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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
11
II.
The
exquisite
quiet
of
this
room!
I
have
been
sitting
in
utter
idleness,
watching
the
sky,
viewing
the
shape
of
golden
sunlight
upon
the
carpet,
which
changes
as
the
minutes
pass,
letting
my
eye
wander
from
one
framed
print
to
another,
and
along
the
ranks
of
my
beloved
books.
Within
the
house
nothing
stirs.
In
the
garden
I
can
hear
singing
of
birds,
I
can
hear
the
rustle
of
their
wings.
And
thus,
if
it
please
me,
I
may
sit
all
day
long,
and
into
the
profounder
quiet
of
the
night.
My
house
is
perfect.
By
great
good
fortune
I
have
found
a
housekeeper
no
less
to
my
mind,
a
low-voiced,
light-footed
woman
of
discreet
age,
strong
and
deft
enough
to
render
me
all
the
service
I
require,
and
not
afraid
of
solitude.
She
rises
very
early.
By
my
breakfast-time
there
remains
little
to
be
done
under
the
roof
save
dressing
of
meals.
Very
rarely
do
I
hear
even
a
clink
of
crockery;
never
the
closing
of
a
door
or
window.
Oh,
blessed
silence!
There
is
not
the
remotest
possibility
of
any
one's
calling
upon
me,
and
that
I
should
call
upon
any
one
else
is
a
thing
undreamt
of.
I
owe
a
letter
to
a
friend;
perhaps
I
shall
write
it
before
bedtime;
perhaps
I
shall
leave
it
till
to-morrow
morning.
A
letter
of
friendship
should
never
be
written
save
when
the
spirit
prompts.
I
have
not
yet
looked
at
the
newspaper.
Generally
I
leave
it
till
I
come
back
tired
from
my
walk;
it
amuses
me
then
to
see
what
the
noisy
world
is
doing,
what
new
self-
torments
men
have
discovered,
what
new
forms
of
vain
toil,
what
new
occasions
of
peril
and
of
strife.
I
grudge
to
give
the
first
freshness
of
the
morning
mind
to
things
so
sad
and
foolish.
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