Most people in this world seem to live “in character”; they have a beginning, a middle and an end, and the three are congruous one with another and true to the rules of their type. You can speak of them as being of this sort of people or that. They are, as theatrical people say, no more (and no less) than “character actors.” They have a class, they have a place, they know what is becoming in them and what is due to them, and their proper size of tombstone tells at last how properly they have played the part.
The opening line of the novel immediately situate what will prove to be a theme explored pervasively throughout the narrative. As is the case with much of the work of this author, societal problems are inextricably related to notions of class division and the expectations such divisions create relative to issues from behavior to inherent intelligence. The succeeding lines in this opening paragraph suggest that an alternative exists to the view that “most people” express. It is to be assumed that it is far from coincidental that George bears witness to this alternative view precisely because he grows up exposed to the best that life has to offer—as seen from the perspective of the son of the housekeeper within a manor home.
Suddenly my terror was over and done with. I was soaring through the air right way up, steadily, and no mischance had happened. I felt intensely alive and my nerves were strung like a bow. I shifted a limb, swerved and shouted between fear and triumph as I recovered from the swerve and heeled the other way and steadied myself.
The novel was published in 1909, a mere six years after the Wright Brothers’ first flight at Kitty Hawk. As a result of this merely hiccup in time, it might be surprising to find that aviation plays a rather substantial role in the narrative. It is important to remember, of course, that Wells was very much ahead of his time as a writer in speculations about what the future would look like. In addition, the interest in flying is an illumination into the mind of the narrator. And, finally, the mastery of flight—such as it is—plays a concrete role in the plot. That being said, the wise reader is advised to loosen the reins on expectations of realistic figure here. Not that the portrait of early aviation is laughable, necessarily—it is no more ridiculous than some of that footage of various absurdly constructed early aircraft—but it is exactly The Right Stuff.
It was with a touch of memory, dim transient perplexity if no more—why did this thing seem in some way personal?—that I read a new inscription upon the hoardings:
THE SECRET OF VIGOUR
TONO-BUNGAY
That was all. It was simple and yet in some way arresting. I found myself repeating the word after I had passed; it roused one’s attention like the sound of distant guns. “Tono”—what’s that? and deep, rich, unhurrying;—“bun—gay!”
George may immediately be led to think of the sound of distant guns by the strange name “Tono-Bungay” but certainly others might have first impressions. For instance, how many upon first seeing the title of this book went immediately to geography? Tono-Bungay. Does that sound like an exotic locale or what? Like an island in the South Seas? Or, considering the author’s reputation, maybe it sounds like a monstrous creature from somewhere? The dreaded dark figure of Tono-Bungay making his way to the world of proper civilized white people who must fight back against its primitive ways. As it turns, however, Tono-Bungay is a patent medicine. Another name for patent medicine is “snake oil.” Patent medicines were completely unregulated, inexpensive treatments (usually of a stimulant nature) that typically ranged anywhere from only slightly dangerous to ingest to potentially fatal. Mostly associated with the 19th century, the name and mixology has changed, but the basic idea is still very much in place and still very capable of sucking dollars from people whom assorted levels of desperation or ignorance made extremely gullible.
