The Fanfrolico Press

Turnbull Library Record, Volume 18, Issue 1, 1 May 1984, Page 13

The Fanfrolico Press

ROBERT PETRE

Among the various special collections of the Turnbull Library are a number of books published under the imprint of the Fanfrolico Press. Although these comprise only about a third of the total produced by the Press, they are broadly representative of its range and development not only in time, but also in geographic location and method of production. The following is a brief history of the Press and a discussion of its aims and achievements, with notes on these examples. 1

The Fanfrolico Press existed for only five years, from 1925 until 1930, and produced in this time 37 books. Although many were associated with the Press to a lesser or greater degree, Jack Lindsay was the only one who worked on it for the whole of this time, and his was the guiding hand throughout; it may fairly be said, in retrospect, to have been Jack Lindsay’s Fanfrolico Press. Lindsay’s partners were successively John Kirtley, Percy Stephensen and Brian Penton, and his brother Philip worked with him at the Press’s beginnings, and towards its end. There were numerous illustrators (principally his father, Norman Lindsay), editors, businessmen, pressmen, friends and helpers of various kinds also associated with the Press. It spanned two continents, and progressed (or sank?) from a room above a butcher’s shop in Kirribilli, Sydney, to offices in Bloomsbury Square, London, and finally to a cellar in Plampstead. The books were at first, and at last, set and printed by hand; but for most, during the heyday of the Press, the actual printing was carried out by commercial firms.

Both Lindsay and Kirtley began experimenting with printing independently, before they met. Lindsay had ‘picked up a broken-down Albion sort of printing-press’ 2 and describes how he and Philip very slowly and inexpertly produced on it The Pleasante Conceited Narrative of Panurge’s Fantastic Ally [sicj Brocaded Codpiece (1924). (Stephensen, although an old Queensland acquaintance of Lindsay’s, was by this time in Oxford, and neither Lindsay, Kirtley nor Stephensen himself mentions his being involved in any way with the Press in Australia.) Meanwhile both Lindsays had met Kirtley and begun helping him on his own more substantial Chandler and Price bench-platen, from which several items were

produced under the imprint of the Hand Press of J. T. Kirtley. When Lindsay’s translation of Aristophanes’ Lysistrata was mooted (there is some quibbling in later accounts as to who suggested it first) a still larger press was acquired. Kirtley was worried about possible police action, and suggested a new name for the Press which would not include his own. The origin of the name Fanfrolico is not quite clear: Adams 3 assumes that it is derived from Rabelais’s ‘vaguely rumbustious’ word fanfreulich, of which a variant form fanfrelucke is also quoted. 4 However both Hetherington 5 and Kirtley (in his MS memoirs, quoted by Chaplin) 6 state unequivocally that they took the name from Norman Lindsay’s stories about the Duke of Fanfrolico and his court of Micomicon. Some of these stories were later published by the Press in Hyperborea (1928). Rabelais was of course a sort of gospel for the Lindsays, and no doubt was the ultimate source, even if only as an unconscious echo; but it seems equally important to stress the influence of Norman Lindsay here.

After the publication of Lysistrata in 1925, Kirtley suggested to Lindsay that the two of them should continue the Press in London. With Norman’s approval, his promise of illustrations to be provided gratis, and his gift of the fare and a new suit for Jack, they left in February 1926. Lindsay 2 mentions several books left unfinished on their departure; one W3S certainly his Passionate Neatherd, completed but unbound in the haste of departure. Kirtley found premises for the Press in Bloomsbury Square, and persuaded the Chiswick Press to print the London edition of Lysistrata. Kirtley was the proprietor and business manager; Lindsay was officially employed by him as editor and general office-worker. Despite the success of the first books Kirtley became disillusioned with England and, handing over the management to Lindsay, returned to Australia. Percy Stephensen had come down from Oxford and took over the selling and advertising, while Lindsay did the typographical design, corrected proofs, and edited, translated or wrote the books, involving considerable work in the nearby British Museum. The financial aspect was never secure; they had no capital, and existed initially on credit from the Chiswick and Curwen Presses. Each book had to pay its own way; no failures could be afforded. Nevertheless the name of the Press slowly became known, spreading also to America, where, however, there were particular difficulties with the customs officials. Among those who provided work for the Press at this stage were the painter Lionel Ellis, the writer Robert Graves, and the composer Philip Heseltine (alias Peter Warlock). Norman Lindsay continued to provide many illustrations. In 1928 and 1929 the Press branched out from its policy of limited

