The Wind in the Willows - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham

The Wind

in the Willows

By

Kenneth Grahame

Illustrated by

Arthur Rackham

Copyright © 2015 Pook Press

An imprint of Read Publishing Ltd.

Home Farm, 44 Evesham Road, Cookhill, Alcester,

Warwickshire, B49 5LJ

This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or

copied in any way without the express permission of

the publisher in writing.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from

the British Library.

www.pookpress.co.uk

Contents

List of Illustrations

Kenneth Grahame

Arthur Rackham

1 - The River Bank

2 - The Open Road

3 - The Wild Wood

4 - Mr. Badger

5 - Dulce Domum

6 - Mr. Toad

7 - The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

8 - Toad’s Adventures

9 - Wayfarers All

10 - The Further Adventures of Toad

11 - Like Summer Tempests Came His Tears

12 - The Return of Ulysses

List of Illustrations

Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce! He remarked Jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a reply.

Shove that under your feet, he observed to the mole, as he passed it down into the boat.

The Mole begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself.

It was a golden afternoon; the smell of the dust they kicked up was rich and satisfying.

The Rat pondered a while, and examined the humps and slopes that surrounded them.

Crossing the hall, they passed down one of the principal tunnels.

He presently reappeared, somewhat dusty, with a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm.

The Badger’s winter stores, which indeed were visible everywhere took up half the room.

She arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and tied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin.

Today, however, though they were civil enough, they seemed preoccupied.

The wayfarer saluted with a gesture of courtesy that had something foreign about it.

The Gipsy remarked in a careless way, want to sell that there horse of yours?

Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce! He remarked Jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a reply.

Biography

of

Kenneth Grahame

Kenneth Grahame was born in Edinburgh, Scotland in 1859. He was raised by his maternal grandmother at her stately country home, and spent much of his youth exploring nature and boating on the nearby River Thames.

Whilst attending St. Edward’s School in Oxford between 1868 and 1875, Grahame excelled both academically and in sports. Due to financial constraints, he didn’t attend university, and in 1879 obtained a position with the Bank of England in London. He began to write in the evenings, and submit work to such publications as St. Edward’s Chronicle, the National Observer, the St. James Gazette and The Yellow Book.

Grahame’s first published story appeared in 1888, entitled ‘By A Northern Furrow’. His most famous short story, ‘The Reluctant Dragon’, would appear ten years later. During the 1890s, Grahame published a number of book-length works, including a collection of essays, Pagan Papers (1893), and two collections of short stories: The Golden Age (1895) and Dream Days (1898). All of these achieved both commercial and critical success.

Due to health problems, Grahame retired from the bank in 1907 and moved with his family to the countryside. This gave him time to travel and concentrate on his writing efforts. In 1908, Grahame published his best-known work: The Wind in the Willows. Now regarded as one of the most famous works in all of childrens literature, the book has been adapted countless times for stage, screen and radio.

In 1920, Grahame’s only child, Alastair, committed suicide. Profoundly grieved, Grahame became reclusive and spent months at a time in Italy. He died in 1932, at the age of 73.

Shove that under your feet, he observed to the mole, as he passed it down into the boat.

Biography

of

Arthur Rackham

Arthur Rackham (19 September 1867 – 6 September 1939) was one of the most celebrated artists of the British Golden Age of Illustration; an artist who still delights both young and old over a century later. The ‘Golden Age’ lasted from the latter quarter of the nineteenth century until just after the First World War and marked an amazing upsurge in the popularity, abundance and quality of illustrated works. Improvements in printing technology allowed publishers to produce lavish colour illustrations for the first time, a development which enabled Rackham to embark on the most prolific and prosperous creative work ever enjoyed by an English illustrator. Whether producing whimsical children’s images or murkier, foreboding drawings for adults, Rackham’s unique style of illustration was incredibly sought after. He eventually contributed to over 150 books, magazines and periodicals.

Rackham was born in London as one of twelve siblings, the third surviving child of Annie and Alfred Rackham. After a brief sojourn in Australia due to poor health, he spent his early education at the prestigious City of London School. Rackham won a couple of prizes for drawing during his school days, but showed little of the imaginative genius which marked his adult representations. Immediately after leaving school, Rackham started work as a clerk at the Westminster Fire Office which financed his burgeoning artistic studies at the Lambeth School of Art. By 1892 however, Rackham left this somewhat banal clerking job and began reporting and illustrating for a number of London newspapers; ‘distasteful hack work’ as he described it. During this period Rackham contributed occasional illustrations to magazines such as Scraps and Chums, efforts decidedly indicative of an artist in search of a style. His first book illustrations were for To the Other Side, a travel guide and now particularly rare book, and the Dolly Dialogues; published in 1893 and 1894 respectively. These publications marked the beginning of Rackham’s long and illustrious career.

The first book illustrated specifically on commission was The Zankiwank and the Bletherwitch (1896), which marked the flowering of Rackham’s lighter side. Whilst not the fantastical work of Rackham’s later career, it presages the exuberant frivolity which was to become a significant element of his work. The real turning point came in 1900 however, when Rackham met the portrait painter Edith Starkie. She was to be ‘his most stimulating, severest critic’ and future wife. Starkie helped Rackham expand his artistic range; moving away from simpler techniques of pure line drawing, towards intricate washes of colour. This shift could not have come at a more fortuitous moment, as technological advances in the printing process meant that Rackham’s images could be photo-mechanically reproduced, thus removing the traditional middle-man of the engraver. This allowed Rackham to display his talent for line as well as his expert appreciation of the three-colour printing process; producing the luxurious colours and lavish details which made his reputation. The images were then pasted (‘tipped in’) after the final book was printed, and whilst this was quite an expensive process, the results helped create the new ‘gift book’ market.

