Commonplace 212  George & The Odious Mr Ryecroft.

With the help of Paul Gauguin 1848-1903

Towards the end of his life, George began to realise he was running out of time. His creative energy was waning fast as the effects of syphilis began to disable him, and most of the strength he had was needed for everyday survival; whatever was left over went into writing shorter, lighter and more readable to the general public books, as well as gathering together the various strands of his legacy - both personal and literary.

Women Bathing 1885

One of his most pressing tasks was overhauling his image by putting together a sanitised version of his life, safe for public consumption. Being a secretive and duplicitous sort of cove with plenty of metaphorical skeletons hiding in his metaphorical cupboard, he was well aware that many of his past actions would be seen for what they truly were by the world he tried so hard to deceive - acts of cruelty, dishonesty and self-serving capriciousness.

His sons were going to inherit nothing much but their father's 'good name', but George had spent thirty years lying about his prison sentence for theft. His cruelty to his wives and the real reasons he abandoned his children needed to be expunged and whatever the cost to integrity, he needed to be blameless when their stories were told. Between the lies and the subterfuge, the thieving and the gaol time, the public would see emerge a bitter and resentful man who was too lazy to realise his full potential, too superior to accept he was a middling talent, too irrationally conceited to celebrate the wonders of the human race, and too envious of his peers' success to give credit where it was due.

A starting point for this piece of mass public and personal image manipulation was writing 'The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft', a work finished for four-part serialisation as 'An Author at Grass' in 1901, then published in one volume in 1903. It was George's equivalent of a psy-ops operation - he intentionally muddied the historical waters by suggesting there were elements of autobiography in the piece. TPPOHR enthusiasts have long been captivated by the tale of this battle-weary scholarly writer who never had the breaks in life because he was always too hard up to give all his attention to his talent and consequently, had to see his potential frittered away. The smug, self-obsessed, odious Ryecroft needs that thing George most craved: sympathy. And his cringeworthy emotional manipulation and passive-aggressive whining reveals more about George's Machiavellian strategy to control others' perceptions than some readers might like to admit - or recognise.

Winter Landscape 1879

In Ryecroft, the conceit is that the author is 'at grass', an English phrase that comes from working animals being allowed a happy retirement in the fields rather than a swift jog to the abattoir. It implies Ryecroft - and George, by extension -  has been an industrious and productive unit, a noble beast of burden who has seen his lifetime's energies spent on selfless, back-breaking work. Nothing could be further from George's own life as the biggest sweat he ever worked up was digging his back garden cabbage patch. George spent his life blaming 'poverty' for his lack of social contacts but he was never truly poor. His lack of money was a self-inflicted act, but even at his lowest, he always had his family to borrow from. When, as a young man, he inherited a sizeable chunk of change, he frittered it away on vanity publishing his first (unwanted, then unread) novel. If he had spent that money wisely, his life would have taken a different route. In fact, everyone associated with him post 1879 would have been better off, too.

Ryecroft is lucky enough to inherit a modest annuity which allows him to live without poverty dogging his heels. So, what is the first thing he does? Well, it isn't realise his creative potential to write the sort of book he claimed poverty prevented him from writing! Neither was it an urge to do justice to his talents. He withdraws to a small rural location in Devon (a place George once lived in and came to dislike) to live the ascetic life as a reader of books, but with a housekeeper who keeps quiet and invisibly cares for his daily needs behind the scenes. From his armchair, Ryecroft treats us to his cod philosophy about the state of the world and how it is going to hell in a handcart, but not in the way of one who has ever made a contribution to redeeming it, but as one who stood on the sidelines moaning about the state of it all, with a sort of Eeyorish glee.

Gauguin's mother 1889

Now, anyone who knows anything about George Gissing knows that withdrawing to a small rural setting to live the ascetic life as a reader of books, with a housekeeper who keeps quiet and invisibly cares for his daily needs behind the scenes, was his life's dream. Everything he did that wasn't whoring after payment for work he considered rubbish (his own opinion of his books) was about pursuing the dream of living the ascetic life reading books, with a woman quietly behind the scenes making his life possible by taking on all the nasty, boring tasks he didn't want to do. That's why George got through three wives. In TPPOHR there is no acceptance of the faults of the man, himself, or the part he played in his creative demise; it is little more than a sanitised rationalisation that blame circumstances that let him down, and the misguided notion that his mind is too pure, too much at home in the ancient time of the Roman and Greek Classics, and too aesthetically refined to fit in with the world in which he finds himself. In fact, he claims to be a man out of his time.

It's no surprise 'The Private Papers' fools many into thinking George was Ryecroft because this was the intention. A harmless old codger with a sad past and a fondness for nature, a lover of books and learning is how George would have liked to be remembered. Not as the petty thief wife abuser-cum-child-abandoner of reality. If George's life was blighted it was because of his own character flaws, but his constant lack of insight led him to blame poverty and women for his misery.