editions to produce six numbers of a deliberately provocative periodical, the London Aphrodite, for which the contributors were many and illustrious. At the time the Press seemed to be at its most financially stable, but the Aphrodite did not win wide support and made heavy losses. Meanwhile both Lindsay and Stephensen took holidays on the Continent on the proceeds of the Press, where the latter met and discussed with D. H. Lawrence the printing of reproductions of some of his paintings. In later accounts there is disagreement over whether Lindsay did not want to publish Lawrence (who was already considered a literary giant but also liable to bring down prosecution ori the Press), or whether Lawrence did not wish to be associated with the Fanfrolico imprint. At any rate it seems clear that Lindsay encouraged Stephensen to set up his own press to publish Lawrence, even introducing him to a financial backer, and the two drifted apart. Meanwhile another Australian acquaintance, Brian Penton, had arrived in London, and took Stephensen’s place as business manager. Major changes occurred: Lindsay, Elza de Locre, Penton and his wife moved together into a large house in West Hampstead (where for a while they even employed a man-servant), a good quality treadle platen was bought and a printer-journeyman hired, and the Fanfrolico books once more produced entirely by hand. The first of these, the Mimiambs of Herondas, was under the circumstances quite a magnificent effort. Philip Lindsay also arrived from Australia, moved into the house, and helped with the work. Certainly these changes smack not so much of belt-tightenings, but of new beginnings and raised hopes. However it was not to last. Both Philip Lindsay and the Pentons departed, and Lindsay was left to carry on virtually alone. In 1930 he called a meeting of creditors (who, as it turned out, were paid nearly in full), and the assets of the Press were liquidated and the remaining stock sold.

Various theories have been advanced to account for the demise of the Press. Adams seems to blame it entirely on th e London Aphrodite ; Philip Lindsay claimed that it was Jack’s lack of business sense; Fotheringham 7 lists several reasons, including the restrictive aesthetic, Stephensen’s extravagance, and the approaching Great Depression; Hall 8 blames it on the problems arising over the D. H. Lawrence reproductions, and also mentions the part that Elza de Locre had to play. This last aspect is probably the one that comes across most strongly in Jack Lindsay’s own account: 9 he was obsessed by her and could not see the effect she was having on him and his work. She antagonised Stephensen, was largely responsible for driving away Philip Lindsay, Brian Penton, and most of their remaining friends, and succeeded in stifling his creativity and enthusiasm. Stephensen is particularly vituperative, describing her

as ‘a country bumpkin who had somehow managed to make her way to London’s arty mobs and had cast herself, not as Jack idealised her in the role of a pre-Raphaelite Madonna, but, as I considered, of a Swinburnian Dolores’. 10 No doubt the unlucky combination of all these circumstances was the overall cause of the end of the Fanfrolico Press.

The aims of the Fanfrolico Press are conveniently spelled out by Stephensen in Fanfrolicana: being a statement of the aims of the Fanfrolico Press both typographical and aesthetic with a complete bibliography and specimen passages and illustrations from the books (1928). This of course dates from the height of the Press, and more than half of their books were still to be published; it nevertheless seems to be a valid basis on which to assess the Press as a whole. Stephensen begins by expatiating on the background or general context of their work in such terms as these: ‘What is indicated primarily in most modern Fine Press books is . . .’, and again:‘The private Presses are continually educating book readers . . . ’ It is clear that neither Stephensen nor Lindsay doubted their own place in this general picture, and it would be fair to assume that the same applied to the public of the time who bought and read their books. But in fact (that is to say, in the strictest interpretation of these terms), the Fanfrolico Press was not a ‘private Press’, nor was it primarily concerned with ‘Fine Printing’.

It is no easy matter to define a private press, but one of the more obvious criteria is surely that the books it produces will actually be set and printed privately, usually by hand —in other words, a private press combines the otherwise separated functions of publisher and printer. For the Fanfrolico Press this was not the case: the great bulk of its books were printed by various commercial printing firms. The point I think is not particularly significant and should not be over-emphasised. For one thing, the Sydney Lysistrata and the unfinished Passionate Neatherd, as well as all those books from the Mimiambs ofHerondas on, were in fact printed by the labour of Lindsay himself and his associates, and there are few, if any, immediately discernible differences between them —certainly nothing like a sudden drop or rise in quality. For another, the principle is not without precedent—the obvious examples being William Morris himself, in his use of the Chiswick Press, and that of the Nonesuch Press and several others. All this simply implies that for purposes of assessment one must look not at details such as the quality and evenness of the setting, inking, printing, etc, but at

more general points of typographical design: choice of type-face and paper, lay-out of the page, use of illustration, etc. Both design and production features naturally remain the ultimate responsibility of the publisher. Of far greater importance is the question of ‘fine printing’. Stephensen goes on to say that ‘in Fine Book production the question is not merely how to print finely, but also what to print finely’. This I think somewhat understates the case as exemplified in

practice by the Fanfrolico books themselves: the relative weighting of these two parameters. For the Fanfrolico Press the what was consistently of much greater importance than the how . This is not to say that the books were badly or inadequately or even inappropriately printed, but simply that the over-riding principle was whether or not the text conformed to the Fanfrolico ‘ethic’. That Lindsay should convey his message by means of the Book Beautiful was relatively incidental.

