So the goodnatured Mole formed his prisoners up in a line on the floor. & said, ‘Quick, March!’ & marched them off to the bedrooms: & presently he came down smiling, & said every room was ready, & as clean as a new pin. ‘And I didn’t have to lick them either,’ he added. ‘I thought they had had licking enough for one night, & the weasels, when I put it to them, quite agreed with me. And they were very very sorry & very penitent, & said it was all the fault of the head-weasel & the stoats, & if ever they could do anything for us at any time — & so on. So I gave them a roll apiece & let them out at the back door, & off they ran!’
Then the Mole pulled his chair to the table & pitched into the cold tongue; & the Toad [like the gentleman he was] with an effort put aside all his jealousy, & said heartily, (Mole, you’re a brick, & a clever brick! — I wish I had your headpiece!’)* [Thank you kindly, dear Mole, for all that you have done for me to-day],. The Badger was pleased at that, & said (Good old)* [There spoke my brave] Toad!’ So they finished their supper in great joy & contentment. & presently retired to rest, between clean sheets, in the ancestral home of Toad, which they had won back (for him)* by their valour their strategy & their sticks.
Next morning the Toad, who had overslept himself, came down to breakfast disgracefully late, & found a certain quantity of eggshells on the table, some fragments of cold toast, a coffee-pot two-thirds empty, & really very little else; which did not tend to improve his temper, considering that after all it was his own house. The Mole & the Water Rat were sitting in wicker-chairs out on the lawn, telling each other stories; roaring with laughter & kicking their short legs up in the air. The Badger, who was deep in the morning paper, merely looked up & nodded when the Toad came in. But the Toad knew his man, so he sat down & made the best breakfast he could, observing to himself that he would get square with the others, sooner or later.
When he had nearly finished the Badger remarked rather shortly: ‘I’m afraid there’s a heavy morning’s work in front of you, Toad; you see we ought to have a Banquet, to celebrate this affair!’
‘O, all right,’ said the Toad, readily: ‘anything to oblige (friends!)* Though why on earth you should want to have a Banquet in the morning I cannot understand. But you know I do not live to please myself, but only to give (pleasure)* [satisfaction] to my friends, & do everything they want, you dear Badger!’
‘Don’t pretend to be stupider than you are,’ said the Badger crossly; ‘& don’t chuckle & splutter in your coffee when you’re talking. It’s rude. What I mean is, the Banquet will be at night, of course, but the invitations have got to go out at once, and you’ve got to write ‘em! Now sit down at that table — there’s stacks of paper on it, with “Toad Hall” at the top in blue & gold — & write to all your friends, & perhaps if you stick to it you’ll have done by lunch-time. And I’ll help you, too. I’ll order the Banquet!’
‘What!’ cried the Toad, dismayed: ‘Me [stop indoors &] write a lot of rotten letters on a jolly morning like this, when I want to go round my property, & get everything & everybody to rights, & enjoy myself! I’ll be — I’ll see you — stop a minute though! Why, certainly, dear Badger! What is my pleasure or convenience to that of others? You wish it done & it shall be done. Go, my dear Badger, join our young friends outside in their innocent amusements.
I sacrifice this fair morning on the altar of duty & friendship!
The Badger looked at him very suspiciously, but Toad’s frank open countenance made it difficult to suggest any unworthy motive in this change of attitude. As soon as the door had closed behind the Badger, the Toad hurried to the writing-table. He had had a fine idea while he was talking. He would write the invitations, to the otter, & all the hedgehogs, & the squirrels, & all the rest of them: & he would work in, somehow, what he had done during the fight, & how he had laid the head-weasel flat; & the invitation-cards should have a note [fly-leaf] at the foot, something like this:
SPEECH.....by Toad (There will be other speeches by Toad during the evening)
SONG.... by Toad (composed by himself)
Other compositions. — . by Toad will be sung at intervals. — . by the Composer The idea pleased him mightily, & he worked hard & got the letters finished by lunch-time, when it was reported that there was a small & rather bedraggled weasel at the door, inquiring timidly whether he could be of any service to the gentlemen. The Toad went out, & found it was one of the handcuffed ones of the previous evening, very timid & very respectful. Toad patted him on the head, shoved the invitations into his paw, & told him to deliver them all at once, & if he would come back the next day perhaps there might be a shilling for him & perhaps there mightn’t; & the poor weasel seemed really quite grateful, & hurried off eagerly to do his mission.