Garden in Vaugirard (Painter's Family in the Garden at Rue Carcel) 1881

We are never treated to the chance to make our own minds up about Ryecroft because the preface tells us what we should think of him. This is George at his most self-aware, knowing and controlling, manipulating us into offering up sympathy on his terms. George had very little insight into what the general public knew about him - he probably didn't realise many literary people knew about his past - his prison past - and that they openly discussed him and his secretive, aberrant, deviant ways. He probably didn't know how badly regarded he was by his old mentor, Frederic Harrison, or how much HG Wells had gone off him, partly for the cruel way he treated Edith, the second wife, and how Wells disapproved of George making use of physical abuse to intimidate her. Both of them would spill the beans after his death. George thought his syphilis was a secret. and that no-one would ever discover the truth if he just kept on claiming he had TB. But his old Wakefield childhood friend and occasional GP, Dr Henry Hick had already suggested to him that the chronic lesions on his patient's forehead were syphilitic, not tubercular - as George claimed. After George's death, Hick would compare notes with Dr Jane Walker, George's medical TB specialist at the Suffolk sanatorium, Nylands click, who blew apart the contention George suffered from any form of tuberculosis, because she never found any evidence for it in 1901. George's end of life task was to bury these unpalatable things and lie to re-imagine and explain the ones he couldn't inter. Such as not being able to recall the year his first wife died in dire poverty after he abandoned her to her sad fate. Sins of commission and omission. No wonder he hoped Ryecroft would be a smokescreen.

Commonplace 211 George & Poetry.

Swinburne, aged 52 in 1889

In late 1883, George wrote to fellow-poet Algernon Swinburne for an appraisal of his work. At least, that was the cover story - surely George already believed in his own talent? After all, he paid his way through Owens College by winning prizes for his poems, and George was never one to lean towards either modesty or away from self-belief. So, was it a case of exploiting Swinburne's 'sympathy' in the hope the great man would be a useful contact and means of spreading the word about George's undiscovered genius? That sounds more like our man, does it not?

Sappho of Eresos
Roman copy of Greek work
Swinburne was a fan. 
As was Leopardi.

Born into a wealthy, genuinely middle class family, Swinburne went to Eton, then Oxford, from where he was rusticated for his political views. Algernon Swinburne (1837-1909) was possibly the poet George wanted to be. This piece is from this website click:

Swinburne was one of the most accomplished lyric poets of the Victorian era and was a pre-eminent symbol of rebellion against the conservative values of his time. The explicit and often pathological sexual themes of his most important collection of poetry, Poems and Ballads (1866), delighted some, shocked many, and became the dominant feature of Swinburne's image as both an artist and an individual. Nevertheless, critics have found that to focus exclusively on the sensational aspects of Swinburne's work is to miss the assertion, implicit in his poetry and explicit in his critical writings, that his primary preoccupation was the nature and creation of poetic beauty. 

The most important and conspicuous quality of Swinburne's work is an intense lyricism. Even early critics, who often took exception to his subject matter, commended his intricately extended and evocative imagery, metrical virtuosity, rich use of assonance and alliteration, and bold, complex rhythms. At the same time, the strong rhythms of his poems and his characteristic use of alliteration were sometimes carried to extremes and rendered his work highly susceptible to parody. Critics note that his usually effective imagery is at times vague and imprecise, and his rhymes are sometimes facile and uninspired. After establishing residence in Putney, Swinburne largely abandoned the themes of pathological sexuality that had characterized much of his earlier poetry. Nature and landscape poetry began to predominate, as well as poems about children. Many commentators maintain that the poetry written during the years at Putney is inferior to Swinburne's earlier work, but others have identified individual poems of exceptional merit among his later works, citing in particular "By the North Sea," "Evening on the Broads," "A Nympholept," "The Lake of Gaube," and "Neap-Tide." ...

Throughout his career Swinburne also published literary criticism of great acuity. His familiarity with a wide range of world literatures contributed to a critical style rich in quotation, allusion, and comparison. He is particularly noted for discerning studies of Elizabethan dramatists and of many English and French poets and novelists. In response to criticism of his own works, Swinburne wrote essays, including Notes on Poems and Reviews (1866) and Under the Microscope (1872), that are celebrated for their wit and insight. Swinburne also published one novel, Love's Cross-Currents (1901), serially under a pseudonym, and left another, Lesbia Brandon, unfinished at his death. The first attracted little notice other than some speculation about its authorship. Some critics have theorized that Lesbia Brandon was intended as thinly disguised autobiography; however, its fragmentary form resists conclusive interpretation.

Poetry 
by Sir Laurence Alma-Tadema 

When George wrote to him, Swinburne was already a legend, and George held him in high regard. In ‘George Gissing at Work: Extracts From My Reading’ (p. 40) he describes, in 1883, how he thinks Ruskin’s prose is the best there is, and Swinburne is a poetic version of Ruskin. George sent his poetic hero a presentation copy of 'The Unclassed' - sending a gift copy of his latest novel was a typical gesture from our man when he wanted to curry favour especially when he sought out praise and recognition from those he considered his equals. But by 1888, he had stopped being a fan; and yet, when Swinburne’s star was once more in the ascendant, and the death of Tennyson necessitated a new Poet Laureate, George said he backed Swinburne for the job - at least, that's what he told the Idler magazine. So, here is George always following, never leading, aesthetic opinion. He subsequently references Swinburne in his short story 'The Honeymoon', one of the most odious of all George's perverse short stories. There might be a smidgen of jealousy creeping in, and a touch of schadenfreude for Swinburne's fall from favour by mentioning him here.

