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The Lady With The Dog

In keeping with my new interest in short stories, I posted another.The Lady With The Dog, by Anton Chekhov.

I have to confess that I have never studied Russian literature systematically. My sole exposure was an undergraduate class on War and Peace.

The anti-climax to the class was a showing of the soviet movie version in gothic Mandel Hall on the University of Chicago campus. The old screen was not wide enough for Sovoscope 70; so the student group showing the film hung white dormitory bed sheets to extend the width. The results were not entirely visually satisfactory. An SDS faction wanted the movie shown soviet style– eight straight hours with no bathroom breaks, but the group showing the film decided on two 3 hour segments, which was the way the film was originally released to the US. All I remember was the remarkable resemblance of the soviet Natasha to Audrey Hepburn.

At the same time, I have harbored a secret belief that all the best novels and short stories all come from Russia. Of course, this is cultural stereotyping and sheer hogwash.

The Lady With The Dog is said to be one of Chekhov’s best stories. I like it. It is austere and very sad. Two lovers, forever apart. Trapped into unrequited and unrequitable love by lust and boredom. Told with economy and grace.

Read it here.

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Bartleby, The Scrivener

I used to read a lot of short stories, but at some point, I noticed that as soon as I was nicely settled into a short story, it would end, so I decided to avoid them. But now, brochures for hearing aids and bathtubs with doors in the side have begun to appear in my mail and I have started to appreciate anything I live long enough to finish. Consequently, a taste for short stories has returned.

A Forgotten Favorite Pops To Mind

Last week, I was put on the spot to name my favorite short story, and out popped Bartleby, The Scrivener. To explain why, I mumbled something incoherent about shifting perceptions, although I could scarcely remember what the story was about, not having read it for many years.
I reread Bartleby this week, and I now have some idea why I like it.

Herman Melville

Hermann Melville wrote Bartleby in 1853 when his career has on a downward slope. Moby Dick had been published but was not nearly as well received as his earlier and now nearly forgotten travelogues like Omoo and Typee.

The Story

The Bartleby story is simple and absurd. The narrator, an ageing lawyer, has two scriveners (clerks). His first clerk, Turkey, is drunk every afternoon, and his second clerk, Nippers, can’t settle down to work until after noon. The narrator has been appointed to a remunerative new official position and he hires Bartleby to handle the extra load. Bartleby is an excellent scrivener, but soon he begins to utter his tag line “I prefer not to.” The old lawyer can’t deal with Bartleby any more effectively than he deals with his first two clerks. Bartleby refuses more and more work and the lawyer discovers that Bartleby has set up housekeeping in the office and prefers not to leave. The lawyer moves his firm out of the office. When Bartleby prefers not to leave for the new tenant, the landlord has him jailed. The narrator attempts to have special food supplied to Bartleby in jail, but Bartleby prefers not to eat and dies.

Themes

What is the story about? Is Bartleby clinically depressed? Is the lawyer a silly old pushover and codependent enabler of Bartleby’s affliction? Or is this an indictment of a social system and mindless employment?
The lawyer’s life is barren. He is esteemed for being steady and methodical but we have no hint that he has a satisfying family life or pastimes, his office is gloomy and shabby. Turkey and Nippers may be defective, but they seem livelier and happier than their boss. Bartleby is a pale wraith, reminiscent of the white whale, whose entire personality is condensed into his utterance “I prefer not to”, a contrast to the steady and methodical lawyer who does what is expected without recourse to preference.
The story ends with a rumor that Bartleby worked in the dead letter office, stripping letters of objects of value when the addressee could not be found. Could Bartleby have preferred not to prepare lawyer’s documents for addressees who could be found? Does the narrator secretly wish to step away from life? Or has life become defective?

I find the story haunting and enigmatic.  I admit that since I reread the story, Bartleby sometimes slips into my day dreams, softly asserting that “I prefer not to” when I have a disagreeable meeting to attend.

Read Bartleby For Yourself

Read it for yourself. I’ve posted Bartleby the Scrivener here.

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Easter 2010

We have had high wind warnings and advisories for the past few days and the weather service from has cautioned that the potential for wind damage increases as the trees leaf out. Here in the north half of Whatcom county, the trees are still almost bare. The cherries and pears are in bloom and the big leaf maples are decorated with their creamy yellow bell shaped flowers, but most leaves are still not much bigger than a thumbnail.

Windthrow

Even without leaves, a big leaf maple blew down into the cornfield this week. Foresters call a blow down ‘windthrow.’

Eighty Foot Fallen Maple

The twins and I went out this Easter morning with a tape to measure it. The trunk is about forty inches in diameter at the butt and eighty feet tall. For a big-leaf maple, eighty feet is taller than most mature trees, but sometimes a tall specimen reaches a hundred feet and more.

Stump Rot

This one fell because the stump was rotten. Over three-quarters of the stump was rotted away. All that was left was a few inches of outer shell that conducted water and nutrients up from the root system to the rest of the tree. From about eight feet up, the tree is hard and healthy. Big-leaf maples are subject to fungus attacks. It looks like the fungus entered from a broken sub trunk that died, broke off, and the stub rotted and infected the main trunk. Subsequently, the fungus devoured the interior of the stump. Sometimes those weakened old maples fall over on still days, so I was not surprised to see that this one fell on this windy spring week.

Seventy Years Old

When I was a ten-year-old, I remember this maple as a trunk a foot in diameter that had become rough and fissured as big-leaf maples are when they mature. It had the size and appearance of a twenty year old tree. Since I am sixty, that would make the tree seventy. Also, it grew on the edge of the last acreage that Grandpa and Dad cleared about seventy years ago. Maples often start growing on the fresh edge of the woods after land has been cleared, making a second argument for seventy years.