Commonplace 77 George & The Real Reason He Left Waltham, Massachusetts?
George went to the US after his Owens College/Belle Vue gaol escapades. There is some dispute about why he went to America - either it was a shrewd move from choice, or a forced exile in a land far, far away - from Wakefield. As it would seem difficult to see him agreeing to anything he didn't want to do, even at that young age, he may have volunteered to go just to get away from the controlling influence of his mother and the Wakefield circle, and the having of his nose rubbed in his disgrace.
First, he went to Boston to come under the influence of William Lloyd Garrison, and soon moved to Waltham to a teaching post. He was living with Reverend Benton Smith in a private house arrangement, so he was 'one of the family' and enjoyed close proximity - and no privacy, we can assume.
To Waltham folks, he was something of a curiosity, drawing down much local interest as being a former Owens College alumnus - not a good idea when you are running from your past. He may have been exaggerating when he wrote to his brother 'Everyone is astonished at me'. However, a bizarre recollection of one of his less than astonished pupils suggested otherwise: Most teachers are popular or unpopular, but Gissing was neither', he wrote about our man. But George can easily be forgiven for bigging up his success in America - to Algernon, and the family. He wanted to believe that his life was back on track. It wasn't. On March 1st 1877, George failed to turn up to teach his classes. He'd done a flit.
Pierre Coustillas writes in the Heroic Life Part One:
Still Gissing, none of whose letters from February to March 1877 has been preserved, obviously had serious personal difficulties on his mind, of which nobody in Waltham... was aware... The scarcity of biographical material is too great for a definite explanation to be possible but then goes on to speculate George's motives for this incident and decides (surprise, surprise!) it must be Marianne aka Nell's fault. She might be 3,145 miles away (approx distance Manchester to Boston), but her hold on the boy was powerful enough to derail his mental faculties, according to his heroic biographer. Which is not really likely, is it? Not when you think he had absolutely no reason to leave Waltham for Marianne's sake - in fact, he was earning good money and the business of saving up for his future wife's passage to join him was on the cards. Did something spook him, or did he just get tired of the sanctimonious claptrap at home and the boredom of teaching?
George did a bunk without giving notice at the school - most unprofessional, and a possible sign of panic, rather than a planned retreat. As the local Waltham Free Press newspaper reported:
It is the opinion of those who knew him best, that a great disappointment has greatly unsettled his mind, and that in this unfortunate condition, he left town with no clear purpose. In fact, they 'knew' him not at all!
Another theory for George leaving so abruptly is put forward in the Heroic Life - George was 'involved' with one of his pupils, Miss Martha McCulloch Barnes. Fleeing from Waltham was the only means of remaining faithful to Nell. It is quite repulsive to think George might have been exploiting the special relationship between adult/figure of authority and vulnerable/hero-worshipping child for his own sexual gratification. But, as the heroic biographer would do anything to suggest George and Marianne were never really in love, we can take it with a pinch of salt. Was George capable of blurring those moral lines? Well M. Coustillas seems to think so. Double-standards at play, or what?? Nowadays, teachers who do this sort of thing are locked up in sex offender gaol for it - here in the UK.
So, what exactly went wrong for our man? What immense upset made him run for his life? Two possibilities suggest themselves, then morph together into a possible third option:
1. George was outed in the local press as being a former Owens College alumnus. There is a possibility he told his employer he had graduated from Owens - when he hadn't. It is to be assumed the school that employed him knew nothing of his imprisonment for thefts, but if he could be identified from this newspaper report, then his whole world could come down hard around his ears. If the school found out he was an ex-con, he might very well be sacked and then publicly shamed. As a very young nineteen year-old, he had precious little life experience to guide him through this. On paper, it would seem very bad - a thief and a liar (by omission) and a man who consorts with low-lifes like John George Black and Morley Roberts. Ha ha. The rejection he would experience would be crushing to his fragile self-esteem and self-confidence - all alone in a strange land, with no-one who would understand his rationale for giving up his academic career - no-one to give him sympathy. Much better to simply disappear like a character in a very bad novel.
2. If George had been suffering from the ravages of a venereal disease in the spring of 1876, he might still be subject to physical signs of infection. If sores or rashes broke out, he would have a lot of explaining to do. The usual recommendation for such contingencies was bed rest and smelly, noxious, conspicuous mercury ointments and rubs - which stained the clothes, made the skin smell bad and affected the gums, sometimes even leading to oral lesions so sore the sufferer couldn't eat or even speak. Not a good look for a school teacher. And, in a small community, where would he discreetly buy medicines?