Some attempt must be made to define this ‘ethic’. The point above is confirmed by Stephensen’s remark in Fanfrolicana that ‘the Fanfrolico books individually and more so cumulatively, are achieving a literary and human affirmation which goes beyond mere typographical effectiveness’. He elaborates on this ‘literary and human affirmation’: ‘ln the poisonous atmosphere of “modern” literary weariness, ultra-sophistication and aesthetic shallowness, an attempt ... is being made ... to re-define beauty in terms of delight and to piece together the fragments of aesthetic consciousness shattered by the War . . . The signature of all these works is a love for life —the selective principle used by the Fanfrolico Press.’ Norman Lindsay and ‘Norman Lindsayism’ are an essential element in all this. Initially in 1920 (later revised and republished) Jack’s father had published his own philosophy under the title Creative Effort (London: Cecil Palmer, 1924) —a document which he himself admitted to be rather ‘muddled’, to say the least. However it struck some sympathetic chord of the Twenties generally, and was not without influence: it certainly ruled Jack Lindsay’s life for the next ten years. Oblique references abound in Fanfrolico and After, and Stephensen states explicitly that ‘our weapon against disintegration was the Nietzschean-Dionysian aesthetic which had been re-formulated in Australia in Norman Lindsay’s Creative Effort, that great personality’s “essay in affirmation” ’. 10

Another aspect of this was the notion of the Press as ‘an Australian explosion in the English scene’ which, Lindsay continues, ‘politely ignored the noise, held its nose, and went on with its own business’. 9 Adams writes rather condescendingly of the Press’s attempt ‘to storm the battlements of the established English literary position with a new approach and a new critique ... a crude enthusiasm for literature as the essence of life against a sophisticated view of life as part of letters . . . there was something of the swaggering Australian provincialism in this’. 3 There was certainly an ambivalence on Norman Lindsay’s part; in a letter of 1924 quoted in Fanfrolicana he wrote: ‘There are strong evidences that literature in England is moving toward a gayer and franker outlook ... as for this place, Australia, it is a moribund hole,

hardly above the mental level of back-woods America’; yet in a letter to Hugh McCrae in 1926 after Jack Lindsay and Kirtley had left for England he expressed doubts about the success of their venture, the task oflaunching Australian poetry in Europe, and that he ‘could not imagine our fauns and nymphs skipping before an audience of the living dead’. 6 All this was directly reflected in the choice of texts published by the Press. Almost a quarter were translations of Greek and Roman classics of the more ‘exuberant’ cast, such as Aristophanes’ Lysistrata , Petronius’ Satyricon, or the Herondas Mimes. Another third were new editions of Elizabethan or Jacobean works in a similar vein, such as Herrick’s poetry, or Loving Mad Tom, a collection of sixteenth and seventeenth century mad-house songs, or The Metamorphosis of Ajax, an Elizabethan discourse on lavatories. Other items illustrating relevance to specific aspects of the Fanfrolico aims include th c Anti-Christ of Nietzsche (1928). The remainder of the Fanfrolico books were principally contemporary texts; most were verse or verse-drama. As Fanfrolicana states: ‘The modern work issued by the Press is, and will be, chiefly poetry which combines an authentic poetic expression with a merry solicitude for life as an adventure . . . ’ Apart from Jack Lindsay’s own considerable contribution of original work, translations and editions, there were other ‘family’ items, such as Norman Lindsay’s Hyperborea (1928) and his semi-novel Madam Life’s Lovers (1929), and Philip Lindsay’s historical essay Morgan in famaica, with a poem by Jack and illustrations by the other brother, Ray. Perhaps the volume of Elza de Locre’s verse, Older than Earth (1930) should also

