The Folio Society – Page 5

In The Nursery Field

Yesterday I received an e-mail stating that the probate grant application has been approved and I should receive it in 10 working days.

This morning I scanned six more of Charles Keeping’s excellent illustrations to my Folio Society edition of ‘Bleak House’.

‘Mrs Jellyby, in the midst of a voluminous correspondence’

‘She sat on a chair holding his hand’

In ‘Jo brought into the little drawing-room by Guster’ Keeping indicates he distance between elements of the scene by separating them with a little text.

‘Mr Squod catches him up, chair and all’

‘A street of little shops’

‘Miss Volumnia and the cousinship of the Nobodys’

This afternoon Becky and Flo went shopping and Jackie and I took a forest drive.

Sheep occupy a field about a mile along Christchurch Road heading west.

Newborn lambs suckle, frolic, and head butt in the nursery fields opposite. Today there were a number of twins, bearing the same identifying digits as their mothers.

It was quite a contrast to see two of the most massive porkers we’ve ever seen housed on Harpway Lane at Winkton.

Ponies grazed on the terrain outside Holmsley Walk Car Park;

the grey had just given the bay a resounding head bash before I took this shot.

Early this evening Flo burnt more slender twigs in the rusty incinerator.

This evening we dined on tender roast chicken; crisp roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding; crunchy carrots ; firm Brussels sprouts, and tasty gravy, with which Jackie, Becky, and I drank the same beverages as yesterday and Flo drank elderflower cordial.

A Dream Of Horrible Faces

Jackie and I spent the morning reminiscing with Becky while her daughter caught up with jet-lagged sleep.

After lunch I printed out a 15 page application form for Flo’s registration with our GP.

I then sent Paul Clarke larger images of Margery from our recent exchange. The first photograph was taken by Rachel Adams for the Southampton Echo.

I then read more of ‘Bleak House’ and scanned four more of Charles Keeping’s excellent illustrations to my Folio Society edition.

‘There he sits, munching and gnawing’ makes a text sandwich.

‘The waitress returns bearing a pile of plates’

‘Mr and Mrs Smallweed while away the rosy hours’

A double page spread is employed for ‘The crowd hovers round, like a dream of horrible faces’

This evening we all dined on Jackie’s succulent sausages in red wine; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots; and firm Brussels sprouts. Becky peeled the spuds and leant an elbow to the mashing. The Culinary Queen and I repeated yesterday’s beverages; the others abstained.

Inimitable

This afternoon I posted https://derrickjknight.com/2022/03/06/a-knights-tale-111-a-photographic-assignment/

Jackie is feeling rather better today, but we thought it wise to stay indoors.

I read more of ‘Bleak House’ and scanned another set of the inimitable Charles Keeping’s illustrations to my Folio Society edition.

‘Mr Snagsby at his door’

‘ ‘Don’t leave the cat there’ ‘

‘My Lady lounges’

‘I saw Mr Guppy looking up at me’

‘Old Mr Turveydrop, in the full lustre of his Deportment’

In the early days Charles Dickens wrote under the pen name of Boz, and facetiously signed his letters ‘The Inimitable Boz’. I had not known that when first applying that epithet to Charles Keeping.

This evening we dined on Red Chilli’s excellent takeaway fare. We both enjoyed Ponir Tikka starters, a plain paratha, and egg fried rice; my main course was tiger prawn dhansak while Jackie’s was chicken sag. I drank more of the Appassimento.

“It’s The Second Of March Today”

Another drizzle day, and Jackie’s cold, kept us inside today.

One of the consequences of retirement for me is that I often don’t know what the date is. That is my excuse for what follows, and I am sticking to it.

When I descended from our bedroom this morning I found this photograph had been moved from its shelf at the window and placed on the table between my chair and a sofa in the sitting room.

“What’s that doing there?” I asked Mrs Knight.

“It’s the second of March today”, was the smiling reply.

“Ah”, said I, rapidly realising that it was the 54th anniversary of our first wedding in 1968. Jackie won’t be well enough to dine out today, so we’ll have to take a rain check on that.

I also have the second one, on 17th October 2017, to remember. Life can become complicated.

This afternoon I began scanning the pages of Charles Keeping’s illustrations to Charles Dickens’s ‘Bleak House’.

The Frontispiece ‘Fog everywhere’ and the next two illustrations demonstrate Keeping’s masterful depiction of elemental precipitations.

‘That leaden-headed old obstruction, Temple Bar’ invites the viewer to peer into the fog.

‘The place in Lincolnshire left to the rain’ makes me wonder whether the artist was inspired for this image by the sight of his car wing mirror on a rainy day.

