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The　Private　Papers　of　Henry　Ryecroft

George　Gissing

PREFACE

The　name　of　Henry　Ryecroft　never　became　familiar　to　what　is　called　the　reading　public。　A　year　ago　obituary　paragraphs　in　the　literary　papers　gave　such　account　of　him　as　was　thought　needful：　the　date　and　place　of　his　birth；　the　names　of　certain　books　he　had　written；　an　allusion　to　his　work　in　the　periodicals；　the　manner　of　his　death。　At　the　time　it　sufficed。　Even　those　few　who　knew　the　man；　and　in　a　measure　understood　him；　must　have　felt　that　his　name　called　for　no　further　celebration；　like　other　mortals；　he　had　lived　and　laboured；　like　other　mortals；　he　had　entered　into　his　rest。　To　me；　however；　fell　the　duty　of　examining　Ryecrofts　papers；　and　having；　in　the　exercise　of　my　discretion；　decided　to　print　this　little　volume；　I　feel　that　it　requires　a　word　or　two　of　biographical　plement；　just　so　much　personal　detail　as　may　point　the　significance　of　the　self…　revelation　here　made。

When　first　I　knew　him；　Ryecroft　had　reached　his　fortieth　year；　for　twenty　years　he　had　lived　by　the　pen。　He　was　a　struggling　man；　beset　by　poverty　and　other　circumstances　very　unpropitious　to　mental　work。　Many　forms　of　literature　had　he　tried；　in　none　had　he　been　conspicuously　successful；　yet　now　and　then　he　had　managed　to　earn　a　little　more　money　than　his　actual　needs　demanded；　and　thus　was　enabled　to　see　something　of　foreign　countries。　Naturally　a　man　of　independent　and　rather　scornful　outlook；　he　had　suffered　much　from　defeated　ambition；　from　disillusions　of　many　kinds；　from　subjection　to　grim　necessity；　the　result　of　it；　at　the　time　of　which　I　am　speaking；　was；　certainly　not　a　broken　spirit；　but　a　mind　and　temper　so　sternly　disciplined；　that；　in　ordinary　intercourse　with　him；　one　did　not　know　but　that　he　led　a　calm；　contented　life。　Only　after　several　years　of　friendship　was　I　able　to　form　a　just　idea　of　what　the　man　had　gone　through；　or　of　his　actual　existence。　Little　by　little　Ryecroft　had　subdued　himself　to　a　modestly　industrious　routine。　He　did　a　great　deal　of　mere　hack…work；　he　reviewed；　he　translated；　he　wrote　articles；　at　long　intervals　a　volume　appeared　under　his　name。　There　were　times；　I　have　no　doubt；　when　bitterness　took　hold　upon　him；　not　seldom　he　suffered　in　health；　and　probably　as　much　from　moral　as　from　physical　over…strain；　but；　on　the　whole；　he　earned　his　living　very　much　as　other　men　do；　taking　the　days　toil　as　a　matter　of　course；　and　rarely　grumbling　over　it。

Time　went　on；　things　happened；　but　Ryecroft　was　still　laborious　and　poor。　In　moments　of　depression　he　spoke　of　his　declining　energies；　and　evidently　suffered　under　a　haunting　fear　of　the　future。　The　thought　of　dependence　had　always　been　intolerable　to　him；　perhaps　the　only　boast　I　at　any　time　heard　from　his　lips　was　that　he　had　never　incurred　debt。　It　was　a　bitter　thought　that；　after　so　long　and　hard　a　struggle　with　unkindly　circumstance；　he　might　end　his　life　as　one　of　the　defeated。

A　happier　lot　was　in　store　for　him。　At　the　age　of　fifty；　just　when　his　health　had　begun　to　fail　and　his　energies　to　show　abatement；　Ryecroft　had　the　rare　good　fortune　to　find　himself　suddenly　released　from　toil；　and　to　enter　upon　a　period　of　such　tranquillity　of　mind　and　condition　as　he　had　never　dared　to　hope。　On　the　death　of　an　acquaintance；　more　his　friend　than　he　imagined；　the　wayworn　man　of　letters　learnt　with　astonishment　that　there　　a　life　annuity　of　three　hundred　pounds。　Having　only　himself　to　support　（he　had　been　a　widower　for　several　years；　and　his　daughter；　an　only　child；　was　married）；　Ryecroft　saw　in　this　ine　something　more　than　a　petency。　In　a　few　weeks　he　quitted　the　London　suburb　where　of　late　he　had　been　living；　and；　turning　to　the　part　of　England　which　he　loved　best；　he　presently　established　himself　in　a　cottage　near　Exeter；　where；　with　a　rustic　housekeeper　to　look　after　him；　he　was　soon　thoroughly　at　home。　Now　and　then　some　friend　went　down　into　Devon　to　see　him；　those　who　had　that　pleasure　will　not　forget　the　plain　little　house　amid　its　half…wild　garden；　the　cosy　book…room　with　its　fine　view　across　the　valley　of　the　Exe　to　Haldon；　the　hosts　cordial；　gleeful　hospitality；　rambles　with　him　in　lanes　and　meadows；　long　talks　amid　the　stillness　of　the　rural　night。　We　hoped　it　would　all　last　for　many　a　year；　it　seemed；　indeed；　as　though　Ryecroft　had　only　need　of　rest　and　calm　to　bee　a　hale　man。　But　already；　though　he　did　not　know　it；　he　was　suffering　from　a　disease　of　the　heart；　which　cut　short　his　life　after　little　more　than　a　lustrum　of　quiet　contentment。　It　had　always　been　his　wish　to　die　suddenly；　he　dreaded　the　thought　of　illness；　chiefly　because　of　the　trouble　it　gave　to　others。　On　a　summer　evening；　after　a　long　walk　in　very　hot　weather；　he　lay　down　upon　the　sofa　in　his　study；　and　there……as　his　calm　face　declared……passed　from　slumber　into　the　great　silence。