Swinburne suffered from a strange malady that sometimes resembled epilepsy, which was really the easiest-to-deal-with part of his unique physical and mental condition - a madness possibly brought on by substance abuse. He was friends with the Rossettis and moved in the Pre-Raphaelite wider circle, but he fell under the spell of drink and narcotics, and, for a while, spiralled down into a state of disarray and futility. He was rescued by an intriguing cove called Theodore Watts-Dunton, a renowned lawyer (he represented Swinburne), critic and literary commentator who took Swinburne in to his home and reformed him. A life of decadent excess had worn out the poet, and he needed to be saved from himself. If ever there was a role model George might have made use of, we can be glad it wasn't Swinburne, though it must have been tempting. Perhaps not having much money saved George from this fate! The Divine Oscar said Swinburne was "a braggart in matters of vice, who had done everything he could to convince his fellow citizens of his homosexuality and bestiality without being in the slightest degree a homosexual or a bestialiser." Probably not for want of trying, Oscar haha.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Theodore Watt-Dunston  at 16 Cheyne Walk by Henry Treffry Dunn

Swinburne replied to George on October 29th 1883. He had subbed out the task of critiquing to Watts-Dunton, then taken a look himself at the poems George submitted. Which was generous of the pair of them. He wrote that he believed George had genuine power of language... As to the so-called pessimism of some parts of your work, the one objection that occurs to me is that critics and readers generally will accuse you of treading in the steps of James Thomson, himself a disciple of Leopardi’s, but for this you will probably be prepared. This wasn't exactly fulsome praise, until you understand how immensely talented pessimist Leopardi was, and how downbeat Thomson's more famous works usually turned out to be.

Leopardi (1798-1837) was an Italian talent whose life and work are too immense to go into here, but have a look at this click. He was a polymath and poet who tended towards the darker side of things and his bleak world view would have been a home from home for George. Swinburne translated him into English.

James Thomson (1834-1882) - there is usually BV after his name - BV is for Bysshe Vanolis, the name he adopted as a pseudonym to distinguish him from other poets called James Thomson - was raised in the Holloway Orphanage, an institution set up to care for Scottish children left parentless by the Napoleonic Wars. It was situated in the locale just round the corner from where George lived in Islington, and gave the name to the district of the Caledonian Road click. Thomson was a friend of Charles Bradlaugh's (founder of the National Secular Society and famous for not swearing on the Bible when in Court). One of his most famous poems is 'The City of Dreadful Night'. Here are a couple of verses of the poem that could be about George, and his brooding, misanthropic pessimism:

(From The City of Dreadful Night)

Some say that phantoms haunt those shadowy streets
And mingle freely there with sparse mankind,
And tell of ancient woes and black defeats,
And murmur mysteries in the grave enshrined:
But others think them visions of illusion, 
Or even men gone far in self-confusion;
No man there being wholly sane in mind.

And yet a man who raves, however mad,
Who bares his heart and tells of his own fall,
Reserves some inmost secret good or bad:
The phantoms have no reticence at all:
The nudity of flesh will blush though tameless
The extreme nudity of bone grins shameless,
The unsexed skeleton mocks shroud and pall.

For the complete work click

Presumably, the 'steps' of Thomson's that George was following in were the bleaker thoughts on humanity, urban spaces, psychogeography, pessimism and nihilism. It would seem Swinburne, in passing this remark, was familiar with George's novels, because our man's poems tend to be a bit more upbeat, if a tad fey, in comparison. One of George's failings (as a poet!) is he seems too wedded to the mechanics of poetry and he frequently fails to deliver any money shot - which is really everything a poem is about. All that acquired knowledge about verse construction and Greek composition seems to have smothered creativity and emotional strength. His longer poems are workmanlike but ultimately, unsatisfying in emotional terms.

Thomson became increasingly disillusioned with the lack of recognition for his work, and sank into depression and alcoholism. George, increasingly disillusioned with the lack of recognition for his work, sank into self-pity and moved to France.

Commonplace 210 George & Writing.

'Loneliness is a cloak you wear...' sang the Walker Brothers in 1966 click

Loneliness by Hans Toma c 1900

Writing is generally a solitary occupation. Though many a good book must have been written with others in the room, the archetype of the writer as a single soul battling to communicate a story or an idea in solitude is what we run to when we think of the role - though it is difficult to think of Shakespeare or Boswell shacked up in their garrets eschewing company. Nowadays, writing using digital media means anyone can write anywhere - though I am sat here in isolation so as to be able to concentrate, access my resources, and make some coffee whenever I choose.

George seems to have been a self-indulgent, temperamental, over-sensitive soul not really cut out for any job of work, inasmuch as work generally requires rubbing shoulders with fellow humans. Its not them as physical bodies that is so challenging, its the adapting to their funny little ways. George did not do 'adapting' and was intolerant of others' 'funny little ways'. People, as a concept, generally left him wanting - he felt superior in intellect to most people he met (he moved in quite a narrow circle haha), was not good at small talk, and had no conscious fondness for gossip - though he enjoyed it surreptitiously by dressing it up in his letters as 'information' - news passed on, is still gossip when it involves others' doings. He refused social invites but that was an attention-seeking pose more than a reflection of his 'genius', as, by declining, he made a bid for that dratted 'sympathy' he so craved, plus pointed the finger of blame at either Marianne aka Nell or Edith so that others would not hold his foibles against him.