‘We drove through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever were seen’

‘Nobody ever was in such a state of ink’

‘A large grey cat leapt on his shoulder’

I will comment on the book as soon as I have finished the task of scanning the rest of these pages, which I hope to achieve by the beginning of June.

Last Saturday, thinking she would be going to Elizabeth’s event without me on account of my indisposition, and that I would have wanted something bland left for me, Jackie had begun preparing a pot of chicken stewp. In fact I accompanied her to my sister’s and she retained the gentle meal for another occasion. Now she had a cold it was just the job for her. I was on jankers today and got off lightly because all I had to do was heat it up and prepare the crusty bread. I finished the Malbec that had been open for nearly a week. It was still drinkable.

A Touch Of The Sun

This morning I finished reading my Folio Society edition of ‘Great Expectations’ by Charles Dickens.

I will adhere to my normal practice of not giving away the story, despite its great reputation. The book is very well crafted, displaying a number of developing relationships in a young man’s transition from humble origins to gentrification. There is plenty of humour in this otherwise tragic, yet romantic, tale. Two major characters are unforgettable, and “What larks” is a phrase still enjoyed. Dickens’s descriptive powers of place and scene are at their height. Much of the action is carried along at a fast pace; its dramatic opening and penultimate sequences are gripping.

Christopher Hibbert’s erudite introduction puts the novel into the context of the author’s life and work.

I scanned the last seven of Charles Keeping’s emotional, detailed, illustrations which demonstrate his mastery of line.

In ‘She withdrew her hands from the dish and fell back a step or two’ the artist faithfully portrays these hands as the author describes them.

‘I saw her running at me, shrieking, with a whirl of fire blazing all about her’

‘Mr Jaggers stood before the fire. Wemmick leaned back in his chair, staring at me’

‘I saw in his hand a stone hammer with a long heavy handle’

‘We went ahead among many skiff and wherries, briskly’

‘I laid my hand on his breast, and he put both his hands upon it’

‘What I had never felt before was the friendly touch of the once insensible hand’

Late in the afternoon the lingering pall draped over our land gave way to a sunny period, so we drove into the forest to enjoy it. Given the hour, we could take just one option before the light failed.

We settled on Highwood Lane in the north.

Ripples and reflections supplemented the stream running alongside;

smoke spiralled into the atmosphere redolent of burning leaves;

working horses some in rugs, were fed or rested.

I wandered about the woodland, so different from yesterday’s murky scenes. A touch of the sun makes all the difference.

This evening we dined on Mr Chan’s excellent Hordle Chinese Take Away fare, with which Jackie finished the Chenin Blanc and I drank more of the Shiraz.

Focus On The Windscreen

Nick Hayter visited this morning to assess the post-refurbishment decorating work he is to undertake. We enjoyed his usual pleasant conversation.

The unconsolable skies shed continuous profuse tears throughout the afternoon, which we began with a trip to the Lymington Post Office collection office to claim a parcel undelivered because of a shortage of £2 in postage. The good news was that there was no queue. The bad news was that the office was closed. I took an alternative option which was to stick the extra postage on the back of their card and post it back to them.

We then drove into the forest to make

a record picture of the lake at Pilley which is avidly collecting more liquid sustenance. I chose not to walk round to the other side for that view since I was already feeling a drip.

While waiting for a train at the Lymington level crossing I had plenty of time to focus on the windscreen.

Perhaps it is the intensity; perhaps the consistently fast pace; perhaps the comparative shortness; perhaps the bloodthirstiness of the historical context of Charles Dickens’s ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ that renders it apparently the most widely read of the master’s novels, in which there is no room for his customary dry wit, and little for his comic turns.

Later this afternoon I finished reading the work which becomes impossible to put down; and scanned the last four of Charles Keeping’s perfectly matched illustrations to my Folio Society 1985 edition.

‘ ‘Hope has quite departed from my breast’ ‘

‘He spoke with a helpless look straying all around’

‘Miss Pross seized her round the waist and held her tight’

‘She kisses his lips; he kisses hers’

This evening we dined on double egg and chips with sausages and baked beans, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Comté Tolosan Rouge.

The Sun Must Be Over The Yardarm

Elizabeth paid us a visit just as we were settling down with lunch and an antiques programme. She declined to join us but was happy to make herself a coffee while we turned off the TV and enjoyed a chat and an exchange of presents to be placed under our respective Christmas trees.

Afterwards I made a start on reading

This frontispiece, illustrated by the inimitable Charles Keeping, depicts ‘Carton stood over him with his hand in his breast’

The next three drawings show ‘A horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist’;

‘ ‘I kiss your hand, miss’ ‘;

and ‘Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in’

This afternoon, while preparing tomorrow’s festive dinner, the Culinary Queen lost all track of time, and, thinking the sun must be over the yardarm,

brought me a glass of Lirac at ten past three.

