OTHER COMPOSITIONS . . . . . BY TOAD
will be sung in the course of the
evening by the … COMPOSER.
The idea pleased him mightily, and he worked very hard and got all the letters finished by noon, at which hour it was reported to him that there was a small and rather bedraggled weasel at the door, inquiring timidly whether he could be of any service to the gentleman. Toad swaggered out and found it was one of the prisoners of the previous evening, very respectful and anxious to please. He patted him on the head, shoved the bundle of invitations into his paw, and told him to cut along quick and deliver them as fast as he could, and if he liked to come back again in the evening, perhaps there might be a shilling for him, or, again, perhaps there mightn’t; and the poor weasel seemed really quite grateful, and hurried off eagerly to do his mission.
When the other animals came back to luncheon, very boisterous and breezy after a morning on the river, the Mole, whose conscience had been pricking him, looked doubtfully at Toad, expecting to find him sulky or depressed. Instead, he was so uppish and inflated that the Mole began to suspect something; while the Rat and the Badger exchanged significant glances.
As soon as the meal was over, Toad thrust his paws deep into his trouser-pockets, remarked casually, “Well, look after yourselves, you fellows! Ask for anything you want!” and was swaggering off in the direction of the garden, where he wanted to think out an idea or two for his coming speeches, when the Rat caught him by the arm.
Toad rather suspected what he was after, and did his best to get away; but when the Badger took him firmly by the other arm he began to see that the game was up. The two animals conducted him between them into the small smoking-room that opened out of the entrance-hall, shut the door, and put him into a chair. Then they both stood in front of him, while Toad sat silent and regarded them with much suspicion and ill-humour.
“Now, look here, Toad,” said the Rat. “It’s about this Banquet, and very sorry I am to have to speak to you like this. But we want you to understand clearly, once and for all, that there are going to be no speeches and no songs. Try and grasp the fact that on this occasion we’re not arguing with you; we’re just telling you.”
Toad saw that he was trapped. They understood him, they saw through him, they had got ahead of him. His pleasant dream was shattered.
“Mayn’t I sing them just one little song?” he pleaded piteously.
“No, not one little song,” replied 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 well that your songs are all conceit and boasting and vanity; and your speeches are all self-praise and—and—well, 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 know you must turn over a new leaf sooner or later, and now seems a splendid time to begin; a sort of turning-point in your career. Please don’t think that saying all this doesn’t hurt me more than it hurts you.”
Toad remained a long while plunged in thought. At last he raised his head, and the traces of strong emotion were visible on his features. “You have conquered, my friends,” he said in broken accents. “It was, to be sure, but a small thing that I asked—merely leave to blossom and expand for yet one more evening, to let myself go and hear the tumultuous applause that always seems to me—somehow—to bring out my best qualities. However, you are right, I know, and I am wrong. Henceforth I will be a very different 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, “I feel like a brute; I wonder what you feel like?”
“O, I know, I know,” said the Badger gloomily. “But the thing had to be done. This good fellow has got to live here, and hold his own, and be respected. Would you have him a common laughing-stock, mocked and jeered at by stoats and weasels?”
“Of course not,” said the Rat. “And, talking of weasels, it’s lucky we came upon that little weasel, just as he was setting out with Toad’s invitations. I suspected something from what you told me, and had a look at one or two; they were simply disgraceful. I confiscated the lot, and the good Mole is now sitting in the blue boudoir, filling up plain, simple invitation cards.”
• • • • • • • • •
At last the hour for the banquet began to draw near, and Toad, who on leaving the others had retired to his bedroom, was still sitting there, melancholy and thoughtful. His brow resting on his paw, he pondered long and deeply. Gradually his countenance cleared, and he began to smile long, slow smiles. Then he took to giggling in a shy, self-conscious manner. At last he got up, locked the door, drew the curtains across the windows, collected all the chairs in the room and arranged them in a semicircle, and took up his position in front of them, swelling visibly. Then he bowed, coughed twice, and, letting himself go, with uplifted voice he sang, to the enraptured audience that his imagination so clearly saw:
TOAD’S LAST LITTLE SONG
The Toad—came—home!
There was panic in the parlours and howling in the halls,
There was crying in the cow-sheds and 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 and 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 try and shout it very loud,
In honour of an animal of whom you’re justly proud,
For it’s Toad’s—great—day!
He sang this very loud, with great unction and expression; and when he had done, he sang it all over again.
Then he heaved a deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh.
Then he dipped his hairbrush in the water-jug, parted his hair in the middle, and plastered it down very straight and sleek on each side of his face; and, unlocking the door, went quietly down the stairs to greet his guests, who he knew must be assembling in the drawing-room.