The other animals came in to lunch very boisterous & happy, after a morning’s boating on the river, & expecting to find Toad somewhat sulky & depressed. Instead, he was so uppish & inflated that of course they began to suspect something; & the Rat & the Badger exchanged significant glances. After the meal was over the Toad thrust his hands deep into his trouser-pockets, & was swaggering off in to the garden, where he wanted to think out a few ideas for his speeches, when the Rat caught him by the arm.
(To be continued)
16, DURHAM VILLAS,
KENSINGTON,
Sept 1907
DEAR ROBINSON,
The Toad rather suspected what he was after, & did his best to get away; but the Badger taking him firmly by the other arm, he saw that the game was up. The animals conducted him between them into the small smoking-room that opened out of the entrance-hall, shut the door & put him down into a chair. Then they stood in front of him, while the Toad sat silent & looked at them with much suspicion & ill-humour.
‘Now look here, Toad,’ said the Rat: ‘about this Banquet. We want you to understand, once & for all: there must be no speeches, and no songs. We’re not arguing with you; we’re just telling you.’ The Toad saw he was trapped. They understood him, they saw through him, they got ahead of him. His pleasant dream was shattered.
‘Mayn’t I sing them just one little song?’ he said piteously.
‘No, not one little song,’ said the Rat firmly, though his heart bled as he noticed the trembling lip of the poor disappointed Toad. ‘It’s no good, Toady; you know your songs are all conceit & boasting, & vanity; & your speeches are all self-praise and-and-gross exaggeration and — and—’
‘And gas,’ put in the Badger, in his common way.
‘It’s for your own good, Toady,’ went on the Rat. ‘You must turn over a new leaf, & now seems a splendid time to begin. Don’t think that saying this doesn’t hurt me more than it hurts you!’
The Toad remained a long while plunged in thought; at last he raised his head, & the traces of strong emotion were visible on his features. ‘You have conquered, my friends!’ he said. ‘It was [indeed] but a small thing that I asked — merely leave to “blow” for yet one more evening, to let myself go & hear the tumultuous applause which always seems to me — somehow — to bring out my best qualities! But you are right, I know, & I am wrong. Henceforth I will be an altered toad. My friends, you shall never have occasion to blush for me again. But, O dear O dear, this is a hard world!’
And, pressing his handkerchief to his face, he left the room with faltering footsteps.
‘Badger,’ said the Rat, T feel like a brute; what do you feel like?’
‘O I know, I know,’ said Badger: ‘but the thing’s got to be done. This dear good fellow has got to live here; do you want him to be mocked, & scorned [jeered], & laughed at, by stoats & weasels?’
[No of course not said the Rat]
‘Talking of weasels,’ said the Rat, ‘It’s lucky we came upon that little weasel just as he was setting out with Toad’s invitations. I confiscated the lot, and the good Mole is now sitting in the blue boudoir, filling up plain simple invitation-cards.’...
When at last the hour for the banquet began to draw near, Toad slipped away from the
others & went upstairs to his own bedroom, very melancholy & thoughtful. Sitting down in an armchair he rested his brow upon his hand & pondered long. Gradually his countenance cleared, & he began to smile long slow smiles; then he took to giggling in a shy, self-conscious manner. Then he got up, locked the door, drew the curtains across the windows, took all the chairs in the room & arranged them in a semicircle, & took up his position in front of them, swelling visibly. Then he lifted his voice &, letting himself go, sang loudly
The Toad — came home!
There was panic in the parlours and howling in the halls,
There was crying in the cowsheds & shrieking in the stalls,
When the Toad — came — home!