Solitude Idyll
by Sir Frederick Leighton 1881-3

It was as if he chose the trade of writing as a solution to his misanthropic tendencies - few jobs offer greater opportunities for being alone and provide less chance of coming up against people you don't like. The downside, of course, was the crucifying loneliness he claimed to feel, though this is somewhat over-stated, and will be forever linked to his sexual longings for sexual company. Did he really feel lonely in other ways? He liked socialising when he chose the time and the place - his Letters are peppered with requests to meet up, suggestions his wider family relocate to be closer, and the futile attempts he makes to lure Algernon into his geographical circle (all rebuffed, as Algernon had more sense than to move in with George unless he had to very briefly for practical reasons). But always on his own terms - which is the way he did everything, especially the unheroic stuff.

Wives were not really welcome in his domestic set-up because they got under his feet too much, and children, well, they had better not be too demanding. Guests such as Eduard Bertz and Morley Roberts were welcome in strictly controlled chunks of time, and Herr Plitt was allowed entry to the inner sanctum on occasion, but all three were men George felt intellectually superior to, so they would have not been too threatening for his fragile ego defences. It was also what helped keep him lonely - no wife can compensate a writer when the writer is so miserable whilst they are writing about misery.

George seems forever trapped in the late adolescent pose of suffering solitude; others have to come and find him - like he is a buried treasure they must excavate. Actual writing as work generally lays him low, he develops his man flu and 'seediness' - his term for feeling below par - and every word is wrenched out of him as an act of exorcism, more than a product of creative flow. The mental exhaustion he feels both during and at the end of the process that makes you wonder if it was all worthwhile - and maybe he should have found some other form of employment, if only for the sake of his health. A 'square peg in a round hole' might be the phrase used for one so woefully misplaced in their choice of profession. This is said out of meanness - much of George's personal unhappiness and dissatisfaction with his life can be laid at the door of his chosen profession. But he was not well-equipped for any other job; he hated teaching, and would have always hated it. He was not a physical type, he lacked people skills, and detested the sort of pen-pushing desk jockey he mocked in his novels and short stories. Shopwork? - imagine that! He lacked the patience or generosity of spirit for that.

Automat by Edward Hopper 1927

Work was for him, a form of masochistic therapy. Whatever would he have done without the lash of money-making to keep him focused away from his natural tendency to gloom? His greatest strength was in his ability to read for extended periods (not everyone can do this!), which requires a skills set not easily transferable to other callings. If you add up all the hours he spent reading and then compare them to the hours he spent writing, you will see he did more of the former than the latter. But he got more enjoyment out of the former. It's not just the writing that requires a place of solitude - probably, reading even more so demands we be left in peace. All those days in the British Library 'under the dome' would have required silence and a lot of private head space. It is much harder to feel entitled to interrupt reading - it''s like you break some sort of spell. Whereas, unless you are a writer yourself, you think anyone having to write something lengthy would welcome the diversion of chat. And as the interruptor, you feel you are saving the interuptee from themselves just be selflessly diverting them from their task.

Of course, George was producing 'Art' and this was bound up, in his mind, with suffering. So, not only was writing the ideal occupation for his self-pitying solitary ways, it was an excellent fit with his daft notion that 'there is no gain without pain' where Art is concerned.
Do Artists 'agonize'? Apart from the reaction to the grief of his best friend's suicide, Picasso never claimed to do more than work very hard. Did the divine Oscar sweat blood over that 'Ernest' play? Is it not true that if a work is such a strain to produce, it can only show in its execution? Not that there isn't hard graft and applied skill involved; it's just the grace of the thing has to be apparent, and the words have to slide off the page and into the brain and soul, without the awareness that you are actually reading something made up. If it was hard to write, it will be hard to read!

Solitude by Guillaume Seignac (not for very long haha)

There is a generally held feeling in psychotherapy that individuals always act in their own interests - even when short-term gains are meagre and long-term consequences negative - then disguise it in order not to appear 'self-centred'. Accordingly, even those who choose altruism (see Commonplace 51 for an overview of Ayn Rand and Objectivism) are acting from self interest, though they cloak it in terms of 'compassion' and 'charity'. George tended to be what might be termed 'selfish' and, in order to justify it, developed a persona of put-upon down-trodden hapless stooge of a husband to two wives, and a misunderstood, under-appreciated novelist who was out of time with what was really wanted by the reading public. It's interesting that, after all the moaning on about loneliness and the awful life he lived without a companion, the moment he moved in with Gabrielle Fleury, he did all he could to give her the slip so he could head off and be on his own. Makes you wonder if it was all part of his cunning plan to be a lonesome his whole life. 

Lonesome George the Galapagos Tortoise (1912-2012), the last of his
sub-species seen here in livelier days. 

Commonplace 209 George & William, & Nell.

On May 17^th 1879, five months before her marriage to George, Marianne aka Nell, went to stay with her ‘brother-in-law’, William in his lodgings at Rose Cottage, Wilmslow, Cheshire. George wanted a break from caring for her, a duty he always resented having to do because it forced him to focus his energies onto someone other than himself. He blamed Nell for her illness, the worst element of which was her epilepsy, and very quickly decided he wanted to be rid of her. If you've been sold the notion he martyred himself to care for her - think again. George did all he could to farm her out to hospitals and to live with paid carers; this little holiday with William was right at the beginning of this process. William was a resource he exploited, for his own gains rather than exclusively for Marianne's benefit, so that he could spend time on his writing and doing the sort of thing he wanted to be doing with no dependent to look after. He demonstrated a very similar attitude to his children, getting them out of the way whenever he could and even kidnapping Walter to send to Wakefield against his second wife's wishes, so that the burden of fatherhood wouldn't encumber him.  

