I think I have been more than most men conscious of my age. My youth slipped past me unnoticed and I was always burdened with the sense that I was growing old. Because for my years I had seen much of the world and traveled a good deal， because I was somewhat widely read and my mind was occupied with matters beyond my years， I seemed always older than my contemporaries. But it was not till the outbreak of the war in 1914 that I had an inkling that I was no longer a young man. I found then to my consternation that a man of forty was old. I consoled myself by reflecting that this was only for military purposes， but not so very long afterwards I had an experience which put the matter beyond doubt， I had been lunching with a woman whom I had known a long time and her niece， a girl of seventeen. After luncheon we took a taxi to go somewhere or other. The woman got in and then her niece. But the niece sat down on the strapontin leaving the empty seat at the back beside her aunt for me to sit on. It was the civility of youth (as opposed to the rights of sex) to a gentleman no longer young. I realized that she looked upon me with the respect due to age.
It is not a very pleasant thing to recognize that for the young you are no longer an equal. You belong to a different generation. For them your race is run. They can look up to you; they can admire you， but you are apart from them， and in the long run they will always find the companionship of persons of their own age more grateful than yours.
But middle age has its compensations. Youth is bond hand and foot with the shackles of public opinion. Middle age enjoys freedom. I remember that when I left school I said to myself： “Henceforward I can get up when I like and go to bed when I like.” That of course was an exaggeration， and I soon found that the trammeled life of the civilized man only permits of a modified independence. Whenever you have an aim you must sacrifice something of freedom to achieve it. But by the time you have reached middle age you have discovered how much freedom it is worth while to sacrifice in order to achieve any aim that you have in view. When I was a boy I was tortured by shyness， and middle age has to great exten brought me a relief from this. I was never of great physical strength and long walks used to tire me， but I went through them because I was ashamed to confess my weakness. I have now no such feeling and I save myself much discomfort. I always hated cold water， but for many years I took cold baths and bathed in cold seas because I wanted to be like everybody else. I used to dive from heights that made me nervous. I was mortified because I played games worse than other people. When I did not know a thing I was ashamed to confess my ignorance. It was not till quite late in life that I discovered how easy it is to say： “I don，t know.” I find with middle age that no one expects me to walk five and twenty miles， or to play a scratch game of golf， or to dive from a height of thirty feet. This is all to the good and makes life pleasant; but I should no longer care if they did. That is what makes youth unhappy， the vehement anxiety to be like other people， and that is what makes middle age tolerable， the reconciliation with oneself.
Yesterday I was seventy years old. As one enters upon each succeeding decade it is natural， though perhaps irrational， to look upon it as a significant event. When I was thirty my brother said to me： “Now you are a boy no longer， you are a man and you must be a man.” When I was forty I said to myself： “It，s no good fooling myself， this is middle age and I may just as well accept it.” At sixty I said： “Now it，s time to put my affairs in order， for this is the threshold of old age and I must settle my accounts.” I decided to withdraw from the theatre and I wrote The summing Up， in which I tried to review for my own comfort what I had learnt of life and literature， what I had done and what satisfaction it had brought me. But of all anniversaries I think the seventieth is the most momentous. One has reached the three score years and ten which one is accustomed to accept as the allotted span of man， and one can but look upon such years as remain to one as uncertain contingencies stolen while old Time with his scythe has his head turned the other way. At seventy one is no longer on the threshold of old age. One is just an old man.
On the continent of Europe they have an amiable custom when a man who has achieved some distinction reaches that age. His friends， his colleagues， his disciples (if he has any) join together to write a volume of essays in his honor. In England we give our eminent men no such flattering mark of our esteem. At the utmost we give a dinner， and we don，t do that unless he is very eminent indeed...
My own birthday passed without ceremony. I worked as usual in the morning and in the afternoon went for a walk in the solitary woods behind my house...
I went back to my house， made myself a cup of tea and read till dinner time. After dinner I read again， played two or three games of patience， listened to the news on the radio and took a detective story to bed with me. I finished it and went to sleep. Except for a few words to my colored maids I had not spoken to a soul all day.
So I passed my seventieth birthday and so I would have wished to pass it. I mused.
Two or three years ago I was walking with Liza and she spoke， I don，t know why， of the horror with which the thought of old age filled her.
“Don，t forget，” I told her， “that when you，re old you won，t have the desire to do various things that make life pleasant to you now. Old age has its compensations.”
“What？” she asked.
“Well， you need hardly ever do anything you don，t want to. You can enjoy music， art and literature， differently from when you were young， but in that different way as keenly. You can get a good deal of fun out of observing the course of events in which you are no longer intimately concerned. If your pleasures are not so vivid your pains also have lost their sting.”