When the Toad — came — home!
There was smashing in of window and crashing in of door,
There was chivvying of weasels that fainted on the floor,
When the Toad — came — home!
Bang [!] go the drums!
The trumpeters are tooting & the soldiers are saluting
And the cannon they are shooting and the — motor-cars are hooting
As the Hero comes!
Shout — Hoo-ray!
And let each one of the crowd do his (best-to)*[try and] shout it [very] loud.
In honour of an animal of whom you’re (rightly)* [justly] proud. For it’s Toad’s great day!
He sang it, as has been said, very loud; also, he sang it over twice.
Then he heaved a deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh. Then he dipped his hair-brush in the water-jug, parted his hair in the middle, & plastered it down very straight & sleek on each side; and, unlocking the door, went quietly down the stairs to greet his guests, who were assembling in the drawing-room.
Everyone shouted- [cheered] when he entered, & crowded round him to congratulate him & say nice things about his courage, & his cleverness, & his fighting qualities; but Toad only smiled faintly & murmured, ‘Not at all, not at all!’ or sometimes ‘On the contrary!’ The animals were evidently quite puzzled & taken aback by this new attitude of his; & Toad felt, as he moved from one guest to another, making his modest responses, that he was an object of absorbing interest to every one.
The Badger had ordered everything of the best, & the banquet was a great success. There was much talking, & laughter, & chaff, but through it all the Toad, who was in the Chair, looked down his nose & murmured pleasant nothings to the animals on each side of him. At intervals he stole a glance at the Badger & the Rat, & saw them looking at each other with their mouths open; & this gave him the greatest satisfaction.
The Biographies
Drawing of Kenneth Grahame by John Singer Sargent
KENNETH GRAHAME LIFE LETTERS AND UNPUBLISHED WORK by Patrick Chalmers
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I. THE HOUSE WITHOUT A NAME
CHAPTER II. ‘TEDDY’S’
CHAPTER III. FALLOW GROUND
CHAPTER IV . ‘ONE OF HENLEY’S YOUNG MEN’
CHAPTER V. THE YELLOW BOOK
CHAPTER VI. ATTAINMENT
CHAPTER VII. ‘THE OLD LADY’
CHAPTER VIII. THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS
CHAPTER IX. ALASTAIR
BERTIE’S ESCAPADE
CHAPTER X. THE LIZARD LIGHTS
CHAPTER XI. BOHAM’S: (PART I)
CHAPTER XII. BOHAM’S: (PART II)
CHAPTER XIII. A CORRESPONDENCE
CHAPTER XIV. FOLLOWING THE SUN: (PART I)
CHAPTER XV. FOLLOWING THE SUN: (PART II)
CHAPTER XVI. ‘A DARK STAR’
CHAPTER XVII. ‘SWEET THEMMES, RUNNE SOFTLY TILL I END MY SONG’
The original frontispiece
KENNETH GRAHAME
LIFE, LETTERS AND UNPUBLISHED WORK
BY
PATRICK R. CHALMERS
‘You may indeed rest assured that Kenneth will be more than a memory, that he will still be a living presence and an enduring friend.’
ANTHONY HOPE
KENNETH GRAHAME
As song that follows song with burdens blithe
As lovely are the lovely names of Thames
That match green England to her garment-hems —
Medmenham, Mapledurham, Bablockhythe,
We say them and they say no little tithe
Of June and slow, old mill-wheels dripping gems,
Dog-roses, elms, in grave, green diadems.
Cuckoos and hay-cocks and the swish of scythe;
And we, who tell these river rosaries
And mention them among the nightingales,
Will speak of him who walked the Berkshire shore
And knew the Wind among the willow trees
And heard that Whisperer of Fairy Tales
And left his Thames one summer song the more.
P. R. C
INTRODUCTION
WHO, if any one, ought to be another’s biographer? It is easy to say, and possibly right when said, that he who best knew that other is the man. And yet an intimate, maybe, is too near to see whom he would portray in true perspective and without an affectionate prejudice or so. Moreover, such a one sees but the view from an accustomed window. A new-comer may find other vistas and viewpoints. Or, possibly, he may not.