Tristan and Iseult by Edmund Blair Leighton 1902

William obviously got on well with Marianne, which, if we were gullible enough to believe all that George's biographers write, would seem to be a nigh on impossible thing for any decent chap to be capable of. They shared a love of music, not George's snobby stuff, with its emphasis on judging it in terms of good or bad Art, but with simple heartfelt appreciation. William would have found a rapt audience for his violin, and he enjoyed performing and liked social company, so entertaining at home would have come naturally to him. Marianne had a fine speaking voice - as reported by one of George's relatives who knew her (I bet that shocked you!) and so she may have accompanied his playing with singing. As her strength improved, they enjoyed walks together, and reading poetry. One of Marianne's favourites may have been Thomas Hood's The Last Rose of Summer, which was set to a traditional Celtic air (click to hear it). Maybe this was because they were staying at Rose Cottage.

The Blind Girl by John Everett Millais 1854-56

It is worth stopping and thinking about the significance of this short holiday, for what it tells us about William's character, and what it possibly suggests about Marianne's. I do not subscribe to the lie that Marianne aka Nell was ever a prostitute. There is no evidence for it, and, considering the times in which she lived, with its focus on vice and retribution for vice, there would have been evidence of arrests, charges and penalties for soliciting - and there aren't any. George makes no reference to it, either. There was no evidence in September 1883 when George was duped into hiring a 'detective' to spy on her with the view to making a case for divorce, despite the 'detective' being a police sergeant who was well-paid to follow her, observe her behaviour, and report back all misdemeanours. In spite of his efforts and being in the sort of place where searching through police records was a possibility, and regardless of speaking to her neighbours, local publicans and sundry shop-keepers, the man could not find anything untoward in Marianne's life -  except for dire poverty, loneliness and the effects of neglect by a husband too selfish to live with her.

No doubt Nell and William bonded over their shared health concerns, and their determination to get well. William was a firm believer in the restorative effects of good food and relaxation, and Nell certainly benefited from having decent meals and not the starvation rations George made them subsist on. William will have had a good idea of how difficult to live with George could be, and no doubt hoped to restore whatever inner strength she had to cope with living with such a critical and demanding partner. But, would William have responded as emotionally freely as he did to Marianne if he had thought she was ever a prostitute or an alcoholic? 

Peace Concluded by John Everett Millais 1856

Even as a gesture extended to a legal sister-in-law, this holiday was a huge commitment, and indicative of William's innate human decency, compassion and unselfishness. Although he was a young man who was not in any way officially 'bohemian', William was a person not afraid to think for himself, and follow his own philosophy of life to the extent of acting on his beliefs, in practical ways. He did not feel uncomfortable with Nell's social class, which makes me wonder if her lowly status has been over-hyped by far from impartial biographers. Whatever Marianne's origins - and these are still a mystery - she must have passed inspection by the landlady, a woman determined to maintain the good name of her establishment - the seat of her financial security. Nell must have been accepted as a believable sister-in-law of posh William. When you read that Marianne was a destitute whore plucked from the mean streets of Manchester by an heroic redeemer - think again!

William gave regular updates on the state of Nell's health, and her recovery. He wrote to George detailing four episodes of convulsions on the first night of her stay, which he attends personally with his landlady. Over the next few weeks, he feeds Marianne up – much as the Wells’ do with George in 1900 and 1901 – and makes sure she enjoys herself. The change of environment, tasty food and free and easy occupation work their magic on Marianne, and the fits tapered off. When she began to pine for George, William had to put a good deal of pressure on him to join them for a few days, reminding his brother how much Nell would get out of such a visit.  

Marianne eventually had to go back to London and her man. She had been caring for him long-distance by reminding him (in William's letters) to water the plants and telling him where his socks were, Not unexpectedly, the fits returned when she got home. Stress seemed to trigger the worst of her convulsions, and we will never know how much she suffered under George's dominion. We know he displayed Sado-masochistic tendencies especially where women were concerned, and it would take a woman in robust physical and mental health to withstand him. That he never married a woman who was his equal in terms of match weight (to borrow a boxing term) intellectually, meant he could decimate them in the field of debate - and recall the way Waldron exults his superior physical strength over Phyllis in the posts on George & The Honeymoon - see Commonplaces 107 and 108). He liked tiny women with frail, consumptive aspects - though he was not afraid to wield a big stick or a metal stair rod, if HG Wells' son, Anthony West is to be believed, and if a letter to his brother, Algernon, isn't the joke people take it to be. He tended to think in Darwinian terms about women and with those of a lower social class - with women and the poor being, in his mind, little more than beasts of the field. 