The first widely distributed ‘gift book’ was Rip van Winkle, published in 1905. It contained 51 colour plates – all drawn by Arthur Rackham, firmly establishing him as the ‘leading decorative illustrator of the Edwardian period.’ Rackham created each plate by first painstakingly drawing his subject in a sinuous pencil line before applying an ink layer. He then used layer upon layer of delicate watercolours, reminiscent of the Art Nouveaux aesthete to build up the romantic yet calmly ethereal results on which his reputation was constructed. Most recognisable, in retrospect, is the good natured calmness of the drawings, conveying a non-threatening yet exciting thrill to their audience. Another practice established with Rip Van Winkle was for Rackham to promote each book with an exhibition at the Leicester Galleries in London. J.M Barrie attended this display, and was so impressed by Rackham’s work that he asked him to illustrate Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.

This was to be Rackham’s next commercial success, becoming the ‘outstanding Christmas gift-book of 1906’ and of course, one of the most beloved children’s books of all time. By this point Rackham was at his artistic peak, offered so many commissions that he frequently had to decline. The decision he most regretted was failing to illustrate the first edition of Kenneth Grahame’s Wind in the Willows, turned down in order to complete A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Shakespearean drawings were a great accomplishment though. Published in 1908, Rackham’s biographer has argued that his ‘gnarled trees and droves of fairies, have represented the visual reality of the Dream for thousands of readers. Here he excelled especially in landscape, and in reconciling dream and reality, giving himself to the luxury of rich detail with a rare generosity.’ This publication was followed in rapid succession by three other books for adults; Udine (1909) The Rhinegold and the Valkyrie (1910) and Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods (1911). Many suggest that Rackham’s best illustrations can be found in these dramas.

After the First World War, Rackham started producing work for the American market, illustrating a variety of books including, Where the Blue Begins by Christopher Morley (1925), Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (1928), and Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1935). In his last decade, Rackham’s career continued to be productive, but his greatest triumph came in 1936. After Rackham had unfortunately declined to illustrate The Wind in the Willows, he was given a final chance in his twilight years. Taking up the offer with relish, Rackham experienced great difficulty in completing the work; exhausted and in failing health, he insisted that every detail must be right, down to the last oars in Rattie’s boat. With great labour he worked and reworked the drawings to his eventual satisfaction. The end result was a masterpiece of children’s illustration and a beautiful reminder of the innocence and sensibilities of the Victorian age.

Rackham died from cancer in 1939 at his home in Limpsfield, Surrey. He has become one of the best known and loved English illustrators, and the fact that his drawings are so avidly sought after today is a testament to his utmost skill and artistic imagination. As described by James Hamilton in a recent biographical study; ‘he was – and remains – a soloist in front of an orchestra, a player with the responsibility to interpret and add a personal lustre to great works with variations of infinite subtlety and grace.’ This series brings together the entirety of Rackham’s stunning images, sourced from rare and original books, in order that the modern reader may fully appreciate his art.

Amelia Carruthers

1

The River Bank

THE Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said, Bother! and O blow! and also Hang spring-cleaning! and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, Up we go! Up we go! till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.

This is fine! he said to himself. This is better than whitewashing! The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side.

Hold up! said an elderly rabbit at the gap. Sixpence for the privilege of passing by the private road! He was bowled over in an instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about. Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce! he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started grumbling at each other. How stupid you are! Why didn’t you tell him — Well, why didn’t you say — You might have reminded him — and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is always the case.

It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting — everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering whitewash! he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.

He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his life had he seen a river before — this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver — glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.

As he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the bank opposite, just above the water’s edge, caught his eye, and dreamily he fell to considering what a nice, snug dwelling-place it would make for an animal with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside residence, above flood level and remote from noise and dust. As he gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. But it could hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too glittering and small for a glow-worm. Then, as he looked, it winked at him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began gradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture.

A brown little face, with whiskers.

A grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first attracted his notice.

Small neat ears and thick silky hair.

It was the Water Rat!

Then the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously.

Hullo, Mole! said the Water Rat.

Hullo, Rat! said the Mole.

Would you like to come over? enquired the Rat presently.

Oh, it’s all very well to talk, said the Mole rather pettishly, he being new to a river and riverside life and its ways.

The Rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on it; then lightly stepped into a little boat which the Mole had not observed. It was painted blue outside and white within, and was just the size for two animals; and the Mole’s whole heart went out to it at once, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses.

The Rat sculled smartly across and made fast. Then he held up his fore-paw as the Mole stepped gingerly down. Lean on that! he said. Now then, step lively! and the Mole to his surprise and rapture found himself actually seated in the stern of a real boat.

This has been a wonderful day! said he, as the Rat shoved off and took to the sculls again. Do you know, I’ve never been in a boat before in all my life.

What? cried the Rat, open-mouthed: Never been in a — you never — well I— what have you been doing, then?

Is it so nice as all that? asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly under him.

Nice? It’s the only thing, said the Water Rat solemnly as he leant forward for his stroke. Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing — absolute nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing, he went on dreamily: messing — about — in — boats; messing —

Look ahead, Rat! cried the Mole suddenly.

It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air.

" — about in boats