JAMMES, Francis, and BONFILS, Robert. Epitaphs. - Lot 211

JAMMES, Francis, and BONFILS, Robert. Epitaphs. First edition of this collection by Francis Jammes, illustrated by Robert Bonfils with 24 woodcuts. Our copy is enhanced by a dedication from the author and includes a typewritten epistolary elegy in verse addressed to his friend Charles de Bordeu. Paris, published by l’Art Catholique, 1921. Large 8vo, paperback, covers illustrated with woodcuts. 47 pp., 24 monochrome woodcuts, including a two-tone frontispiece and those on the covers. Two small tears on the spine; covers slightly browned, as is often the case; a reddish stain between the first inner cover and the first white endpaper. First edition of this collection of epitaphs in verse by Francis Jammes (1868–1938), illustrated by Robert Bonfils (1886–1971) with 24 woodcuts, including a frontispiece. Limited edition of 1,175 copies; this is one of the 1,100 numbered copies printed on Lafuma pure-thread laid paper (no. 799). Our copy is enhanced by a handwritten note from the author (pen, smudged gray ink, loose cursive) reproducing one of the epitaphs from the collection (p. 45): “Against the cross, the weeping mother stood.” A typewritten epistolary elegy addressed to his friend Charles de Bordeu and signed “Francis Jammes—May 22, 1924, Hasparren” is also included in this volume, along with a copy of it (in black ink). Charles de Bordeu (1857–1926) lived not far from Francis Jammes, who was based in Hasparren in the Basque Country from 1921 until his death. This poem, which celebrates the friendship between the two men of letters, would appear in a magazine two years later, the year of Charles de Bordeu’s death. “My dear friend, on that day when the sun scorched the terrace While the harvest slumbered in the height of July, When the quail, motionless amid the millet, No longer feared the dog that the leaden air harrassed [sic], Here it rises again, this beautiful day, Here it rises at last in our memories After more than thirty years, yet in all its glory, In all its duration and all its love. The door opens to the wind blowing from the grave; Your mother enters, like some black torch, And her silver hair illuminates your manor, Where, from the top of the bell tower, the turtledoves fall. O Blessing; when the dining room Showed me on its walls your grandeur and your ruin, Mingling the names of kings with the sounds of cowbells, And adorned only with orange trees. O my brother, dearest among my brothers; You gave me your bread, you gave me your salt, Your salt shone as brightly as the rainbow, Your bread tasted of the earth’s virtues. The door opens once more. The first shadow has fled, but I see appear, Beneath the white quince tree that kissed your window, The one who gave you her tears and her faith. Ah, tell me if I was able, when twilight Spread over Abos, to draw from your old well Water more transparent and pure than today Our shared friendship in those receding days. To people like you, one cannot give: What we would give them, they themselves bring to us; But let me cast upon the soul of a dead woman The lilies that once greeted her newborn child.” A touching copy.