The Long Engagement by Arthur Hughes 1859

After returning home to George, Marianne maintains her affectionate relationship with William by asking to be remembered to him in George's letters, adding her own notes, and making needlework gifts, including a violin case. In April 1880, when William finally succumbed to pulmonary TB, Marianne must have been distraught. When his personal effects were being divided amongst the Gissings, Marianne asked for a small poetry book that she was very fond of. It is described erroneously in the Heroic biography Vol 1 as The Junior Book of Poetry, for Schools and Families edited by William Davis - no doubt to insinuate that Marianne was simple-minded and couldn't have appreciated anything but children's verse - but it was (see illustration), The Book of Poetry for Families and Schools - available here for free click. It was a collection of the very best in contemporary poetry, with an emphasis on life-affirming and uplifting, accessible verse. It contains the Thomas Hood poem 'Tis The Last Rose of Summer. William was a few days dead when George wrote this to Algernon:

Kindest regards from Nell. She has had a recurrence of very severe fits lately. By the bye, she says she should extremely like, as a memento if Will, who was so kind to her, that little Davis' Poetry Book he had. Do you think she could have it sent to her some day?

 

Her champion had gone and Marianne aka Nell was truly alone in the world. I wonder if she realised her own days were numbered? William did such extraordinary things with his short and never easy life, and he behaved with decency, generosity and modesty. George's biographers have him down as some sort of priggish, dull Mr Normal, but he really was a very exceptional chap who turned words into actions and made his own way despite his disadvantages. Unlike his older brother, he did not think the world owed him anything. In a multiverse/parallel universe click I hope he is living with Marianne and both are in the pink, in an existence full of music and happiness.   

When George wrote to Algernon on August 8th 1881 he mentioned the gravestone put up for William: 'I am glad to hear you like the memorial which has been put up at Wilmslow. The very plainest & simplest in such cases is always the best, if there must be one at all. I personally should prefer none at all, but that is a matter of opinion & sentiment.'  We learn from the editors' footnotes that William's gravestone read: 'William Whittington Gissing - Died April 16th 1880 - aged 20 years.' 

George did not pay for a headstone for Marianne; this has been left to her well-wishers to provide. The cemetery is in Blackshaw Road, Lambeth. Her grave number is 731 3J CONS.

Commonplace 208  George & His Brother William PART TWO

On May 17^th 1879, five months before her marriage to George, Marianne aka Nell, went to stay with her ‘brother-in-law’, William in his lodgings at Rose Cottage, Wilmslow, Cheshire. 

Rose Cottage

In William's day, Wilmslow was a medium-sized village with regular transport links to Manchester, a prime place for commuters to live far removed from that city's terrible dirt and industry click. Nowadays, Wilmslow is one of the most prestigious addresses in the north of England, the home of the nouveau riche, footballers and celebrities and is a sort of Northern version of Loughton click minus the Southern charm. (I would say that, as I am a Southerner haha) However, it is also renowned as the place where Alan Turing committed suicide in 1954, following the homophobic harassment he received at the hands of the misguided British Establishment.

This little holiday was meant to improve the state of Marianne's health, but was mainly to give George a break from his role of carer. William, no stranger to illness himself (pulmonary tuberculosis had forced him to abandon working in a bank), demonstrated a marked degree of empathy towards Marianne, providing her with what might have been one of the happiest times of her life, if not in fact, the last happy time.

 

Adlington Road

Marianne suffered from scrofula, the glandular form of tuberculosis. George's letters to Algernon and William explain how this manifested itself - convulsions, rheumatism, abdominal neuralgia, haemoptysis (spitting blood); tonsillitis, congestion; insomnia; tumours on her arm and face; toothache; ‘erysipelas-like’ facial lesions; confusion; weight loss; delirium; headache; and serious eye problems. These are, in themselves, debilitating and disabling - Marianne needed someone to care about the outcome of all this suffering, and George was no doubt demonstrating ambivalence, already wishing he could jump ship and leave her to it - which he eventually did, not long after they were legally married. George had taken on the role of carer reluctantly and resentfully, and his letters demonstrate this.

In Marianne’s time, treatment for scrofula was ineffectual, bordering on the iatrogenic. Toxic substances such as antimony; mercury; baryta (bromide); hemlock; belladonna; and opium were prescribed. Ironically, even back in the eighteenth century, these toxic substances were known to produce seizures and neurological damage; in the nineteenth, they  could be bought 'over the counter' in shops such as George's father's chemist's shop (that's a lot of apostrophes!) in Wakefield.  There was the option of surgery to remove the disfiguring pustules but this was often ill-advised as surgical intervention was known to carry the risk of spreading the disease to other organs. There was no cure for it until the advent of antibiotics in the middle of the twentieth century, but drug-resistant strains are now making TB a formidable foe once more, especially in Africa and China.

Though we will never know exactly how spitefully his resentment manifested itself behind closed doors, the callous way George blamed Nell for her own, as well as his, predicament, remains one of George's vilest acts towards her, possibly only topped by the character assassination he regularly visited upon her good name that went on as far as the 1890s and his grovelling relationship with Miss Collet. In order to deflect his own guilt at abandoning his first wife (thereby adding to her great suffering), he destroyed his Diaries up the year 1888, the year that more or less started with her death. This was done to prevent any sympathy going Marianne's way - after all, he couldn't blame his wives for his miserable life if anyone could ever get to know and like them, or maybe sympathise and realise how badly he treated them, could he? No; all sympathy had to go to him, the hard-done by husband paying the doctors' bills and 'caring' for Nell. If it wasn't for George's replies to William's (and, to a lesser extent, Algernon's) letters, we might believe George's finely crafted version of Nell's life. George writes angrily about how her physical condition affects his mental life - he makes no mention of how it affects hers.

