Winter XV. Treehouse + Gissing + Bars

Intro & Preface & Contents

Previous: Winter XIV. Lancashire

Nothing in all of Homer pleases me more that the bedstead of Odysseus...

Did anyone ever imitate the admirable precedent? Were I a young man, and an owner of land, assuredly I would do so. Choose some goodly tree, straight-soaring; cut away head and branches; leave just the clean trunk and build about it in such manner that the top of the rooted timber rises a couple feet above your bedroom floor. The trunk need not be manifest in the lower part of the house, but I should prefer to have it so; I am a tree worshipper; it should be as the visible presence of a household god. And how could one more nobly symbolize the sacredness of Home? There can be no home without the sense of permanence, and without home there is no civilization -- as England will discover when the greater part of her population have become flat-inhabiting nomads. In some ideal commonwealth, one can imagine the Odyssean bed a normal institution, every head of a household, cottager or lord (for the commonwealth must have its lords, go to!), lying down to rest, as did his fathers, in the Chamber of the Tree. This, one fancies, were a somewhat more fitting nuptial chamber than the chance bedroom of a hotel. Odysseus building his home is man performing a supreme act of piety; through all the ages that picture must retain its profound significance....”

George Gissing.

This may be a good time to bring up something that’s been bothering me while reading this book. Both Ryecroft and Gissing were family men, though not particularly successful ones, yet there is no sign of that in anything he’s written to date. Henry is a widower with a daughter married off somewhere. Gissing’s marital life was anything but happy. Had he built the house described above for his first wife, he likely would have burned it down later. So where does this Pollyanna attitude toward the “sacredness of Home” come from? And why does he not write a single word about his own domestic past?

“Gissing's academic career ended in disgrace when he fell in love with a young orphan prostitute, Marianne Helen Harrison, known as Nell [of course!]. He gave her money in an attempt to keep her off the streets and when funds ran short he stole from his fellow students...” “After returning to England [from America], Gissing settled in London with Nell, writing fiction and working as a private tutor. He failed to get his first novel published and privately printed his next work, Workers in the Dawn, at his own expense as no publisher would accept it. The marriage at the centre of this novel was based on experience of his relationship with Nell, whom he married on 27 October 1879...” “Before his next novel, The Unclassed was published in 1884, Gissing and his wife had separated, although he continued to support her financially until her alcohol-related death in 1888...” “On 25 February 1891, he married another working-class woman, Edith Alice Underwood. They settled in Exeter, but moved to Brixton in June 1893 and Epsom in 1894. They had two children, Walter Leonard (1891–1916) and Alfred Charles Gissing (1896–1975), but the marriage was not successful. Edith did not understand his work and was prone to fits of temper and violence. In April 1896, Walter was sent to stay with Gissing's sisters in Wakefield, to prevent him being a victim of Edith's violence. As well as his marital difficulties, Gissing developed health problems in the 1890s. The couple separated in 1897; in 1902, Edith was certified insane and was confined to an asylum. At this time he met and befriended Clara Collet who was probably in love with him, although it is unclear whether he reciprocated. They remained friends for the rest of his life and after his death she helped to support Edith and the children.”

-Wiki

You’d think there would have been an anecdote or two from all that, he could have borrowed for this book, but perhaps he didn’t want to start down that road. Henry comes off here as the sort of confirmed bachelor that I am in fact. As a self professed “tree worshipper,” I wonder if he is aware that the North of England Industrial Revolution he so disliked saved the remaining forests of Britain? Back when wood was the primary building material for structures and ships, and the source of charcoal, the forests were quickly disappearing. Coal and iron helped save the forests just as kerosene helped save the sperm whales.

Bars and parents.

It has been pouring rain today, since we are in a drought this is a good thing. To get out of the house, without straying too far in the storm, I have come to the Cafe Bastille for dinner. This place is a favorite of mine for the delicious chocolate mouse (something I never order anywhere else) and a Cabernet Sauvignon I'm quite fond of, but on a stormy night like this I particularly like it for the venue, or room or space. This is not the outdoor seating in a crowded alley, that I enjoy at other seasons. Or the indoor seating that is an acceptable alternative on rainy afternoons. No, I'm talking about the basement, decorated to suggest (vaguely) the Paris subway. To dash down the rain swept alley and then descend into this crowded and festive Gallic space is to strip away the veil that separates Paris from California. You think I exaggerate, but I've often come here with French expatriates and I assure you this is a magical space not only consonant but congruent with Paris. Until you climb the stairs to the street, you may as well be in -- or under -- the City of Lights.

Tonight I beg and plead with the staff and they make me my favorite dish, even though it isn't currently on the menu. This is a pasta dish but not one you would find in any Italian restaurant. The heavenly sauce is buttery and herbal. The pasta soaks up this light and delicious broth... and if there is any sauce left over I use the last of the bread to capture every last drop.

The Cafe Bastille is not a bar but, especially the crowded downstairs room, is like a bar in that you are all but forced to interact with the people sitting near you. I was thinking about bars today which led to my thinking about my father which led to my realizing that not only does Ryecroft not talk about pubs or his immediate family (wife and daughter) he says almost nothing about his parents either. All we know about his father is that he had a good library.

For that matter, I wasn’t that close with my father, but that’s not to say he didn’t influence (positively or negatively) who I am now. This came up because, on the rare occasions I go into a bar, I’m always surprised what social places they are. My dad always had a bar in the neighborhood that was his home away from home, but then he was a very social guy... and a drinker. When I drove a taxi during college, we did a lot of business at bars but all I had to do was walk in the door and yell “Taxi!” I never spent any time there as a customer. I think of bars as simply a place to watch a game or have a drink.

It’s funny to realize that I never really knew my dad where he was probably most at home... where he was most himself. I didn’t even know, until after he was dead, that he had once been part owner of a bar when I was very young. Who knew my dad had layers? And after decades of not having much to talk to each other about, I now have a list of questions I would like to ask him -- probably while having drinks at a bar. Of course the thought of that imaginary family event brings with it the image of my mother, her feelings hurt, saying, “You two go on and have fun. I’ll just stay home by myself and sulk.”

Next: Winter XVI. Art is long....