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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
39
So
with
many
another
book
on
the
thronged
shelves.
To
take
them
down
is
to
recall,
how
vividly,
a
struggle
and
a
triumph.
In
those
days
money
represented
nothing
to
me,
nothing
I
cared
to
think
about,
but
the
acquisition
of
books.
There
were
books
of
which
I
had
passionate
need,
books
more
necessary
to
me
than
bodily
nourishment.
I
could
see
them,
of
course,
at
the
British
Museum,
but
that
was
not
at
all
the
same
thing
as
having
and
holding
them,
my
own
property,
on
my
own
shelf.
Now
and
then
I
have
bought
a
volume
of
the
raggedest
and
wretchedest
aspect,
dishonoured
with
foolish
scribbling,
torn,
blotted--no
matter,
I
liked
better
to
read
out
of
that
than
out
of
a
copy
that
was
not
mine.
But
I
was
guilty
at
times
of
mere
self-indulgence;
a
book
tempted
me,
a
book
which
was
not
one
of
those
for
which
I
really
craved,
a
luxury
which
prudence
might
bid
me
forego.
As,
for
instance,
my
Jung-Stilling.
It
caught
my
eye
in
Holywell
Street;
the
name
was
familiar
to
me
in
Wahrheit
und
Dichtung,
and
curiosity
grew
as
I
glanced
over
the
pages.
But
that
day
I
resisted;
in
truth,
I
could
not
afford
the
eighteen-pence,
which
means
that
just
then
I
was
poor
indeed.
Twice
again
did
I
pass,
each
time
assuring
myself
that
Jung-Stilling
had
found
no
purchaser.
There
came
a
day
when
I
was
in
funds.
I
see
myself
hastening
to
Holywell
Street
(in
those
days
my
habitual
pace
was
five
miles
an
hour),
I
see
the
little
grey
old
man
with
whom
I
transacted
my
business--what
was
his
name?--the
bookseller
who
had
been,
I
believe,
a
Catholic
priest,
and
still
had
a
certain
priestly
dignity
about
him.
He
took
the
volume,
opened
it,
mused
for
a
moment,
then,
with
a
glance
at
me,
said,
as
if
thinking
aloud:
"Yes,
I
wish
I
had
time
to
read
it."
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