{"id":"01KG6YH9P3666SKMZSTM1TA03Q","cid":"bafkreibd27cevzcf72p3ter3h3q6vagzmrg62cfkxpqybr6jq3fheja3s4","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":1631,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 5","source_file":"01KG6YDDF6PTWG4P7JTS5THSTD","start_line":1563,"text":"underneath the mat, so that I may have it in the morning. I shall not\r\nsee you again; so good-by to you. If, hereafter, in your new place of\r\nabode, I can be of any service to you, do not fail to advise me by\r\nletter. Good-by, Bartleby, and fare you well.”\r\n\r\nBut he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple,\r\nhe remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise\r\ndeserted room.\r\n\r\nAs I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my\r\npity. I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in\r\ngetting rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to\r\nany dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist\r\nin its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of\r\nany sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the\r\napartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself\r\noff with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly\r\nbidding Bartleby depart—as an inferior genius might have done—I\r\n_assumed_ the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption\r\nbuilt all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more\r\nI was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I\r\nhad my doubts—I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the\r\ncoolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the\r\nmorning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever—but only in theory.\r\nHow it would prove in practice—there was the rub. It was truly a\r\nbeautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby’s departure; but, after all,\r\nthat assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby’s. The great\r\npoint was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether\r\nhe would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than\r\nassumptions.\r\n\r\nAfter breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities _pro_\r\nand _con_. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and\r\nBartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next\r\nmoment it seemed certain that I should find his chair empty. And so I\r\nkept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal street, I saw\r\nquite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation.\r\n\r\n“I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed.\r\n\r\n“Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.”\r\n\r\nI was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own,\r\nwhen I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had\r\noverheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or\r\nnon-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of\r\nmind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my\r\nexcitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on,\r\nvery thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary\r\nabsent-mindedness.\r\n\r\nAs I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood\r\nlistening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the\r\nknob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he\r\nindeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I\r\nwas almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the\r\ndoor mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me,\r\nwhen accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a\r\nsummoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—“Not\r\nyet; I am occupied.”\r\n\r\nIt was Bartleby.\r\n\r\nI was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in\r\nmouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by\r\nsummer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and\r\nremained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon till some one\r\ntouched him, when he fell.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 5"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG6YGB7ZZ4F251SWKNDDK547","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG6YDDF6PTWG4P7JTS5THSTD","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG6YCG626JN4FCG8QK17CQCF","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG6YH9P0E9406ABB98B4WAD0","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG6YH9P3MNK5VRGY6X4YY7H9","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T07:57:56.803Z","ts":"2026-01-30T07:58:02.917Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}