The scarcity of biographical material is too great for a definite explanation to be possible.
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| The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit by John Singer Sargent 1882 |
First, he went to Boston to come under the influence of William Lloyd Garrison, and soon moved to Waltham to a teaching post. He was living with Reverend Benton Smith in a private house arrangement, so he was 'one of the family' and enjoyed close proximity - and no privacy, we can assume.
To Waltham folks, he was something of a curiosity, drawing down much local interest as being a former Owens College alumnus - not a good idea when you are running from your past. He may have been exaggerating when he wrote to his brother 'Everyone is astonished at me'. However, a bizarre recollection of one of his less than astonished pupils suggested otherwise: Most teachers are popular or unpopular, but Gissing was neither', he wrote about our man. But George can easily be forgiven for bigging up his success in America - to Algernon, and the family. He wanted to believe that his life was back on track. It wasn't. On March 1st 1877, George failed to turn up to teach his classes. He'd done a flit.
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| Snap The Whip by Winslow Homer 1872 |
Still Gissing, none of whose letters from February to March 1877 has been preserved, obviously had serious personal difficulties on his mind, of which nobody in Waltham... was aware... The scarcity of biographical material is too great for a definite explanation to be possible but then goes on to speculate George's motives for this incident and decides (surprise, surprise!) it must be Marianne aka Nell's fault. She might be 3,145 miles away (approx distance Manchester to Boston), but her hold on the boy was powerful enough to derail his mental faculties, according to his heroic biographer. Which is not really likely, is it? Not when you think he had absolutely no reason to leave Waltham for Marianne's sake - in fact, he was earning good money and the business of saving up for his future wife's passage to join him was on the cards. Did something spook him, or did he just get tired of the sanctimonious claptrap at home and the boredom of teaching?
George did a bunk without giving notice at the school - most unprofessional, and a possible sign of panic, rather than a planned retreat. As the local Waltham Free Press newspaper reported:
It is the opinion of those who knew him best, that a great disappointment has greatly unsettled his mind, and that in this unfortunate condition, he left town with no clear purpose. In fact, they 'knew' him not at all!
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| Portrait of Madame X by John Singer Sargent 1884 |
So, what exactly went wrong for our man? What immense upset made him run for his life? Two possibilities suggest themselves, then morph together into a possible third option:
1. George was outed in the local press as being a former Owens College alumnus. There is a possibility he told his employer he had graduated from Owens - when he hadn't. It is to be assumed the school that employed him knew nothing of his imprisonment for thefts, but if he could be identified from this newspaper report, then his whole world could come down hard around his ears. If the school found out he was an ex-con, he might very well be sacked and then publicly shamed. As a very young nineteen year-old, he had precious little life experience to guide him through this. On paper, it would seem very bad - a thief and a liar (by omission) and a man who consorts with low-lifes like John George Black and Morley Roberts. Ha ha. The rejection he would experience would be crushing to his fragile self-esteem and self-confidence - all alone in a strange land, with no-one who would understand his rationale for giving up his academic career - no-one to give him sympathy. Much better to simply disappear like a character in a very bad novel.
2. If George had been suffering from the ravages of a venereal disease in the spring of 1876, he might still be subject to physical signs of infection. If sores or rashes broke out, he would have a lot of explaining to do. The usual recommendation for such contingencies was bed rest and smelly, noxious, conspicuous mercury ointments and rubs - which stained the clothes, made the skin smell bad and affected the gums, sometimes even leading to oral lesions so sore the sufferer couldn't eat or even speak. Not a good look for a school teacher. And, in a small community, where would he discreetly buy medicines?
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| Lotus Lilies by Charles Courtney Curran 1888
There is quite a bit of tosh spoken of George and his reasons for all sorts of things in the first couple of years of his adult life. As he destroyed all the letters he sent Marianne, we have no real idea what happened between them when he was in America. But to blame Marianne for anything he endured there is yet more evidence of the vilification she has undergone in order to explain away George's aberrant, self-destructive and spineless behaviour. To justify this version of his life, he is put forward as some brainless dingbat who was manipulated by a cunning little vixen. Even Morley Roberts told Frederic Harrison he didn't think Marianne was the instigator of their relationship, and was more passive than most biographers will have it. George was never a naïf - never. His mind was sharp and calculating, and he tended to act out of self-interest and not for the good of others - but his judgement was poor. That is down to him, and is not anyone else's fault. He is not a character in one of his short stories - such as 'The Sins of the Fathers' (which does not contain the 'vital clue' to his departure from Waltham as claimed in Heroic Life - at best, you can project whatever you want on it but that doesn't make it true) - any more than he is the dope in this dreadful piece he composed here (Oscar Wilde he ain't, but you can see why Gilbert and Sullivan appealed):
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The Candy Store
Thickly lay the snow and frost on
Those long winding streets of Boston
Where I wander'd all engross'd on
Some enigma, little worth,
When there suddenly ascended
To my nostrils undefended
An aroma, sweetly blended
Of all savours upon earth.