All the animals cheered when he entered, and crowded round to congratulate him and say nice things about his courage, and his cleverness, and his fighting qualities; but Toad only smiled faintly, and murmured, “Not at all!” Or, sometimes, for a change, “On the contrary!” Otter, who was standing on the hearth-rug, describing to an admiring circle of friends exactly how he would have managed things had he been there, came forward with a shout, threw his arm round Toad’s neck, and tried to take him round the room in triumphal progress; but Toad, in a mild way, was rather snubby to him, remarking gently, as he disengaged himself, “Badger’s was the master mind; the Mole and the Water Rat bore the brunt of the fighting; I merely served in the ranks and did little or nothing.” The animals were evidently puzzled and taken aback by this unexpected attitude of his; and Toad felt, as he moved from one guest to the other, making his modest responses, that he was an object of absorbing interest to every one.
The Badger had ordered everything of the best, and the banquet was a great success. There was much talking and laughter and chaff among the animals, but through it all Toad, who of course was in the chair, looked down his nose and murmured pleasant nothings to the animals on either side of him. At intervals he stole a glance at the Badger and the Rat, and always when he looked they were staring at each other with their mouths open; and this gave him the greatest satisfaction. Some of the younger and livelier animals, as the evening wore on, got whispering to each other that things were not so amusing as the
y used to be in the good old days; and there were some knockings on the table and cries of “Toad! Speech! Speech from Toad! Song! Mr. Toad’s song!” But Toad only shook his head gently, raised one paw in mild protest, and, by pressing delicacies on his guests, by topical small-talk, and by earnest inquiries after members of their families not yet old enough to appear at social functions, managed to convey to them that this dinner was being run on strictly conventional lines.
He was indeed an altered Toad!
• • • • • • • • •
After this climax, the four animals continued to lead their lives, so rudely broken in upon by civil war, in great joy and contentment, undisturbed by further risings or invasions. Toad, after due consultation with his friends, selected a handsome gold chain and locket set with pearls, which he dispatched to the gaoler’s daughter, with a letter that even the Badger admitted to be modest, grateful, and appreciative; and the engine-driver, in his turn, was properly thanked and compensated for all his pains and trouble. Under severe compulsion from the Badger, even the barge-woman was, with some trouble, sought out and the value of her horse discreetly made good to her; though Toad kicked terribly at this, holding himself to be an instrument of Fate, sent to punish fat women with mottled arms who couldn’t tell a real gentleman when they saw one. The amount involved, it was true, was not very burdensome, the gipsy’s valuation being admitted by local assessors to be approximately correct.
Sometimes, in the course of long summer evenings, the friends would take a stroll together in the Wild Wood, now successfully tamed so far as they were concerned; and it was pleasing to see how respectfully they were greeted by the inhabitants, and how the mother-weasels would bring their young ones to the mouths of their holes, and say, pointing, “Look, baby! There goes the great Mr. Toad! And that’s the gallant Water Rat, a terrible fighter, walking along o’ him! And yonder comes the famous Mr. Mole, of whom you so often have heard your father tell!” But when their infants were fractious and quite beyond control, they would quiet them by telling how, if they didn’t hush them and not fret them, the terrible grey Badger would up and get them. This was a base libel on Badger, who, though he cared little about Society, was rather fond of children; but it never failed to have its full effect.
READING GROUP GUIDE
1. On the publication of The Wind in the Willows in 1908, a Vanity Fair reviewer wrote, “The boastful, unstable Toad, the hospitable Water Rat, the shy, wise, childlike Badger, and the Mole with his pleasant habit of brave boyish impulse, are neither animals nor men, but are types of that deeper humanity which sways us all.” Is Kenneth Grahame’s technique—of endowing his creatures with human attributes—appealing or disturbing? Which character is your favorite, and why?
2. Underneath the fanciful embellishments of motorcars, wine cellars, cozy white beds, and galoshes, Grahame writes convincingly about the natural world and the animals who live on the riverbank and throughout the Wild Wood. What are some striking examples of this?
3. What does “home” represent to Mole, Rat, Badger, and Toad? How do the migrating birds and the Sea Rat challenge the notion of dulce domum (Latin for “sweet home”) as a safe and permanent harbor, and what do these traveling creatures offer in exchange for security?
4. Throughout The Wind in the Willows, how does Grahame explore the themes of social class and proper etiquette in Edwardian England?
5. Who is “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn,” the “Friend and Helper” with “curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight,” and why does he have such a profound effect on the Water Rat?
6. “Independence is all very well,” says Badger to Toad, “but we animals never allow our friends to make fools of themselves beyond a certain limit.” Describe the special friendships that grow as the novel unfolds. What makes these relationships so moving and authentic?
7. According to Alison Lurie, “The classic makers of children’s literature are not usually men and women who had consistently happy childhoods—or consistently unhappy ones. Rather they are those whose early happiness ended suddenly and often disastrously.” Drawing on this edition’s Biographical Note, can you support the argument that Kenneth Grahame fits into this “classic” category? Which aspects of The Wind in the Willows do you suppose are based on the author’s own childhood experiences or those of his beloved son, Alistair?
8. C. S. Lewis called The Wind in the Willows “a specimen of the most scandalous escapism,” declaring that “the happiness which it presents to us is in fact full of the simplest and most attainable things—food, sleep, exercise, friendship, the face of nature, even (in a sense) religion.… [The] whole story, paradoxically enough, strengthens our relish for real life. This excursion into the preposterous sends us back with renewed pleasures to the actual.” Do you agree?