come into this ‘family’ category. There are a few items which do not seem in accord with the general aesthetic, however successful they may have been in other respects. Jack Lindsay’s essay, for example, William Blake: Creative Will and the Poetic Image (1927) was declared by Gordon Craig to be the best of the Fanfrolico books, but Norman was very opposed to Blake, and after the book’s publication he urged Philip to write a counterblast to it. Moreover it was written and issued as a contribution to the Blake centenary, a notion which Fanfrolicana specifically condemned: . . . a literary and human affirmation which . . . has no relation to convulsions of the calendar . . . ’ It is also not quite clear how the reprinting of William Morris’s Defence of Guinevere poems fits in with the Fanfrolico aesthetic, although the homage to Morris as typographer and poet is obvious, and the book is certainly one of the more attractive of those published (and printed) by Fanfrolico, with its eight Rossetti drawings. Jack Lindsay was proud of the fact that Fanfrolico, alone of the private presses of the Twenties, republished Morris, and claims it as a tribute to the ‘Morrisian concept of united

hand-and-mind’; 6 but in fact he did not read Morris’s socialist works until the 19405, long after he had rejected Norman Lindsayism in favour of Marxism. Another aim expressed in Fanfrolicana is that ‘if works are to be translated, reprinted or edited for the Press, the job should be done well and scholarly . . . There seems little question that this aim was faithfully carried out. Perhaps the outstanding example was The Complete Works of Cyril Tourneur (1929) which, with its 49-page introduction and very full textual notes and commentary by Allardyce Nicoll, became virtually the standard text of this lesser-known Elizabethan poet and dramatist. A further example was, again, Loving Mad Tom, edited with ‘scrupulous scholarship’ 3 by Jack Lindsay and including alternative texts, extensive notes, musical settings, and an introduction by Robert Graves. Lindsay was however rather let down by the ‘genteel Victorian scholarship’ 9 of Sir Edmund Gosse, whose edition of the works of Thomas Lovell Beddoes was published by the Press in 1928. It was only when correcting the proofs that Lindsay discovered that Gosse’s protestations of accuracy and comprehensiveness were less than reliable, and did what he could to amend them. Beddoes’s subjects and imagery are somewhat macabre, so the choice of the Holbein woodcuts from The Dance of Death as illustrations works well; a further nice touch (remarked on by Chaplin) 6 was the choice of the Crypt House Press as printer. Another lapse in scholarly standards was the Metamorphosis of Ajax-, Elizabeth Donno remarks that ‘this curtailed edition again is not reliable. Although it contains no textual notes, it does include some explanatory notes which are to be commented on only for the extent and variety of their errors.’ 11

Lindsay saw his role in the Press (at least until the later stages) primarily as translator, editor and writer generally—and this is no doubt reflected in the predominantly literary or philosophic character of the Press—rather than as a producer of‘fine printing’ per se. Lindsay’s writing has been extraordinarily wide-ranging and prolific (as a glance at his bibliography 12 will show), and he is now claimed as one of Australia’s brightest literary figures; but he is not primarily known for his work as printer, publisher or typographer. The typographical aims of the Fanfrolico Press were also spelled out by Stephensen: . legibility, neatness, proportion and balance on the printed page ... an effect is achieved only by careful attention to detail and the indefinable quality of taste, which may mean a knowledge of what is adequate for a given occasion ... A considerable typographical versatility has been exercised in [the Fanfrolico books’] “make-up” to secure effects which are neither showy nor stodgy, but are merely adequate to express the individuality of each book (not, be it noted, of the typographer

. . .).’ Generally these aims were very successfully achieved within the classical tradition: wide and well-proportioned margins, simplicity, clarity and solidity of type-mass, and the restrained integration of decoration or illustration. A wide variety of good quality papers was used: the Lysistrata set in 18-point Garamond on Hollingsworth hand-made paper, the Gordon Bottomley Festival Preludes (1930) in Weiss Antiqua on Barcham Green Charles I paper, and the Herondas in 18-point Cloister type on Van Gelder Antique paper, are all good examples. Many of the books also had more sumptuous special editions, on special paper or Japanese vellum, and with more elaborate bindings. There was certainly a ‘typographical versatility’ in the wide variety of type-faces used, some for the first time by the Press, and they were always carefully chosen for their appropriateness to the text and general design of the book. The success of one or two of the decisions, however, is debatable. There was no attempt at mere typographical effect for its own sake, but what exactly constitutes ‘adequacy to express individuality’ can be a subjective matter. The printing of Nietzsche’s Anti-Christ in 16-point Poliphilus capitals throughout has been said (e.g. by Adams) 3 to render the book unreadable, and even Lindsay admits that it is ‘not easy to read except in small bits’. 9 However the decision was a deliberate one and related very closely to the text, as Stephensen explains: ‘The book was set in Poliphilus capitals because of the words in section LXII “I shall write upon all walls” . . . the use of black letter for quotations from the Bible was intended to show the horribleness of the Gothic compared with the Roman in conformity with Nietzsche’s denunciation of the German theologians (e.g. in section LII) . . .’ 6 The aim was to produce a monumental inscriptional effect (which it certainly does), and the book was to be itself a kind of bible, from which selected readings might be taken —it was never intended to be light bedside reading. The sheer size of the book (40 X 28 cm.) is a further justification.