Stopping short and upward gazing
I beheld a sight amazing,
Past description, blinding, dazing,
I shall ne'er forget it more;
For there all close at hand I
Saw a beauteous figure stand, I
Saw a someone putting candy
In the window of a store!
O that dear, that hateful someone ,
O that obstinately dumb one,
O there ne'er again will come one,
Half so cruel, half so sweet; —
'Twas a maiden, — nay a goddess,
In a tightly fitting bodice,
Sweetly smiling on the noddies
That were watching from the street.
As I stood in admiration,
In a sort of fascination
With a look of invitation
She turned round to me and smiled,
And so pleasantly she bent her
Eyes on me, as if she meant a
Special hint for me to enter,
That, alas, I was beguiled.
In I went, and she attended.
This and that she recommended
And I'm sure that I expended
Three whole dollars at the least;
What I did I've no idea,
I could neither see nor hear,
And I'm sure that she thought me a
Very curious sort of beast.
From that day began my sorrow, —
I was there upon the morrow,
Every day that I could borrow
Beg or steal a little cash;
There I sat from hour to hour
In a sort of spicy bower,
Munching on with all my power,
O how could I be so rash!
For I thought not of expenses,
Had no heed to consequences.
She had mastered all my senses
With the magic of her eye;
And I thought I should ensure her
If I could but kneel before her,
And declare I did adore her,
But I never dared to try!
Very many weeks passed, and I
Every day sat munching candy, —
Till in body, foot and hand I
Seemed to feel a curious change.
I seemed altered in dimension,
Altered past my comprehension,
And I felt a sort of tension
Most uncomfortably strange.
I consulted on the matter
Both my tailor and my hatter;
Said: "I fear I'm growing fatter " ;
Said the hatter: " Guess that's so;
For your hat, you see sir, pinches
And your head too closely clinches,
'Tis too small by three good inches,
Here's another, that'll do. "
And the tailor said: " You're right, sir,
All your clothes are much too tight, sir,
But you used to be so slight, sir,
When we made them, don't you see;
Round the middle you've increased, sir,
Twenty inches at the least, sir,
And your pantaloons have ceased, sir,
To hang loosely round your knee " .
So I left them in a hurry,
In a most confounded flurry,
And as fast as I could scurry
Made my way along the street;
After terror and confusion
Came the sudden resolution,
I would seek for a conclusion
Of my pain at Mary's feet.
Gasping, panting, puffing, blowing,
On I hurried, little knowing
That I never more should go in
That infernal candy-store, —
For I found the windows shut up,
All the decorations cut up,
And a piece of paper put up:
" Left the town, apply next door. "
In a terrible excitement,
Wondering what on earth the flight meant,
I inquired what the sight meant
Of that paper on the door;
And they told me that the late man
Was so bothered by a fat man
That 'twas on account of that man
He had flitted from the store.
O, how could you be so cruel,
Mary, if you only knew all,
How I'm now reduced to gruel
You would not have left me so,
Through all your shameful tricks I
'm in a fearful, fearful fix, I
Hope for nought but apoplexy,
And it's all through you, you know.
I beheld a sight amazing,
Past description, blinding, dazing,
I shall ne'er forget it more;
For there all close at hand I
Saw a beauteous figure stand, I
Saw a someone putting candy
In the window of a store!
O that dear, that hateful someone ,
O that obstinately dumb one,
O there ne'er again will come one,
Half so cruel, half so sweet; —
'Twas a maiden, — nay a goddess,
In a tightly fitting bodice,
Sweetly smiling on the noddies
That were watching from the street.
As I stood in admiration,
In a sort of fascination
With a look of invitation
She turned round to me and smiled,
And so pleasantly she bent her
Eyes on me, as if she meant a
Special hint for me to enter,
That, alas, I was beguiled.
