Damaged books, and a poem from 18 July 1959

As previously mentioned, the hundreds of books that Marianne collected over the years rather took over every room in the family home. And after she died in 1989 aged just 52, things in our house slowly but inevitably got rearranged, with some of her book collection being boxed up and moved into the garage and summer house to free up some space.

Imogen and her face of woe

Which was fine, until one day three summers ago we discovered that disaster had struck - the summer house roof was no longer watertight. And yes, boxes of valuable old books had been drenched in rainwater as a result. Then left to go mouldy as they lay damp and undiscovered for several weeks.

It was a very depressing operation trying to rescue the books from their sodden mouldy state. We emptied all the boxes, and spread the poor books out on a dry floor on top of layers of kitchen towel, attempting to wipe the mould off with a damp J-cloth, all in a pretty futile effort to save them. We had to throw a fair amount of books away as they just didn't seem to be worth saving - crinkled up, mouldy, stuck together, torn :-(

Absolutely heart-breaking. Look how beautiful some of these books are - their hand-coloured illustrations, the embellished front covers. Look - Wuthering Heights written by "Ellis Bell", the name that Emily Bronte used when first published, as she and her sisters believed at the time that "authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice".

And more pictures of tragedy...

Soggy Tennyson

Mouldy Kate Greenaway, among others

Beautiful hand-drawn cartoon book, and other damaged victims

Many of these books would have been bought from Jon Ash book shop in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Many of them are probably fairly valuable. We'd almost rather not know - it's sad enough to know from a sentimental point of view that the books our mother collected and loved so much, have been damaged beyond repair. And of course, not really knowing what the books might be worth, they weren't insured.

However, at least a lot more of her collection remains safe and dry in the house! And shall remain so, we hope...

Here's a poem from Mr Nash to Marianne, dated 18 July 1959. I think his ability to deal with his unrequited adoration was diminishing, and it sounds as if Marianne had become somewhat aloof, visiting his bookshop less frequently in her weekday lunch hours in an attempt to not give him false hope.

Now bid me go
For I have seen
Your beauty unalloyed,
And I have worshipped you
According to my lights
And found you inaccessible.

You who are cold
And silent stay
To me who need you so
Not for your flesh so fair
(Though that were bliss indeed)
But for your many virtues rare

So bid me go
And free yourself
From one who cannot give
A fraction of your worth
In anything save words
And time, and thoughts and dreams - all dreams.

18th July, 1959

16 & 17 July 1959 Rockets and ships

Like to a rocket
Launched to outer space
I send this message to you now
Not knowing how it may be seen
Or how received into your spacious mind,
But it might blazon to the skies
And shew to you in its reflected light
The glory of your splendid eyes;
Then let it die, contented to have been.
Yet would I choose to be consumed
Within your own affection's flame
For heaven itself
Would then revolve round me.

16th July, 1959

I have seen great ships in London Docks
Take on their cargoes for far distant lands;
Cootamundra, Chicacole, and Sind.
And in times past I would have joined
To do their battle with the unknown seas.

But I am launched on seas more troublesome
With crazy compasses that point at me,
My own uncharted, undiscovered heart.
Pray for the sailor out at sea
But think of me, for you command my destiny.

17th July, 1959

14/7/1959 You are my only audience... a letter and two poems

We made an exciting discovery last weekend while clearing out a cupboard in the family home - a box of letters, mostly to Marianne from her father (who left Hilda and the family home when Marianne was about 5, and eventually moved to as-was-then Rhodesia), but also a few letters from Mr Nash, which give more insight into why he wrote poems for Marianne, and how he suggested she interpret them. Below is one of these letters - read it and have a little romantic sob - we did... And here's a silly photo of us - me in my mum's 1960s glasses, and my sister with a book we remember reading as children, that we'd been given by Mummy from her collection of 'old books', or maybe just from a 1980s jumble sale! 

Marianne,

I offer these fresh poems and hope you will see in them the small addition in power I seem to see in them.

Of their contents.... you see how things are with me, for I have reached the depths. I know there is nothing to be done about it.

I hope they will not cause you any disturbances. Try to think of them as from someone you would like to have them from and I am sure they will then give you pleasure.

I ask only one little thing... do give me just a word or two about them. You are my only audience, remember, and no-one likes to play to empty stalls... although, God, help me, I am not acting

I hope you like your book.

Cyril

And, playing catch-up with Mr Nash's constant flow of poems, here are two more, both dated 14th July 1959.

