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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
176
XXIII.
As
I
walked
to-day
in
the
golden
sunlight--this
warm,
still
day
on
the
far
verge
of
autumn--there
suddenly
came
to
me
a
thought
which
checked
my
step,
and
for
the
moment
half
bewildered
me.
I
said
to
myself:
My
life
is
over.
Surely
I
ought
to
have
been
aware
of
that
simple
fact;
certainly
it
has
made
part
of
my
meditation,
has
often
coloured
my
mood;
but
the
thing
had
never
definitely
shaped
itself,
ready
in
words
for
the
tongue.
My
life
is
over.
I
uttered
the
sentence
once
or
twice,
that
my
ear
might
test
its
truth.
Truth
undeniable,
however
strange;
undeniable
as
the
figure
of
my
age
last
birthday.
My
age?
At
this
time
of
life,
many
a
man
is
bracing
himself
for
new
efforts,
is
calculating
on
a
decade
or
two
of
pursuit
and
attainment.
I,
too,
may
perhaps
live
for
some
years;
but
for
me
there
is
no
more
activity,
no
ambition.
I
have
had
my
chance--and
I
see
what
I
made
of
it.
The
thought
was
for
an
instant
all
but
dreadful.
What!
I,
who
only
yesterday
was
a
young
man,
planning,
hoping,
looking
forward
to
life
as
to
a
practically
endless
career,
I,
who
was
so
vigorous
and
scornful,
have
come
to
this
day
of
definite
retrospect?
How
is
it
possible?
But,
I
have
done
nothing;
I
have
had
no
time;
I
have
only
been
preparing
myself--a
mere
apprentice
to
life.
My
brain
is
at
some
prank;
I
am
suffering
a
momentary
delusion;
I
shall
shake
myself,
and
return
to
common
sense--to
my
schemes
and
activities
and
eager
enjoyments.
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