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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
31
On
the
whole,
however,
I
had
nothing
much
to
complain
of
except
my
poverty.
You
cannot
expect
great
comfort
in
London
for
four-and-sixpence
a
week--the
most
I
ever
could
pay
for
a
"furnished
room
with
attendance"
in
those
days
of
pretty
stern
apprenticeship.
And
I
was
easily
satisfied;
I
wanted
only
a
little
walled
space
in
which
I
could
seclude
myself,
free
from
external
annoyance.
Certain
comforts
of
civilized
life
I
ceased
even
to
regret;
a
stair-carpet
I
regarded
as
rather
extravagant,
and
a
carpet
on
the
floor
of
my
room
was
luxury
undreamt
of.
My
sleep
was
sound;
I
have
passed
nights
of
dreamless
repose
on
beds
which
it
would
now
make
my
bones
ache
only
to
look
at.
A
door
that
locked,
a
fire
in
winter,
a
pipe
of
tobacco--these
were
things
essential;
and,
granted
these,
I
have
been
often
richly
contented
in
the
squalidest
garret.
One
such
lodging
is
often
in
my
memory;
it
was
at
Islington,
not
far
from
the
City
Road;
my
window
looked
upon
the
Regent's
Canal.
As
often
as
I
think
of
it,
I
recall
what
was
perhaps
the
worst
London
fog
I
ever
knew;
for
three
successive
days,
at
least,
my
lamp
had
to
be
kept
burning;
when
I
looked
through
the
window,
I
saw,
at
moments,
a
few
blurred
lights
in
the
street
beyond
the
Canal,
but
for
the
most
part
nothing
but
a
yellowish
darkness,
which
caused
the
glass
to
reflect
the
firelight
and
my
own
face.
Did
I
feel
miserable?
Not
a
bit
of
it.
The
enveloping
gloom
seemed
to
make
my
chimney-corner
only
the
more
cosy.
I
had
coals,
oil,
tobacco
in
sufficient
quantity;
I
had
a
book
to
read;
I
had
work
which
interested
me;
so
I
went
forth
only
to
get
my
meals
at
a
City
Road
coffee-
shop,
and
hastened
back
to
the
fireside.
Oh,
my
ambitions,
my
hopes!
How
surprised
and
indignant
I
should
have
felt
had
I
known
of
any
one
who
pitied
me!
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