a hint of sauciness in her braying voice. — Oh, Maurice, you have been wicked beyond the call of duty.
What had Maurice done to be deemed ‘wicked’ in such a complimentary manner? And how far ‘beyond the call of duty’ had he sinned?
Oh, here was a story to be told, to be relished.
— That trip to Morocco in ’89. She chuckled. — That was a trip and a half. What you got up to in Tangier would have brought a blush to Casanova’s cheeks, you dirty reprobate. Isn’t that the utter truth?
Yet again, there was no sound from Maurice.
— So you don’t deny it? You’d be a copper-bottomed hypocrite if you did. What have I just said, Maurice? ‘Copper-bottomed’. There were plenty of copper bottoms in Morocco, weren’t there? Some more coppery than others, if your disgusting tales are to be believed.
Harry Chapman hoped the woman would feel inspired to repeat at least one of Maurice’s disgusting tales.
— Here’s hoping, he whispered.
—
— I would prefer not to listen. That is my preference.
— Bartleby?
— I have answered to that name on occasion.
— Not today?
— Today I would prefer not to.
Ah, that phrase, that metaphysical decision to neither do nor say anything practical, anything that exerted the body or mind, was as the loveliest solemn music to Harry Chapman’s ears. Bartleby’s preferred pronouncements were like plainsong.
There he stood, the shadowy scrivener, in what looked like a nightgown.
— Are you a patient here?
— I am beyond being cared for.
— I wish I were.
— You do not wish any such thing. You would prefer to live. You would prefer not to die.
It was true, and he was gratified to hear it from such a sepulchral source, who stood there no longer.
— You’re right, Bartleby. I wish to go on living.
If only, Harry Chapman thought, to read about you again, to enjoy your cheerless company. He had come to Herman Melville’s ‘Bartleby’ late in life, when he was forty, in the Midwestern wastes of North America, and the skeletal clerk had been by his side ever since. He was still unsure, careful reader that he was, what the short, beautiful novel really meant. It refused to be summed up neatly, to be encapsulated in a paragraph or so, for Bartleby lived on beyond the confines of a closed book. He had faded away into death, but he was nevertheless immortal.
Shortly after waking, Harry Chapman realised that he’d been granted Maciek Nazwisko’s ‘best sleep’. And then he wondered if he had simply dozed off for a few minutes.
— The weather today is simply glorious, he heard a woman trumpeting from somewhere down the ward. — There’s lovely misty sunshine and the leaves that are still on the trees are either golden or red. That heavenly russet colour. You must get better, Maurice, before autumn turns to winter.
If Maurice, whoever Maurice was, made a reply, Harry Chapman didn’t hear it.
— I was thinking to myself as I was driving along how Maurice would appreciate those divine autumnal hues. Who was it described autumn as a ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’?
In case Maurice didn’t know, or was too ill to answer, Harry Chapman shouted:
— Keats. It was John Keats.
The trumpeter did not respond. Perhaps he had embarrassed her.
— Oh, I remember, she continued after a long pause. — Am I right in thinking it was Keats?
Tell her she’s right, Maurice, he refrained from saying. Tell her she is spot on.
— Keats was how old when he went over to the other side, Maurice? Twenty-five at the most. And here you are, you rogue, at seventy plus. You’ve been a very lucky boy.
Harry Chapman was intrigued now. Who was this woman and what did she have to do with Maurice?
— Very lucky, and very, very naughty, she went on, with a hint of sauciness in her braying voice. — Oh, Maurice, you have been wicked beyond the call of duty.
What had Maurice done to be deemed ‘wicked’ in such a complimentary manner? And how far ‘beyond the call of duty’ had he sinned?
Oh, here was a story to be told, to be relished.
— That trip to Morocco in ’89. She chuckled. — That was a trip and a half. What you got up to in Tangier would have brought a blush to Casanova’s cheeks, you dirty reprobate. Isn’t that the utter truth?
Yet again, there was no sound from Maurice.
— So you don’t deny it? You’d be a copper-bottomed hypocrite if you did. What have I just said, Maurice? ‘Copper-bottomed’. There were plenty of copper bottoms in Morocco, weren’t there? Some more coppery than others, if your disgusting tales are to be believed.
Harry Chapman hoped the woman would feel inspired to repeat at least one of Maurice’s disgusting tales.
— Here’s hoping, he whispered.
—
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