Soon afterwards, Becky and Ian arrived. Later we were joined by Mat, Tess, and Poppy. We all dined on Mr Chan’s excellent Hordle Chinese Take Away.

Florence

One of our regular Christmas decorations is positioned under the glass of an African display table I bought in Finsbury Park in the late 1970s. It features our granddaughter Florence as Mary alongside Joseph in a Primary School Nativity Play.

I spent the afternoon completing my reading of my 1984 Folio Society Edition of Charles Dickens’s Dombey and Son. Despite the emotional and practical difficulties in the author’s getting to grips with this work described by Christopher Hibbert in his excellent introduction, Dickens has produced what I have found his most engaging novel. I agree with Thackeray’s observation that “It is unsurpassed. It is stupendous”. All the writer’s descriptive skills; his humour; his flowing prose; his compassion; and his forward looking, come into play with a consummate construction not always apparent in other works. I was most impressed by the way in which he draws a large cast of characters together in the last few paragraphs as he brings the book to a complete conclusion. The lives are largely not happy ones, but they have credible participants, of which Florence is a key member. As usual I will refrain from giving any more detail in case any readers are tempted to tackle the tome.

Charles Keeping’s final septet of illustrations speak for themselves.

‘ ‘Sol Gills ahoy’ ‘

‘A burying-ground, where the few tombs and tombstones are almost black’

‘Nothing lay there, any longer, but the ruin of the mortal house’

‘He wept, alone’

‘Down among the mast, oar, and block makers’

‘Edith sunk down to her knees, and caught her round the neck’

‘The Wooden Midshipman’

This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent beef in red wine; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots and broccoli; firm Brussels sprouts; and tender runner beans, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Merlot.

Woodland And Moorland

This morning I finished reading ‘Our Mutual Friend’ by Charles Dickens, and scanned the last three of Charles Keeping’s superb illustrations to my Folio Society edition of 1982.

‘Riderhood went over backward, Bradley Headstone upon him’

‘They both laughed, till they were tired’

‘A canopy of wet blanket seems to descend upon the company’

Christopher Hibbert’s introduction is useful and insightful.

I have to say that I found this novel at times quite heavy going. Hibbert opines that the author found the work difficult to write.

Dickens deals with the contrast between the false lives of the nouveau riche and the hardship and poverty of those living from hand to mouth. It is perhaps his distaste for the former group that makes their sequences boring to me.

The sets of parallel pairings of characters I found somewhat confusing – perhaps because I took so long to read the book. This possibly only became clear during the author’s typical summing up of how the protagonists lives panned out.

Dickens’s pacing, descriptive prose, and dry wit is still in evidence despite his struggle to complete the book.

Sensing that the River Thames itself is an important character sent me back to Peter Ackroyd’s history “Thames: Sacred River”. This former Literary Editor of The Times deals at length with our famous Victorian novelist’s drawing on the capital’s waterway, none more extensive than in ‘Our Mutual Friend’.

After lunch we sent a Birthday Card on it way from Everton Post Office, and continued briefly on a forest drive.

Burnt gorse and browned bracken straddled Holmsley Passage up which a group of women walked, passing pasturing ponies.

Among the woodland and the moorland alongside Bisterne Close grazed or dozed more ponies,

one of which enjoyed a good scratch against a convenient tree.

A log stack had been built to provide winter quarters for various forest fauna.

This evening we dined on Red Chilli’s excellent takeaway. Jackie enjoyed a Paneer Chicken starter with Saag Chicken to follow; my main choice was Tiger Prawn Dhansak. We shared Special Fried Rice and a Plain Naan. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Fleurie.

A Knight’s Tale (40: Not A Book Illustrator)

My first choice of occupation on leaving school at eighteen would have been attending Wimbledon Art School. As the eldest of five, and recognising the family’s need for me to bring in an income, I chose, with no pressure, to do neither this nor apply to University for which my A levels in English Literature, French and History would have entitled me. Instead, there being no such thing as careers advice at Wimbledon College in 1960, I followed the advice of my Uncle Derrick who suggested I apply to the Committee of Lloyd’s, where, as perviously indicated, I soon took up employment in the Autumn of that year.

