- description
- # My next memory which I think I can in some degree rely upon, was yet another house, also situated away from human haunts, in the heart of a not entirely silent country.
## Overview
This section, titled "My next memory which I think I can in some degree rely upon, was yet another house, also situated away from human haunts, in the heart of a not entirely silent country.", is a segment of text extracted from the file `pierre.txt`. It is part of a larger collection titled "[Melville Complete Works](arke:01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW)". This section is located within the larger section "[IV.](arke:01KG8AKSYXM1BVG8S0ESCFKM6F)".
## Context
The text was extracted from `pierre.txt` by the `structure-extraction-lambda` process on January 30, 2026. This section follows the content of "[IV.](arke:01KG8AMR8TWAKX42362WDHVV4J)" and precedes the section titled "I have spoken of the second or rather the third spot in my memory of the past, as it first appeared to me; I mean, I have spoken of the people in the house, according to my very earliest recallable impression of them." ([arke:01KG8AMR90EA1Z18WSCR40KHF2]).
## Contents
This section recounts a memory of a house situated in a lowland, distinct from a previous memory of a mountain-adjacent house. The narrator describes the lowland house as large and populated, though the inhabitants lived separately. The narrator reflects on the nature of happiness, stating that while some residents seemed happy, the house was not a happy place for them. The narrator expresses a desire for peace and a feeling of being absorbed into a universal spirit, viewing their current existence as an exile. The narrative then shifts to Pierre, who is patiently listening to the girl's story, observing her ear. The section concludes with the girl resuming her narrative, with the sound of footsteps above ceasing.
- description_generated_at
- 2026-01-30T20:50:13.326Z
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- gemini-2.5-flash-lite
- description_title
- My next memory which I think I can in some degree rely upon, was yet another house, also situated away from human haunts, in the heart of a not entirely silent country.
- end_line
- 5338
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:47.195Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 5287
- text
- "My next memory which I think I can in some degree rely upon, was yet
another house, also situated away from human haunts, in the heart of a
not entirely silent country. Through this country, and by the house,
wound a green and lagging river. That house must have been in some
lowland; for the first house I spoke of seems to me to have been
somewhere among mountains, or near to mountains;--the sounds of the far
waterfalls,--I seem to hear them now; the steady up-pointed cloud-shapes
behind the house in the sunset sky--I seem to see them now. But this
other house, this second one, or third one, I know not which, I say
again it was in some lowland. There were no pines around it; few trees
of any sort; the ground did not slope so steeply as around the first
house. There were cultivated fields about it, and in the distance
farm-houses, and out-houses, and cattle, and fowls, and many objects of
that familiar sort. This house I am persuaded was in this country; on
this side of the sea. It was a very large house, and full of people; but
for the most part they lived separately. There were some old people in
it, and there were young men, and young women in it,--some very
handsome; and there were children in it. It seemed a happy place to some
of these people; many of them were always laughing; but it was not a
happy place for me.
"But here I may err, because of my own consciousness I can not identify
in myself--I mean in the memory of my whole foregoing life,--I say, I
can not identify that thing which is called happiness; that thing whose
token is a laugh, or a smile, or a silent serenity on the lip. I may
have been happy, but it is not in my conscious memory now. Nor do I feel
a longing for it, as though I had never had it; my spirit seeks
different food from happiness; for I think I have a suspicion of what it
is. I have suffered wretchedness, but not because of the absence of
happiness, and without praying for happiness. I pray for peace--for
motionlessness--for the feeling of myself, as of some plant, absorbing
life without seeking it, and existing without individual sensation. I
feel that there can be no perfect peace in individualness. Therefore I
hope one day to feel myself drank up into the pervading spirit animating
all things. I feel I am an exile here. I still go straying.--Yes; in thy
speech, thou smilest.--But let me be silent again. Do not answer me.
When I resume, I will not wander so, but make short end."
Reverently resolved not to offer the slightest let or hinting hindrance
to the singular tale rehearsing to him, but to sit passively and receive
its marvelous droppings into his soul, however long the pauses; and as
touching less mystical considerations, persuaded that by so doing he
should ultimately derive the least nebulous and imperfect account of
Isabel's history; Pierre still sat waiting her resuming, his eyes fixed
upon the girl's wonderfully beautiful ear, which chancing to peep forth
from among her abundant tresses, nestled in that blackness like a
transparent sea-shell of pearl.
She moved a little now; and after some strange wanderings more
coherently continued; while the sound of the stepping on the floor
above--it seemed to cease.
- title
- My next memory which I think I can in some degree rely upon, was yet another house, also situated away from human haunts, in the heart of a not entirely silent country.