In I went, and she attended.
This and that she recommended
And I'm sure that I expended
Three whole dollars at the least;
What I did I've no idea,
I could neither see nor hear,
And I'm sure that she thought me a
Very curious sort of beast.
From that day began my sorrow, —
I was there upon the morrow,
Every day that I could borrow
Beg or steal a little cash;
There I sat from hour to hour
In a sort of spicy bower,
Munching on with all my power,
O how could I be so rash!
For I thought not of expenses,
Had no heed to consequences.
She had mastered all my senses
With the magic of her eye;
And I thought I should ensure her
If I could but kneel before her,
And declare I did adore her,
But I never dared to try!
Very many weeks passed, and I
Every day sat munching candy, —
Till in body, foot and hand I
Seemed to feel a curious change.
I seemed altered in dimension,
Altered past my comprehension,
And I felt a sort of tension
Most uncomfortably strange.
I consulted on the matter
Both my tailor and my hatter;
Said: "I fear I'm growing fatter " ;
Said the hatter: " Guess that's so;
For your hat, you see sir, pinches
And your head too closely clinches,
'Tis too small by three good inches,
Here's another, that'll do. "
And the tailor said: " You're right, sir,
All your clothes are much too tight, sir,
But you used to be so slight, sir,
When we made them, don't you see;
Round the middle you've increased, sir,
Twenty inches at the least, sir,
And your pantaloons have ceased, sir,
To hang loosely round your knee " .
So I left them in a hurry,
In a most confounded flurry,
And as fast as I could scurry
Made my way along the street;
After terror and confusion
Came the sudden resolution,
I would seek for a conclusion
Of my pain at Mary's feet.
Gasping, panting, puffing, blowing,
On I hurried, little knowing
That I never more should go in
That infernal candy-store, —
For I found the windows shut up,
All the decorations cut up,
And a piece of paper put up:
" Left the town, apply next door. "
In a terrible excitement,
Wondering what on earth the flight meant,
I inquired what the sight meant
Of that paper on the door;
And they told me that the late man
Was so bothered by a fat man
That 'twas on account of that man
He had flitted from the store.
O, how could you be so cruel,
Mary, if you only knew all,
How I'm now reduced to gruel
You would not have left me so,
Through all your shameful tricks I
'm in a fearful, fearful fix, I
Hope for nought but apoplexy,
And it's all through you, you know.
And, this leads me to 3: This poem is taken as George describing how he came to steal at Owens - particularly this:
From that day began my sorrow, —
I was there upon the morrow,
Every day that I could borrow
Beg or steal a little cash;
There I sat from hour to hour
In a sort of spicy bower,
Munching on with all my power,
O how could I be so rash!
I was there upon the morrow,
Every day that I could borrow
Beg or steal a little cash;
There I sat from hour to hour
In a sort of spicy bower,
Munching on with all my power,
O how could I be so rash!
If this really is a veiled 'confession' of how he came to steal at Owens, he shows a remarkable lack of remorse for what he did. If this is his justification for his mini crime spree then it has to be extrapolated that he had no sexual self control, so perhaps he is at it again in Waltham. Perhaps he is stealing again, too. Sado-masochists like George often steal to give them power in powerless situations (see Commonplace 26 for more). Or, maybe he is attempting a comic verse with sexual innuendo, possibly for sale to certain publications that might publish 'men's' topics? There are Americanisms in it to fix it decidedly in America - and you don't have to be a disciple of Sigmund Freud to see the true meaning of the piece. Candy, for a start, is a word the English have never commonly used for anything, but it is an Americanism for sweets and sex, and was in the mid-nineteen hundreds. Sugar, ditto. Entering a candy store could be construed as entering a building (a brothel) or a vagina. A 'sort of tension' is sexual arousal... getting bigger is... need I go on?? This isn't the work of a hopeless dope who sexually knows nothing - it's 'clever' - in the bad sense of the word. And, it is no 'confession'. Unless he was visiting brothels in his Waltham days - and feared getting caught! Or, had visited a brothel and contracted another dose of venereal disease. Both, just as plausible as George leaving Waltham so as not to be tempted away from Marianne, because he had fallen out of love with her.
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| The Bone Player by William Sidney Mount 1856 |
So, why did George flit from Waltham, ditch his well-paid high status job (leaving Miss Martha weeping??) and hop on a train for Chicago? Let the last word go to Pierre Coustillas:
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