If I could span the years
And cross time's bridge of sighs,
My shyness I would place within,
Your own sweet hands, as potter's clay,
Shaping myself to all your will.

And even now, when time's great tide
Runs strongly in between,
I set my sail to your far distant shore
Safe in the searchlight of your eyes,
Where I may serve till time itself is still.

14th July, 1959

If music be the voice of angels
Since earthly meaning it transcends,
And if the language of true love
Sweet music is, why then,
I have the key to all my bitter tears.
For now I may possess myself in peace
And love you, making willing sacrifice
Of all time's seeming pleasantries,
Save this, that I must see you now
For angels' music feeds on heavenly views.

14th July, 1959

13/7/1959 - Since you will not let me see you

The poems continue almost daily, but the content of today's poem make it clear that Marianne's visits to Jon Ash bookshop had dwindled in frequency. And when she did come to the shop, it was briefly, and with a companion. Do we assume the intensity of Mr Nash's poetry had become too much for Marianne? Regardless, he continued writing poems for her. And these poems of sadness and emptiness are in Marianne's possession, so she must have continued her visits to receive them when buying a book from his shop.

This poem has the double tick, indicating Mr Nash would like it published one day, and it's numbered 17, detailing the order he would like them published in. I'm adding them to the blog in date order however (where we have a date), as I think they tell a fuller story this way. Of a bookshop owner infatuated with one of his customers, to the point where it seemed to take up a large part of his daily thoughts and dreams, and the lack of acknowledgement was driving him to distraction... But how could he expect her to reciprocate? She was just 23 at this point, and undoubtedly a shy 23-year old still living at home. He was over 30 years older than her, married, with children the same age as her. Perhaps he just wanted a muse for his poetry?

Since you will not let me see you
- Your fleeting visits once a week
Sometimes with some one else
I may not countenance, for then perforce
I am with others' wants engaged -
I look for you in all things beautiful
And glimpse, now here, now there,
The faintest shadow of yourself
In flowers, faces, trees and skies
And from these wring some measure
Of your loveliness, that I might live
From hour to hour until we meet again.
Thoughts are but thoughts though they
Are with me night and day
And dreams are too intangible for me.
Those pictures in my mind which come
So easily, do but torment in their passivity
For you are your eyes, your lips,
Your voice, your matchless laugh,
Your personality, that makes all music
Murmurings, and poetry a needless sigh.
So, of your charity, come soon, come soon,
And save this all that's good in me
For, starved for a sight of you,
It must most surely die

13th July, 1959

10/7/1959 Who says I am in love with love?

Another of Mr Nash's favourite poems for Marianne, indicated by a tick on the reverse, and numbered '19'. Here Cyril speaks of his love/hate relationship with love - unrequited love, it seems...

Who says
I am in love with love?
It is not true;
I love while hating love,
Its bitter brew.
Laughter thrusts more deep the knife
Into my warring mind
And weeping will not do
For tears would drown me with despair.
Since seeing you means fleeing me
Till to myself I'm blind -
But then, when you are gone, all life
And light depart from me
To bring but hell's extremity.
Who says I love, says true,
But love to me is rue.

10th July, 1959

8/7/1959 Half the world...

At the end of one of his poems dated 18 June, Mr Nash added a postcript that he would be on holiday "for a fortnight from Tuesday next", which would have been 23 June 1959. So this poem was likely written upon return from his break, during which we know he visited Bath. Being at least two weeks since he had seen Marianne at his shop in London, it seems to have been playing fairly heavily on his mind...

Note the single tick top left of the piece of paper - indicating Mr Nash liked this poem, and wanted to get Marianne's thoughts on it. (Other poems featured 2 ticks and a sequential number, which meant that it was a particular favourite, and that Mr Nash sought to publish them with Marianne's permission, in the order he numbered).

I would walk half the world to see you now
If by some sad mischance, extremity
Had parted us so far, this I do vow
For you are all my homing, instancy.

What matters it, if half the world away
Or you had gone this moment from my side?
Here or there, you would not bid me stay
Or could not care, perhaps might me deride.

If must be so - Age can make no demands
On you, and would not wish to make amiss -
Then For taking soils the givers' and the takers' hands
And both might lose eternity's grave kiss.

But if you called? How could I then refuse
For you are heaven, so I have nought to lose.

8th July, 1959

1/7/1959 A fuchsia tree

Thinking of you
I saw a fuchsia tree.
To myself said
What shall my future be?
Like lighted lamps
Matched only by your eyes,
Or these red drops
Of blood which fall when their light dies?

1st July, 1959