At the time of the holiday with Will, it was epilepsy that dominated her health concerns. Epilepsy is a sudden, recurrent episode of sensory disturbance and loss of consciousness generally associated with abnormal electrical activity in the brain. Typical seizures present a range of observable behaviours immediately before unconsciousness sets in. This ‘fugue state’ may bring slurred speech, problems with balance, the appearance of stupefaction, and hallucination-like sensations of touch and sight which may result in bizarre reactions and behaviours. In the classic grand mal fit there is sudden collapse often resulting in injury producing bleeding wounds (particularly to the head), frequently accompanied by disturbing, frightening, sounds as the vocal chords go in to spasm. Unconsciousness follows, then a process of bodily rigidity, writhing movements, possible incontinence, and tongue-biting with bloody frothing saliva. Clothes may have become torn or dishevelled, embarrassing for all when undergarments or intimate body parts are inadvertently displayed. Seizures of the grand mal type are usually single events, but in ‘status epilepticus’ the sufferer does not regain consciousness but returns to restart the fit process perhaps several times. This is often a life-threatening situation due to problems with getting enough air to the lungs. Anyone with, for example, underlying lung disease - such as TB - is particularly vulnerable.

On regaining consciousness there may be confusion and disorientation and the sufferer might exhibit ‘post- seizure automatism’, a situation sometimes leading to potentially socially inappropriate behaviours, such as removing clothes or interacting in an uncharacteristically sexually provocative way with strangers. Belligerence and aggression with swearing and shouting are also possible, pre- and post-seizure. Today, as in George's, more often than not, the ignorant would assume the victim of these attacks is paralytically drunk and so leave the victim possibly suffocating in the street, unable to regain consciousness. We now know there are many forms of epilepsy that produce a broad range of signs and symptoms. The causes of epilepsy are largely still a mystery, but damage to the brain by injury, infection, genetic abnormality, or environmental factors is often a precursor. It is well-known to be exacerbated by stress - Marianne certainly had her fair share of that, living with George.

St Bartholomew's Wilmslow

William was more than sympathetic to her plight - he displayed a degree of empathy that was never at any time to be found in George's make-up. To this was matched the practical application of his own personal philosophy of what contributes to a picture of good health: good personal hygiene, tasty and adequate nutrition and diverting mental stimulation. Added to this was his total belief in PMA - Positive Mental Attitude - for him, there was no more efficacious way for the human body to tackle the adversity of illness. Will may have channelled the philosophy of Samuel Smiles and his 'Self Help' here, but he always believed in facing up to life's challenges, and he was not one to make a health mountain out of a molehill. Being the opposite of George in many ways, he played down the parlous state of his own health and never sought out that dratted 'sympathy' George so cravenly needed. In fact, he would have been embarrassed to find others feeling sorry for him or thinking he was in need of special treatment.

Commonplace 207  George & His Brother, William. PART ONE.

September 15th is William Gissing's birthday. Happy Birthday, Will. click

William aged about 18

On his 17th birthday, William spent the day lathered in sulphur ointment desperately trying to rid himself of a skin disorder that took upwards of three weeks to cure. As sulphur is an ancient and very effective cure for a number of maladies, it isn't possible to know exactly what troubled him, but, his job brought him into contact with new dangers, both from mixing with the general public and maybe with something a young man of slender means might experience - an allergy to money! Believe it or not, you can have such a thing - see click. And you will see here click that the suitable treatment for this was - and is - sulphur.

William wrote long letters to George when the latter was exiled in America. The one he sent on October 29th 1876, gives us some good clues into this pleasant young man's inner workings. He gave George news that he had found digs in the Lancashire village of Withington click within easy travelling distance of Manchester; he lodged with the Clark family, a father and daughter, and one other lodger. He describes it as: we all live together like one family. They are very kind & I am extremely comfortable - which is a very William statement as he is eternally optimistic and a glass half full sort of a chap (unlike you know who!). Even disappointment from the lack of access to the piano (the room where it is situated is let to a German chap) is smoothed over, and he mentions he doesn't over-practise his violin so as not to disturb the neighbours - Of course, I do not think the violin squeaky or disagreeable, but it may be a matter of opinion. His lodgings was in St Paul's Place which was probably very close to the church click and which housed a very good organ he might have been interested to hear - it had been recommended as 'an excellent instrument' by no less than Felix Mendelssohn, the composer.

St Paul's church, Withington, built in 1841. With organ recommended by Mendelssohn.  

William tells George he has joined the local library at the cost of a shilling a quarter, a considerable sum from his meagre wages, but worth it. This was not the purpose-built building we now have (that was built in 1927), but back then, a part of the Withington Public Hall click. As he owns up to a sneaking admiration for the book 'Self Help' by Samuel Smiles, William may well have borrowed it from there. Samuel Smiles in a nutshell can be summed up in one word: Perseverance! For a bit of self help yourself click. For more on some surprisingly famous old Withingtononians click. 

