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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
177
Nevertheless,
my
life
is
over.
What
a
little
thing!
I
knew
how
the
philosophers
had
spoken;
I
repeated
their
musical
phrases
about
the
mortal
span--yet
never
till
now
believed
them.
And
this
is
all?
A
man's
life
can
be
so
brief
and
so
vain?
Idly
would
I
persuade
myself
that
life,
in
the
true
sense,
is
only
now
beginning;
that
the
time
of
sweat
and
fear
was
not
life
at
all,
and
that
it
now
only
depends
upon
my
will
to
lead
a
worthy
existence.
That
may
be
a
sort
of
consolation,
but
it
does
not
obscure
the
truth
that
I
shall
never
again
see
possibilities
and
promises
opening
before
me.
I
have
"retired,"
and
for
me
as
truly
as
for
the
retired
tradesman,
life
is
over.
I
can
look
back
upon
its
completed
course,
and
what
a
little
thing!
I
am
tempted
to
laugh;
I
hold
myself
within
the
limit
of
a
smile.
And
that
is
best,
to
smile,
not
in
scorn,
but
in
all
forbearance,
without
too
much
self-compassion.
After
all,
that
dreadful
aspect
of
the
thing
never
really
took
hold
of
me;
I
could
put
it
by
without
much
effort.
Life
is
done--and
what
matter?
Whether
it
has
been,
in
sum,
painful
or
enjoyable,
even
now
I
cannot
say--a
fact
which
in
itself
should
prevent
me
from
taking
the
loss
too
seriously.
What
does
it
matter?
Destiny
with
the
hidden
face
decreed
that
I
should
come
into
being,
play
my
little
part,
and
pass
again
into
silence;
is
it
mine
either
to
approve
or
to
rebel?
Let
me
be
grateful
that
I
have
suffered
no
intolerable
wrong,
no
terrible
woe
of
flesh
or
spirit,
such
as
others--alas!
alas!--have
found
in
their
lot.
Is
it
not
much
to
have
accomplished
so
large
a
part
of
the
mortal
journey
with
so
much
ease?
If
I
find
myself
astonished
at
its
brevity
and
small
significance,
why,
that
is
my
own
fault;
the
voices
of
those
gone
before
had
sufficiently
warned
me.
Better
to
see
the
truth
now,
and
accept
it,
than
to
fall
into
dread
surprise
on
some
day
of
weakness,
and
foolishly
to
cry
against
fate.
I
will
be
glad
rather
than
sorry,
and
think
of
the
thing
no
more.
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