At the other end of the scale is Delighted Earth (1927): selections from the poetry of Robert Herrick —‘the “prettiest” book yet issued under our imprint; ideal as a gift’. There is an apologetic tone in this description in Fanfrolicana, and one might arguably describe this book as ‘hideously pretty’: the Koch Kursiv italic type has a greyish spidery effect, particularly disturbing in the prose of the introduction (Lindsay uses here one of his pseudonyms, Peter Meadows), and the Lionel Ellis collotypes are wishy-washy, almost cute. There is a strangely prosaic blue cloth binding. Perhaps all this was genuinely considered ‘appropriate’, but the general characterisation of Herrick as ‘violets and cream’ (as the Times Literary Supplement reviewer remarked) would not meet with universal agreement. Overall the

book smacks of a (deliberate?) contravention of the Fanfrolico principle which condemned the ‘assumed marketable value of the book considered simply as a commodity’. Luckily it is not typical. Finally there is the question of illustration, described in Fanfrolicana as ‘perhaps the most attractive aspect of Fine Book production, almost the sine qua non of a book with character’. Nearly all the Fanfrolico books had at least some illustration; many, as noted above, were supplied gratis by Norman Lindsay—their use was an essential aspect of spreading the Lindsay name and the Lindsay aesthetic. There is a further sideswipe in Fanfrolicana at ‘those who still think figure compositions in the nude are immoral’ —while they appear perfectly innocuous today, they were of course at the time highly controversial. FJowever all the illustrations were chosen with as much care as were the typefaces. The Holbein woodcuts for the Beddoes, and the Rossetti drawings for the Morris, have already been mentioned; other successful examples were the Ellis woodcuts for editions of Catullus and Theocritus, and the drawings by the then unknown Edward Bawden for A Patchwork Quilt (1929). A contrast to the predominant Norman Lindsay style is provided by the extraordinary surreal designs produced by Alan Odle for the Mimiambs of Herondas. Jack Lindsay refers more than once to their ‘baroque force’, and they combine extremely well with Lindsay’s own type-setting and hand-drawn initials, and the rather bizarre text of this first book printed on the new Fanfrolico press in Hampstead.

This article was submitted and accepted for publication in 1982— Ed.

REFERENCES This article was originally presented as part of a paper for the Diploma in Librarianship, Victoria University, 1982.1 am grateful to Professor Roderick Cave and Mr Simon Cauchi for their comments and suggestions. 1 Other items consulted include: Friedrich Nietzsche, The Anti-Christ (1929) (held by Victoria University Library), and Ausonius, A Patchwork Quilt (1929) (in private collection). 2 Jack Lindsay, The Roaring Twenties (London: Bodley Head, 1960). 3 Anthony Adams, ‘The Fanfrolico Press: an appreciation’, American Book Collector, v. 9, no. 8 (April 1959), pp. 9-14. 4 Roderick Cave, The Private Press (London: Faber, 1971). 5 John Hetherington, Norman Lindsay: the Embattled Olympian (Melbourne: 0.U.P., 1973). 6 Harry F. Chaplin, The Fanfrolico Press: a Survey, with a preface by fack Lindsay (Sydney: Wentworth Press, 1976. Studies in Australian Bibliography, no. 23). 7 Richard Fotheringham, ‘Expatriate Publishing: Jack Lindsay and the Fanfrolico Press’, Meanjin Quarterly, v. 31, no. 1 (March 1972), pp. 55-61. 8 R. L. Hall, ‘Expatriate Publishing’, Meanjin Quarterly, v. 33, no. 2 (June 1974), pp. 170-176. 9 Jack Lindsay, Fanfrolico and After (London: Bodley Head, 1962).

10 P. R. Stephensen, ‘Fanfrolico Fantasia’, Australian Book Review, v.l, no. 10 (August 1962), pp. 132-134. 11 Sir John Harington’s A New Discourse of a Stale Subject, called The Metamorphosis of Ajax: a critical annotated edition by Elizabeth Story Donno (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1962), p. 48. 12 John Arnold, ‘Jack Lindsay: Towards a Bibliography’, Overland, 83 (April 1981), pp. 50-55.