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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
178
XXIV.
Waking
at
early
dawn
used
to
be
one
of
the
things
I
most
dreaded.
The
night
which
made
me
capable
of
resuming
labour
had
brought
no
such
calm
as
should
follow
upon
repose;
I
woke
to
a
vision
of
the
darkest
miseries
and
lay
through
the
hours
of
daybreak--too
often--in
very
anguish.
But
that
is
past.
Sometimes,
ere
yet
I
know
myself,
the
mind
struggles
as
with
an
evil
spirit
on
the
confines
of
sleep;
then
the
light
at
my
window,
the
pictures
on
my
walls,
restore
me
to
happy
consciousness,
happier
for
the
miserable
dream.
Now,
when
I
lie
thinking,
my
worst
trouble
is
wonder
at
the
common
life
of
man.
I
see
it
as
a
thing
so
incredible
that
it
oppresses
the
mind
like
a
haunting
illusion.
Is
it
the
truth
that
men
are
fretting,
raving,
killing
each
other,
for
matters
so
trivial
that
I,
even
I,
so
far
from
saint
or
philosopher,
must
needs
fall
into
amazement
when
I
consider
them?
I
could
imagine
a
man
who,
by
living
alone
and
at
peace,
came
to
regard
the
everyday
world
as
not
really
existent,
but
a
creation
of
his
own
fancy
in
unsound
moments.
What
lunatic
ever
dreamt
of
things
less
consonant
with
the
calm
reason
than
those
which
are
thought
and
done
every
minute
in
every
community
of
men
called
sane?
But
I
put
aside
this
reflection
as
soon
as
may
be;
it
perturbs
me
fruitlessly.
Then
I
listen
to
the
sounds
about
my
cottage,
always
soft,
soothing,
such
as
lead
the
mind
to
gentle
thoughts.
Sometimes
I
can
hear
nothing;
not
the
rustle
of
a
leaf,
not
the
buzz
of
a
fly,
and
then
I
think
that
utter
silence
is
best
of
all.
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