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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
9
Old
companion,
yet
old
enemy!
How
many
a
time
have
I
taken
it
up,
loathing
the
necessity,
heavy
in
head
and
heart,
my
hand
shaking,
my
eyes
sick-dazzled!
How
I
dreaded
the
white
page
I
had
to
foul
with
ink!
Above
all,
on
days
such
as
this,
when
the
blue
eyes
of
Spring
laughed
from
between
rosy
clouds,
when
the
sunlight
shimmered
upon
my
table
and
made
me
long,
long
all
but
to
madness,
for
the
scent
of
the
flowering
earth,
for
the
green
of
hillside
larches,
for
the
singing
of
the
skylark
above
the
downs.
There
was
a
time--it
seems
further
away
than
childhood--when
I
took
up
my
pen
with
eagerness;
if
my
hand
trembled
it
was
with
hope.
But
a
hope
that
fooled
me,
for
never
a
page
of
my
writing
deserved
to
live.
I
can
say
that
now
without
bitterness.
It
was
youthful
error,
and
only
the
force
of
circumstance
prolonged
it.
The
world
has
done
me
no
injustice;
thank
Heaven
I
have
grown
wise
enough
not
to
rail
at
it
for
this!
And
why
should
any
man
who
writes,
even
if
he
write
things
immortal,
nurse
anger
at
the
world's
neglect?
Who
asked
him
to
publish?
Who
promised
him
a
hearing?
Who
has
broken
faith
with
him?
If
my
shoemaker
turn
me
out
an
excellent
pair
of
boots,
and
I,
in
some
mood
of
cantankerous
unreason,
throw
them
back
upon
his
hands,
the
man
has
just
cause
of
complaint.
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