I but once met Kenneth Grahame. I went, on a summer day, to his house in Pangbourne upon an errand which in no way concerned him. He, among his roses, came round a corner of the garden to find that a stranger (myself) had come calling. He made swift excuse to the company; he was going to the river, he was going to see the boats, ‘the pretty boats’, he said, and he walked round the corner again. I have a remembrance of a massive, very tall figure in faultless grey flannels (they might have been cut for the Capitoline Jove), of an Olympian head, plentifully white-haired, of a clear and ruddy face and (as he disappeared) of a pair of shoulders to delight Savile Row.
Less than a year later it fell to me to be writing the life (that visible portion of it anyhow that lies between birth and death, between the terrestrial coming and the going) of the great virile gentleman who went down to the river upon that summer evening.
There are more ways, I suppose, than one of making a man’s biography. Here is a sample mode that Kenneth Grahame said had much to recommend it. His scrapbook tells me that he found it ‘pasted up in a village ale-house in 1885’. He says that it is ‘evidently the outcome of sincere and genuine feeling stirred by what seemed an heroic life and death into paying what poor tribute it could
A FEW LINES ON COLONEL BURNABY
‘He like a soldier fell’
Our noble Colonel Burnaby, fought the battle brave,
But, with all his bravery, his own life he could not save.
He was born at Bedford, on the 3rd March, 1842,
And when only eighteen years of age, he was in the R.H.G. Blue.
He learnt many languages, and spoke many tongues,
And since he has been in manhood, see the brave acts he has done.
Then he has been promoted, of course he was not fixed,
For he was made a Captain in 1866.
And again that was not to be his fate,
For he was made a Major in the year 1878.
He was a brave fellow, he was not a lurcher,
See his journey through Turkey-in-Asia to Khor in Persia.
A more noble soldier, I should think was never seen before,
He was not like a short man,
For he stood six feet four.
A Brave man, and had an honourable heart,
But with all that, from this world he had to part.
Such a noble Colonel is seldom seen,
He fought for his country, and was a faithful servant to the Queen.
He to his fate, of course he had to yield,
Although he was wanted in the Conservative and Political field.
But poor fellow, he has gone before,
He came to his death in the Abu Klea War.
I suspect that some such artless broadsheet
as this might have been Kenneth Grahame’s personal choice of biographies.
And I knew nothing of the man whose record I was supposed to put down. Nothing at all beyond three things. Firstly, that he had written a trio of books, Pagan Papers, The Golden Age and Dream Days, on the contents of any one of which I was able to take honours. And (a second part of my firstly) that a fourth book stood to his credit — The Wind in the Willows — which, though it had brought money and fame to its author, I did not appreciate as much as I appreciated the earlier three. Secondly, I knew Kenneth Grahame to be a collateral of a famous Scottish family because I had heard some one say so when I was at an age to think (even with Byron, Shelley and Swinburne to give me the he) that professionalism in letters was a surprising pursuit for a gentleman born. I am told that Kenneth Grahame secretly held this same silly opinion; it is fortunate therefore that the Muses have been (if on occasions only) too strong for him. Thirdly, I knew him to be a banker as well as an author and almost as successfully. This had interested me because I am a banker myself. On these three knowledges, then, I went to work.
And, at once, it seemed to me that no man who does not lead a public life has, literarily speaking, a life at all. An advocate, a statesman, a jockey, a soldier (as Burnaby above), an actor, such careers are crowded with ‘copy’. And this career that I was to record was the career of a man who was sufficient unto himself. It seemed therefore to be more ‘lifeless’ than most men’s lives are. For Kenneth Grahame never made intimate friendships with his fellows. Men and women with whom his lot was cast respected him deeply, admired him greatly, loved him dearly even — and never knew him at all.
Complete Works of Kenneth Grahame Page 71