When　he　left　London；　Ryecroft　bade　farewell　to　authorship。　He　told　me　that　he　hoped　never　to　write　another　line　for　publication。　But；　among　the　papers　which　I　looked　through　after　his　death；　I　came　upon　three　manuscript　books　which　at　first　glance　seemed　to　be　a　diary；　a　date　on　the　opening　page　of　one　of　them　showed　that　it　had　been　begun　not　very　long　after　the　writers　settling　in　Devon。　When　I　had　read　a　little　in　these　pages；　I　saw　that　they　were　no　mere　record　of　day…to…day　life；　evidently　finding　himself　unable　to　forego　altogether　the　use　of　the　pen；　the　veteran　had　set　down；　as　humour　bade　him；　a　thought；　a　reminiscence；　a　bit　of　reverie；　a　description　of　his　state　of　mind；　and　so　on；　dating　such　passage　merely　with　the　month　in　which　it　was　written。　Sitting　in　the　room　where　I　had　often　been　his　panion；　I　turned　page　after　page；　and　at　moments　it　was　as　though　my　friends　voice　sounded　to　me　once　more。　I　saw　his　worn　visage；　grave　or　smiling；　recalled　his　familiar　pose　or　gesture。　But　in　this　written　gossip　he　revealed　himself　more　intimately　than　in　our　conversation　of　the　days　gone　by。　Ryecroft　had　never　erred　by　lack　of　reticence；　as　was　natural　in　a　sensitive　man　who　had　suffered　much；　he　inclined　to　gentle　acquiescence；　shrank　from　argument；　from　self…assertion。　Here　he　spoke　to　me　without　restraint；　and；　when　I　had　read　it　all　through；　I　knew　the　man　better　than　before。

Assuredly；　this　writing　was　not　intended　for　the　public；　and　yet；　in　many　a　passage；　I　seemed　to　perceive　the　literary　purpose……something　more　than　the　turn　of　phrase；　and　so　on；　which　results　from　long　habit　of　position。　Certain　of　his　reminiscences；　in　particular；　Ryecroft　could　hardly　have　troubled　to　write　down　had　he　not；　however　vaguely；　entertained　the　thought　of　putting　them　to　some　use。　I　suspect　that；　in　his　happy　leisure；　there　grew　upon　him　a　desire　to　write　one　more　book；　a　book　which　should　be　written　merely　for　his　own　satisfaction。　Plainly；　it　would　have　been　the　best　he　had　it　in　him　to　do。　But　he　seems　never　to　have　attempted　the　arrangement　of　these　fragmentary　pieces；　and　probably　because　he　could　not　decide　upon　the　form　they　should　take。　I　imagine　him　shrinking　from　the　thought　of　a　first…person　volume；　he　would　feel　it　too　pretentious；　he　would　bid　himself　wait　for　the　day　of　riper　wisdom。　And　so　the　pen　fell　from　his　hand。

Conjecturing　thus；　I　wondered　whether　the　irregular　diary　might　not　have　wider　interest　than　at　first　appeared。　To　me；　its　personal　appeal　was　very　strong；　might　it　not　be　possible　to　cull　from　it　the　substance　of　a　small　volume　which；　at　least　for　its　sinceritys　sake；　would　not　be　without　value　for　those　who　read；　not　with　the　eye　alone；　but　with　the　mind？　I　turned　the　pages　again。　Here　was　a　man　who；　having　his　desire；　and　that　a　very　modest　one；　not　only　felt　satisfied；　but　enjoyed　great　happiness。　He　talked　of　many　different　things；　saying　exactly　what　he　thought；　he　spoke　of　himself；　and　told　the　truth　as　far　as　mortal　can　tell　it。　It　seemed　to　me　that　the　thing　had　human　interest。　I　decided　to　print。

The　question　of　arrangement　had　to　be　considered；　I　did　not　like　to　offer　a　mere　incondite　miscellany。　To　supply　each　of　the　disconnected　passages　with　a　title；　or　even　to　group　them　under　subject　headings；　would　have　interfered　with　the　spontaneity　which；　above　all；　I　wished　to　preserve。　In　reading　through　the　matter　I　had　selected；　it　struck　me　how　often　the　aspects　of　nature　were　referred　to；　and　how　suitable　many　of　the　reflections　were　to　the　month　with　which　they　were　dated。　Ryecroft；　I　knew；　had　ever　been　much　influenced　by　the　mood　of　the　sky；　and　by　the　procession　of　the　year。　So　I　hit　upon　the　thought　of　dividing　the　little　book　into　four　chapters；　named　after　the　seasons。　Like　all　classifications；　it　is　imperfect；　but　twill　serve。

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　livings　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。

Old　panion；　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　worlds　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　plaint。　But　your