Had I had more confidence in my teenage abilities, and had my parents been able to send me to art school, I may well have taken up book illustration. As it was, I needed, on leaving school, to go straight to work. I also thought I’d never make a Charles Keeping, a John Bratby, or even a Beryl Cook, all of whom have illustrated Folio books. My first annual salary was about £340, the bulk of which I handed over to my mother. I kept enough back, however, to be able, upon seeing an advertisement for The Folio Society, to sublimate my desire to illustrate by joining this book club. A lifetime later I have a large collection of beautifully illustrated, imaginatively bound hardback books, printed on good paper which doesn’t turn brown, with suitable typeface and font. All these elements are carefully selected to be in keeping with the original writing. Younger, budding, illustrators are encouraged by an annual competition. I have the Society to thank for many works of which I may otherwise have no knowledge, and for pleasurable editions of numerous others.

I have some talent at drawing. During the late 1950s I used to sit and draw and paint alongside Kenneth Lovell, an artist who, among other works, illustrated Hulme Beaman’s Toytown series of children’s books.

It is Ken who, having been perfectly happy to patronise a man with an impressive camera and two equally striking parrots, stands beside me outside Hampton Court in about 1958.

My drawing with the artist was a weekly event that had come into being as a result of Mum, through a mutual friend, having been introduced to Ken and showing him my nascent cartoon work ‘Toad in the Wild West‘. The original masterpiece is long gone, but here is a rough idea of the eponymous character:

I never did progress beyond my first display board of this tale, but I spent many happy and fruitful hours with my friend from whom I learned all I ever did directly from anyone about drawing.

For several years we would spend Sunday afternoons working and then have tea consisting of delicious sandwiches and a fruit salad. We were occasionally joined for the meal by Ken’s live-in friend George Edwards, an opera singer.

The assistance I gave Ken on one of the Toytown books was a tracing exercise. Nothing to do with ancestry, this was a method of transferring draft drawings onto display boards for the production of the finished work for publication. Ken would illustrate the stories of Larry the Lamb, Mr Grouser, and many others in bold colour with firm outlines in pen. The final drafts of those in which I had a hand were handed to me drawn on good quality fashion plate board. I would trace these onto fresh tracing paper. Taking a soft pencil, I would cover the backs of these sheets with graphite, then place the paper face up on the finishing board fixing it firmly in position with a tape something like Sellotape. I then took a sharp, harder, pencil and traced over my work, leaving a print on the board. The artist would ink over the prints and then apply the colour. I felt very proud to have been entrusted with this task.

When Helen and Bill unearthed my 1965 drawing of Jackie, the story of which will come later, I decided that the very small frame consisting of a piece of board fixed to glass by passe-partout could do with being replaced. Imagine my surprise and delight when I found, on the ‘smooth surface’ of a George Rowney & Co. Ltd “Diana” Fashion Plate Board behind the drawing,

some of my own efforts at reproducing Ken’s characters. I had done these to satisfy us both that I was up to making adequate tracings.

When my bereaved sister-in-law Frances, was working her way through the unenviable task of sorting through Chris’s effects some real gems came my way. None more amazing than this postcard. The stamp on this missive I mailed to my family when we were still living at Stanton Road, shows that first class post in about 1958 cost 2 1/2 pence in old money. Today’s decimalised equivalent is fractionally more than 1p. On January 1st, 2021 the price was raised to 85p. A very early portrait of Queen Elizabeth II is featured. The postmark is illegible, but the content tells me that this was sent from Ockley, where I spent a summer holiday with Ken and George.

When Chris asked me to help him write up his family history, he praised my writing ability, but commented that I had ‘verbal diarrhoea’. What I managed to cram into an area of 63 square centimeters on this small card is surely evidence of this.

In case you can’t read it, here is the text: ‘Dear all. I hope you’re having as nice weather as I’m having. Well done Chris. Send Prof my congratulations. Thanks for the letter mum. I had no idea so much of interest would be crammed into two pages. The first day I ran 3 mls and walked 5. The second day I walked 1! The farm animals come so close to the garden that I can draw them. Last night the farmer, who brings his cattle down the main road twice a day, got into an awful jam on the main road in the dark with them – cars were tearing down at 80, and not seeing his notice. Also Jacqueline there’s a mare with a baby foal which gallops over when anyone comes to the gate. After painting the house yesterday Ken and I went blackberrying – we got loads of them in a very short time. Probably today I will go down ‘weird’ St and do a watercolour. Ken’s cooking is as wonderful as the rest of his housekeeping. P.S. Will catch early morning train home Monday morning so have some dinner for me. Love Derrick.’

I was not the only one writing during this week. Dad was not a letter writer. On my return home he presented me with an unfinished, pencilled, missive that he had not posted. It was a beautiful tribute to me as his son. I carried it in my wallet for years – until the wallet was stolen. He died on Christmas Day 1987. I still treasure the lost letter.