KENNETH GRAHAME
Kenneth Grahame was born on March 8, 1859, in Edinburgh, Scotland, the second son and third child of James Cunningham Grahame, a lawyer, and Bessie Ingles. In 1860, Cunningham Grahame accepted a post as sheriff-substitute of Argyllshire and moved his growing family from Edinburgh to Inveraray. There, tragedy struck the family when, in the spring of 1864, Bessie died from scarlet fever after giving birth to her last child. Kenneth also caught the infection and became seriously ill. Although he eventually rallied, Grahame’s health was forever compromised and he would suffer from bronchial ailments throughout his life.
Cunningham Grahame never fully recovered from the shock of his wife’s death and he ultimately abandoned his children, sending them south to live with their maternal grandmother at Cookham Dene, in Berkshire. Although Kenneth’s grandmother was a cool and formidable guardian, he spent some of the happiest years of his life as a youngster rambling through the Berkshire countryside and exploring the Thames River, settings that would later inform his books The Golden Age (1895), its sequel, Dream Days (1898), as well as The Wind in the Willows (1908). In the spring of 1866, the family moved to Cranbourne, and that summer Cunningham Grahame sent for his children to come stay with him at Inveraray, a disastrous visit that lasted nearly a year; the alcoholic and depressed Grahame’s experiment as a father failed, and in 1867 he again abandoned his children to the care of their grandmother in Berkshire, resigned his post, and went abroad to live in France, teaching English until his death in 1887. Kenneth was the only child of James Cunningham Grahame to attend his funeral.
At age nine, Grahame was sent to St. Edward’s in Oxford where he would spend seven largely enjoyable years, although at the beginning of his last term, in 1875, his brother Willie, who had been at school with him, died at age sixteen. At St. Edward’s, Grahame was an academic success and excelled at athletics, becoming the Head of School and winning prizes in Divinity and Latin prose. He enjoyed his schooldays and sustained his love of “messing about in boats” by canoeing on the Thames through its Oxfordshire length. Although Grahame’s promise as a scholar, love of learning, and social class made further education at Oxford a seemingly natural extension of his education, to his eternal disappointment, Grahame’s family refused to pay for him to attend Oxford University. Grahame was encouraged to become a gentleman-clerk at the Bank of England, and he worked with his uncle in his Westminster firm of parliamentary agents while waiting for his application at the Bank to be accepted. Grahame reluctantly moved to London to begin a life in business.
Despite his disappointment in the direction his life was taking, Grahame’s London years were filled with pleasures and successes. Grahame’s interests in literature, culture, and nature were not dimmed by his daytime office work. While still in his late teens, he began to move in literary circles, and he met and befriended the scholar and editor Frederick James Furnivall, joining his New Shakespeare Society in 1877. Through Furnivall, Grahame made the acquaintance of the young writers who would become his co-contributors to the National Observer and The Yellow Book. Grahame’s work at the Bank, which he joined in 1879, was not taxing, and he was able to enjoy leisure pursuits such as es
caping the city for the Berkshire countryside of his youth. In 1884 Grahame began to volunteer at Toynbee Hall, a workingman’s association, where he directed athletic activities. Grahame developed a lifelong interest in Italy and its cuisine during these years, and in 1886 traveled to Italy for the first of many visits throughout his lifetime.
The years between 1890 and 1896 gave rise to an intensely creative period for Grahame. He published a number of anonymous essays and tales in W. E. Henley’s journal the National Observer, in which notable writers such as William Butler Yeats, Joseph Conrad, and Henry James also appeared. His first book, Pagan Papers (1893), was a compilation of the pieces that had first appeared in the National Observer. It was published by John Lane, whose publication devoted to literature and art, the Yellow Book, would compete with the Observer. Grahame began to publish in the Yellow Book—its yellow cover was designed to elicit comparisons with lurid French novels—though his contributions were far removed from the publication’s perhaps undeserved scandalous reputation. In 1894, Grahame published a novella, The Headswoman, in the Yellow Book, his only work featuring human adults. Grahame’s next book, The Golden Age, a series of linked stories about five orphaned children, based upon his childhood in Berkshire, was an immediate success and was admired by such notables as A. C. Swinburne, Theodore Roosevelt, and Kaiser Wilhelm II. Its sequel, Dream Days, was published in 1898. He was named Secretary of the Bank of England in 1898, at the age of thirty-nine. By the end of 1898, Grahame had made a name for himself in both literature and business.
Grahame’s bachelor days came to an end in 1899 when he married Elspeth Thomson, also born in Edinburgh, who had nursed him through a serious illness. Although seemingly in love at the time of their marriage, the couple was sorely mismatched and their union unhappy. Within a year of the wedding, Alistair, their only child, was born partially blind. Both parents doted on Alistair, nicknamed “Mouse”; the characters and scenes found in Grahame’s most famous work, The Wind in the Willows, were first contrived as entertainments—bedtime stories and later letters—for him.
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