{"id":"01KG6YH9P0ZF5KJ0VE9PCY690Y","cid":"bafkreihfavntihsocdfpi4c5yxxthoa6xlc4uddfhlv6plgmrd55qcxvmy","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":1385,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG6YDDF6PTWG4P7JTS5THSTD","start_line":1312,"text":"I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I\r\nremembered that he never spoke but to answer; that, though at intervals\r\nhe had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him\r\nreading—no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand\r\nlooking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick\r\nwall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house;\r\nwhile his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like\r\nTurkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went\r\nanywhere in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk,\r\nunless, indeed, that was the case at present; that he had declined\r\ntelling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives\r\nin the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill\r\nhealth. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of\r\npallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an\r\naustere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame\r\ncompliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do\r\nthe slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from\r\nhis long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be\r\nstanding in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.\r\n\r\nRevolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently\r\ndiscovered fact, that he made my office his constant abiding place and\r\nhome, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these\r\nthings, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions\r\nhad been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in\r\nproportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my\r\nimagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into\r\nrepulsion. So true it is, and so terrible, too, that up to a certain\r\npoint the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but,\r\nin certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who\r\nwould assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness\r\nof the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of\r\nremedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not\r\nseldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot\r\nlead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul be rid of it. What\r\nI saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of\r\ninnate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his\r\nbody did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I\r\ncould not reach.\r\n\r\nI did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that\r\nmorning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time\r\nfrom church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with\r\nBartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this—I would put certain calm\r\nquestions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if\r\nhe declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I supposed he\r\nwould prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above\r\nwhatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer\r\nrequired; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be\r\nhappy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place,\r\nwherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses.\r\nMoreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want\r\nof aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply.\r\n\r\nThe next morning came.\r\n\r\n“Bartleby,” said I, gently calling to him behind his screen.\r\n\r\nNo reply.\r\n\r\n“Bartleby,” said I, in a still gentler tone, “come here; I am not going\r\nto ask you to do anything you would prefer not to do—I simply wish to\r\nspeak to you.”\r\n\r\nUpon this he noiselessly slid into view.\r\n\r\n“Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?”\r\n\r\n“I would prefer not to.”\r\n\r\n“Will you tell me _anything_ about yourself?”\r\n\r\n“I would prefer not to.”\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG6YGB7ZZ4F251SWKNDDK547","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG6YDDF6PTWG4P7JTS5THSTD","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG6YCG626JN4FCG8QK17CQCF","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG6YH9P0X3P76MT1YT0P9C92","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T07:57:56.800Z","ts":"2026-01-30T07:58:02.846Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}