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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
12
My
house
is
perfect.
Just
large
enough
to
allow
the
grace
of
order
in
domestic
circumstance;
just
that
superfluity
of
intramural
space,
to
lack
which
is
to
be
less
than
at
one's
ease.
The
fabric
is
sound;
the
work
in
wood
and
plaster
tells
of
a
more
leisurely
and
a
more
honest
age
than
ours.
The
stairs
do
not
creak
under
my
step;
I
am
waylaid
by
no
unkindly
draught;
I
can
open
or
close
a
window
without
muscle-ache.
As
to
such
trifles
as
the
tint
and
device
of
wall-paper,
I
confess
my
indifference;
be
the
walls
only
unobtrusive,
and
I
am
satisfied.
The
first
thing
in
one's
home
is
comfort;
let
beauty
of
detail
be
added
if
one
has
the
means,
the
patience,
the
eye.
To
me,
this
little
book-room
is
beautiful,
and
chiefly
because
it
is
home.
Through
the
greater
part
of
life
I
was
homeless.
Many
places
have
I
inhabited,
some
which
my
soul
loathed,
and
some
which
pleased
me
well;
but
never
till
now
with
that
sense
of
security
which
makes
a
home.
At
any
moment
I
might
have
been
driven
forth
by
evil
hap,
by
nagging
necessity.
For
all
that
time
did
I
say
within
myself:
Some
day,
perchance,
I
shall
have
a
home;
yet
the
"perchance"
had
more
and
more
of
emphasis
as
life
went
on,
and
at
the
moment
when
fate
was
secretly
smiling
on
me,
I
had
all
but
abandoned
hope.
I
have
my
home
at
last.
When
I
place
a
new
volume
on
my
shelves,
I
say:
Stand
there
whilst
I
have
eyes
to
see
you;
and
a
joyous
tremor
thrills
me.
This
house
is
mine
on
a
lease
of
a
score
of
years.
So
long
I
certainly
shall
not
live;
but,
if
I
did,
even
so
long
should
I
have
the
wherewithal
to
pay
my
rent
and
buy
my
food.
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