Sir Galahad With An Angel
by Sir Joseph Noel Paton c 1888

Neither of George's brothers are well served by biographers. Algernon is usually portrayed as a sponging inadequate who dragged round George's neck like a wannabe literary albatross. In fact, he was a modestly successful novelist who might have been more widely read if he had been the recipient of effective literary representation. Lack of opportunity must not be confused with lack of ability, and though Algernon's sort of fiction is not popular with today's Gissing snobs, it could well appeal to a wide audience of those who turn to reading as a bit of light relief from the monotony of life. That his work did not find an audience does not mean an audience was not there. George always felt closer to William, almost two years younger. They both seem to have teamed up to regard Algernon as an outsider to their little set, but we mustn't make too much of that. Threesomes in sibling groups are difficult to maintain in terms of equality, and some children find partisanship empowering, especially in times of turmoil and threat. The role of youngest boy meant Algernon was forever the butt of older brother competitiveness, but he was the third child, and so became a master of compromise - see Commonplace 11 for an overview of how place in sibling hierarchy can impact on personality. Neither William nor Algernon valued academic attainment over personal happiness, and neither had a weakness for the false allure of fame. Perhaps, as schoolboys, watching from the sidelines as George crashed and burned cured them of those sorts of ambitions.

William was a proud chap who would have been deeply wounded by the blot on the Gissings' good name brought about by his older brother's prison term, following those thefts at Owens College. He might well have considered he had something to prove above and beyond the usual round of life's achievements, and so working in a bank - which paid him about 16/6d a week - might have seemed like a respectable future. But the meagre pay did not cover his basic expenses - his lodgings (more or less all in) was 18/- a week - and so he needed financial support from his mother. This was not an atypical situation as many young men had to start at the very bottom and hope their drive and dedication would be recognised in pay rises and promotions. Besides, William had plans to supplement his wages with some part-time music teaching. Contrast this with George's attitude to how to solve a problem like being strapped for cash! How long would he have lasted in a bank before dipping his hand in the till!! But, William was a different kettle of fish altogether - from his money-making schemes, you will appreciate how responsible William was, and how diligent in his desire to be independent whilst remaining honest.

Victory by Sir Frank Dicksee c1890

Unlike George, he speaks of wanting to make friends with his fellow-lodgers; he felt lonely at times - the close bonds of the ready-made social group at school was gone, and he missed the company: At present I see no chance to get to know any more people than I do now for I go through precisely the same routine day after day. At 17, this must have been hard to bear, especially if nothing was looming on the horizon, fun-wise, because William was sociable in ways George was not; it also meant his potential for recruiting pupils for his teaching would be limited.

One of William's great disappointments must have been the lack of exposure to music tuition in his very young years - he always felt behind in terms of technique, which he knew has to be hard-wired in childhood in order to be intuitive and truly accomplished. He seems to have discovered his talent for the piano at school, where he often played for the assembled boys. But he was a worker (unlike George!) who did not think the world owed him a living (unlike George), someone who expected his efforts would one day pay dividends.

From references he makes in the Letters to his working conditions, the long hours, the responsibility of the work, it's clear the role did not accurately represent his personal qualities or his need for a creative outlet. But, he was not a quitter and this courageous and dutiful young man, who did not complain much about his lot, looked to the future to make things right for all his hard work. However, he knew that progress through the ranks at the bank were unlikely - again, it was 'who you know' not 'what you know' (which makes a nonsense of thinking meritocracy actually works!). Indeed, William says 'excellence goes for nothing, or very little, perseverance and patience are all that is required. I am already getting up my name for a hard worker (unlike you know who!) & that is a good point gained. But, an advantage to this job was that it provided him with the certainty that, being trusted with other people's money, he was absolved of any larcenous taint (unlike you know who!), and so it might have been a good idea to stick it out. He was given a raise in salary (a stunning £5 per annum!) quite quickly, mainly because of his diligence and willingness to apply himself to any task with good nature and perseverance - Smiles was right, after all.

Portrait of Beethoven by Andy Warhol 1987

When his health began to deteriorate, and the true seriousness of his situation became clear, William seems to become more mature and determined. Too ill to work in a bank, he took up teaching music, but there was a very small gene pool of would-be pupils, and he could not make a living at it. He tried to make a place for himself playing the organ in churches, but a combination of croneyism and lack of 'who you know' contacts finished that dream. It's interesting to note he never went home to Wakefield to find work - perhaps the shame he felt at his brother's disgrace kept him in Lancashire, and safely away from gossip. It would have been easy for Will to go back there - he would have had the support of his family and the benefit of free nursing care - but he heroically struggled on, not wanting to give anyone any trouble and not wanting to be a burden, and, whilst keeping himself independent, trying to live some sort of an ordinary life. When 'heroism' is linked to the Gissing name, it is William who should be so honoured.  

He seems to have been a real gem of a youth, the sort of lad you could bring home to your mother without fear he would let you down, and the sort any mother would encourage a daughter to favour. He was only 17 when he wrote this to George (January 17th 1877):

I am very glad you are settled now, though I hardly expected from your previous letter that it would be as a master; nevertheless I am very glad to hear it, as there seems something in the quiet routine of teaching which is very pleasing - having none of that hardening influence which business has & which even I, I fear, begin to feel already, for ordinary business can produce very little satisfaction, generally having only, for its foundation, that mean money-making spirit which is the bane of the world - no music, no poetry, no love in it, only one everlasting stubborn fight...   

JOIN ME IN PART TWO FOR A LOOK AT WILLIAM'S AFFECTION FOR GEORGE'S FIRST WIFE, MARIANNE AKA NELL.