'Wind in the Willows' by Kenneth Grahame welcomes generations of readers to Toad Hall and the Wild Wood
A century after it was first published, Kenneth Grahame's classic novel, "The Wind in the Willows," stands as a perfect example of how great children's literature always works on more than one level. On the surface, it's an adventure in which a mole, a water rat, a badger and a toad forge strong friendships as they -- especially Toad -- step in and out of trouble.
Grahame, a Scottish banker born 150 years ago, was informed by Greek tragedy, the industrial revolution and concerns about the natural world. So, then, was his story. Literature and politics infused his thoughts, and he brought all of this -- as well as a father's complicated love -- to "The Wind and the Willows," which he created for son Alastair, the virtually blind child known in letters as Dear Mouse.
As "The Wind in the Willows" hits its 101st birthday this year, two publishers release very different editions. Each is a big success, delightful in conception and execution. Inga Moore's abridged paperback is the one to snuggle up with during story time. In nine chapters, she covers the core arc of the original and retains a taste of Grahame's embroidered, turn-of-the-century language.
Here, young readers and their lucky adults engage with Mole as he sets down his spring cleaning, takes up paddling the river with the bright and kindly Rat, meets the grumpy but thoughtful Badger and goes along for a wild ride courtesy of the wealthy Toad of Toad Hall, who has things to learn about good character.
The abridgment consists of careful trims of Grahame's lengthy descriptions, though the reader has plenty of chances to partake of the book's love of language and nature:
"It was a bright morning in the early part of summer; the river had resumed its wonted banks, and a hot sun seemed to be pulling everything green and bushy up out of the earth, as if by strings."
That sentence is a good bit shorter than the original. Events are cut, too, most notably a mystical adventure in which Mole and Rat take a river trip in search of a missing otter baby and come upon Pan, the piper of Greek mythology.
Moore's exquisite watercolor illustrations illuminate every page. If long descriptions of the countryside were trimmed, the artist makes up for it with loving landscapes and home interiors. It's an admirable way of meeting contemporary children halfway.
For the adult who grew up cherishing "The Wind and the Willows," Annie Gauger's splendid new annotated version presents a fresh path back into the Wild Wood. The big, pretty hardcover edition contains a foreword by Brian Jacques of the Redwall series.
A prefatory chapter examines the considerable artists whose drawings brightened various editions over the years -- though it's fascinating that the first British version contained only text. Gauger's book includes background on Grahame, his sickly wife Elspeth and their only child, Alastair, for whom these stories that became the novel were invented.
She gives us family letters and other Grahame writings, and an explanation of his position on abridgment -- alas, he would not have found Moore's version as enchanting as I did.
Juiciest of all, we read some early critical response to "The Wind and the Willows."
"The Author of 'The Golden Age' and 'Dream Days,' the historian of the immortal Harold, has disappointed us," wrote Edward Verral Lucas in The Times of London. "The chief character is a mole whom the reader plumps upon on the first page whitewashing his house. Here is an initial nut to crack. A mole whitewashing. No doubt, Moles like their abodes to be clean; but whitewashing? Are we very stupid?"
Even Beatrix Potter, creator of Peter Rabbit, took issue with some of Grahame's logic that allowed his main characters -- animals all -- to become more human when it suited. Specifically, as Gauger iterates in some of the book's copious notations, Potter found fault with Toad combing his hair. "A frog may wear galoshes; but I don't hold with toads having beards and wigs."
Grahame, of course, had his reasons. "Willows" isn't strict allegory, but in most cases, its author was reflecting British customs, classes and people he knew. Grahame himself was solidly upper middle class, worried about how industrialization was affecting society and separating men from nature.
These messages come through in notes that provide background, define words and customs of the times, and the occasional overreach, as when a mention of a half-pot of coffee in the last chapter inspires a note that Grahame was more a drinker of coffee than of tea.
That's the quibbliest of all quibbles. Gauger brings her excellent research to bear in notations that deeply enrich the story.
What comes through is that Grahame wasn't just a father inventing diversions for his son. He was sewing all kinds of experiences together to make something new, considering deeply every detail.
That's not the easy work of what John Irving calls "the common liar," but the difficult task of the uncommon artist making work that thrives across generations.
Sandstrom is a critic and art student at Cleveland Institute of Art.
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