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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
8
G.
G.
SPRING
I.
For
more
than
a
week
my
pen
has
lain
untouched.
I
have
written
nothing
for
seven
whole
days,
not
even
a
letter.
Except
during
one
or
two
bouts
of
illness,
such
a
thing
never
happened
in
my
life
before.
In
my
life;
the
life,
that
is,
which
had
to
be
supported
by
anxious
toil;
the
life
which
was
not
lived
for
living's
sake,
as
all
life
should
be,
but
under
the
goad
of
fear.
The
earning
of
money
should
be
a
means
to
an
end;
for
more
than
thirty
years--I
began
to
support
myself
at
sixteen--I
had
to
regard
it
as
the
end
itself.
I
could
imagine
that
my
old
penholder
feels
reproachfully
towards
me.
Has
it
not
served
me
well?
Why
do
I,
in
my
happiness,
let
it
lie
there
neglected,
gathering
dust?
The
same
penholder
that
has
lain
against
my
forefinger
day
after
day,
for--how
many
years?
Twenty,
at
least;
I
remember
buying
it
at
a
shop
in
Tottenham
Court
Road.
By
the
same
token
I
bought
that
day
a
paper-weight,
which
cost
me
a
whole
shilling--an
extravagance
which
made
me
tremble.
The
penholder
shone
with
its
new
varnish,
now
it
is
plain
brown
wood
from
end
to
end.
On
my
forefinger
it
has
made
a
callosity.
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