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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
24
IX.
For
more
than
six
years
I
trod
the
pavement,
never
stepping
once
upon
mother
earth--for
the
parks
are
but
pavement
disguised
with
a
growth
of
grass.
Then
the
worst
was
over.
Say
I
the
worst?
No,
no;
things
far
worse
were
to
come;
the
struggle
against
starvation
has
its
cheery
side
when
one
is
young
and
vigorous.
But
at
all
events
I
had
begun
to
earn
a
living;
I
held
assurance
of
food
and
clothing
for
half
a
year
at
a
time;
granted
health,
I
might
hope
to
draw
my
not
insufficient
wages
for
many
a
twelvemonth.
And
they
were
the
wages
of
work
done
independently,
when
and
where
I
would.
I
thought
with
horror
of
lives
spent
in
an
office,
with
an
employer
to
obey.
The
glory
of
the
career
of
letters
was
its
freedom,
its
dignity!
The
fact
of
the
matter
was,
of
course,
that
I
served,
not
one
master,
but
a
whole
crowd
of
them.
Independence,
forsooth!
If
my
writing
failed
to
please
editor,
publisher,
public,
where
was
my
daily
bread?
The
greater
my
success,
the
more
numerous
my
employers.
I
was
the
slave
of
a
multitude.
By
heaven's
grace
I
had
succeeded
in
pleasing
(that
is
to
say,
in
making
myself
a
source
of
profit
to)
certain
persons
who
represented
this
vague
throng;
for
the
time,
they
were
gracious
to
me;
but
what
justified
me
in
the
faith
that
I
should
hold
the
ground
I
had
gained?
Could
the
position
of
any
toiling
man
be
more
precarious
than
mine?
I
tremble
now
as
I
think
of
it,
tremble
as
I
should
in
watching
some
one
who
walked
carelessly
on
the
edge
of
an
abyss.
I
marvel
at
the
recollection
that
for
a
good
score
of
years
this
pen
and
a
scrap
of
paper
clothed
and
fed
me
and
my
household,
kept
me
in
physical
comfort,
held
at
bay
all
those
hostile
forces
of
the
world
ranged
against
one
who
has
no
resource
save
in
his
own
right
hand.
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