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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
54
A
lettered
German,
speaking
to
me
once
of
his
year
of
military
service,
told
me
that,
had
it
lasted
but
a
month
or
two
longer,
he
must
have
sought
release
in
suicide.
I
know
very
well
that
my
own
courage
would
not
have
borne
me
to
the
end
of
the
twelvemonth;
humiliation,
resentment,
loathing,
would
have
goaded
me
to
madness.
At
school
we
used
to
be
"drilled"
in
the
playground
once
a
week;
I
have
but
to
think
of
it,
even
after
forty
years,
and
there
comes
back
upon
me
that
tremor
of
passionate
misery
which,
at
the
time,
often
made
me
ill.
The
senseless
routine
of
mechanic
exercise
was
in
itself
all
but
unendurable
to
me;
I
hated
the
standing
in
line,
the
thrusting-out
of
arms
and
legs
at
a
signal,
the
thud
of
feet
stamping
in
constrained
unison.
The
loss
of
individuality
seemed
to
me
sheer
disgrace.
And
when,
as
often
happened,
the
drill-sergeant
rebuked
me
for
some
inefficiency
as
I
stood
in
line,
when
he
addressed
me
as
"Number
Seven!"
I
burned
with
shame
and
rage.
I
was
no
longer
a
human
being;
I
had
become
part
of
a
machine,
and
my
name
was
"Number
Seven."
It
used
to
astonish
me
when
I
had
a
neighbour
who
went
through
the
drill
with
amusement,
with
zealous
energy;
I
would
gaze
at
the
boy,
and
ask
myself
how
it
was
possible
that
he
and
I
should
feel
so
differently.
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