Book Review: George Grossmith, Diary of a Nobody

I really do possess the extraordinary knack for finding what I consider to be unusual literary gems. George Grossmith's Diary of a Nobody merits my enthusiastic recommendation to lovers of lower-brow Victorian literature for its subtle charm, remarkable accessibility, and innocent humour. Written in the form of a diary, the work, first serialized in Punch, details fifteen months in the life of a lowly office clerk struggling to cultivate an air of gentility in 1880s suburban London.

Grossmith (1847-1912) might well have been Victorian Britain's Tina Fey. In addition to acting, writing, and composing (often with his musical father), Grossmith is known for his close collaboration with W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan, for whom he devised and developed such memorable characters as Sir Joseph S. Porter in H.M.S. Pinafore and the ("very model of a modern") Major-General in The Pirates of Penzance. Touring England with his father for several years, Grossmith performed comedic sketches to sold-out audiences and later, with his brother Weedon, contributed columns to Punch, the basis of which would form the Diary of a Nobody.

Charles Pooter is the balding, middle-aged, plain-faced, "nobody" whose diary we have the privilege of reading. Rather overtly, his work takes satirical aim at issues of class and "society" in late Victorian Britain. At the outset, Pooter justifies the publication of his journal with a prefatory note anticipating any questions the reader may pose as regards why his life is particularly worthy of chronicle. "Why should I not publish my diary?" he questions rhetorically. "I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see -- because I do not happen to be a 'Somebody' -- why my diary should not be interesting." (What's good for the Pepys, is good for the Pooter, n'est-ce pas?)

Pooter undertakes the record of his daily life with great solemnity -- sometimes regarding himself a little too seriously -- in spite of the apparent indifference of those around him. On October 30, he is shocked to learn that someone has, "willfully torn the last five or six weeks out of [his] diary." "It is perfectly monstrous!" he declares. "It was evident someone had torn my diary to light a fire" (70). We suspect a prickly charwoman of this transgression, though it cannot be proven, despite allegations that she had wrapped fat in the pages of poor Mr. Pooter's journal.

His wife, Carrie and son, Lupin (né William Lupin Pooter, and formerly called 'Willie'), are equally disinterested in his diary. In conversation with the two, Pooter suggests that, should he pass away, the journal might be "an endless source of pleasure...to say nothing of the chance of remuneration which may accrue from its being published" (109-110). Both Carrie and Lupin find the suggestion wildly entertaining, ridiculing Charles for his fanciful notion. "I do not think your diary would sufficiently interest the public to be taken up by a publisher," his wife declares, clearly undervaluing the endeavour as callously as the household staff.

The recurring characters of the novel read like pastiches of Thackary, Trollope, and Dickens -- Lupin, in particular, stands out as a lower-class Sir Felix Carbury, fickle, flippant, and insensitive to parental entreaties for self-control -- and the myriad events that punctuate the year-long diary seem to represent the most popular "themes" of Victorian literature, from the vicissitudes of speculation to the channelling of the supernatural. Mr. Pooter's two closest friends, Gowing (likely pronounced "Go-ing") and Cummings, in addition to being ridiculous men (the latter obsessed with bicycles), serve the basis for Pooter's greatest pun: "...doesn't it seem odd that Gowing's always coming and Cummings' always going?" (25).

Pooter's best efforts at comporting himself as a self-respecting gentleman of property inevitably go awry. His dependence on "public transportation," his tendency to imbibe too much champagne at social functions, and his insecurities surrounding his own station (as well as appropriate social etiquette to conceal that station) lead the reader to almost pity the stodgy impostor that he is. Impertinent coworkers, insolent tradespeople, and procacious servants all send Pooter into frequent dithers, challenging his own ideas about rank and his degree of self-importance.The further we read, the more we come to feel sorry for him. Particularly entertaining scenes include an overenthusiastic home renovation project involving red enamel paint, the ongoing battle with the incompetent laundress, and unusual meetings between Lupin's 'comedy troupe' friends and Mr. Pooter where generational differences are readily apparent.

The brevity of the work (142 pages without the pictures contributed by his brother Weedon) notwithstanding, Grossmith's Diary apparently made its impact on the English language; the adjective "Pooterish" can be found in the OED to mean someone insipid, self-important, unimaginative, a little dim, but basically well-meaning. Pooter is all those, but, perhaps most importantly, he is an endearing fop upon whom you look kindly at the close of his narrative.

Anyone in search of a quick afternoon read will delight in this caricature of a day in the life of a veritable nobody.

☆☆☆/5