Welcome to the Kenneth Spencer Research Library blog! As the special collections and archives library at the University of Kansas, Spencer is home to remarkable and diverse collections of rare and unique items. Explore the blog to learn about the work we do and the materials we collect.
In the course of my work as a conservator at KU Libraries, one of my favorite bookbinding features to spot “in the wild” is paste paper. A book covered in paste paper might come to the lab for treatment, or I might catch sight of one while working in the stacks, and I always take a moment to look at them closely and enjoy the variety of colors, patterns, and styles that paste papers come in. It was no easy task to narrow down Spencer’s abundant selection of paste papers to just a few volumes that will be on view in a temporary exhibit in the North Gallery through August and September.
Paste paper is a style of decorative paper made by coating the surface of paper with a thick pigmented starch adhesive (usually wheat paste or methylcellulose) and then manipulating the wet paste mixture to create patterns. Combs, stamps, brushes, wadded paper or textiles, rollers, fingers and more could be used to create designs. Paste papers were an economical alternative to marbled papers, which required a high degree of skill and costly materials to produce. No special training or supplies were needed to make paste papers; bookbinders could create them right in their workshops with materials already at hand.
Paste papers were most often used for book covers and endpapers and were popular from the late 16th through the 18th century. Paste papers are often seen on books from Germany and Northern Europe, although there are many lovely examples of block-printed paste papers from Italy. There was renewed interest in paste papers during the Arts & Crafts movement of the late 19th and early 20th century. Today, paste papers are still created by book artists and hobbyists, and can be seen on some fine-press editions. The examples on view represent just a fraction of the many beautiful paste papers found in Spencer’s collections and available to view in the Reading Room.
Pulled (or veined) paste papers were created by coating two sheets of paper with the colored paste, pressing the two pasted sides together, and then pulling the sheets apart, creating a unique wave-like pattern on each sheet.
Left: Cover of De Mentha piperitide commentatio botanico medica, 1780. Call Number: C9291. Right: Cover of Rules and orders of the Linnean Society of London,1788. Call Number: Linnaeana C112. Click collage image to enlarge.
Drawn paste papers (also called scraped or combed) were made by “fingerpainting” in the wet paste or dragging various implements through the paste layer. The results can range from painterly and whimsical to clean and graphic. A faux wood graining tool was used to create the pattern on Summerfield E156 (second from left).
Left: Cover of Lectionary, incomplete. [Italy, between 1101-1200]. Call Number: MS E22. Second from left: Cover of De origine et amplitudine ciuitatis Veronae, 1540. Call Number: Summerfield E156. Center: Cover of [Notes on agriculture.] Fletcher of Saltoun collection Scotland, 17–. Call Number: MS 109:4. Second from right: Cover of De ponderibus et mensuris veterum Romanorum…, 1737. Call Number: B3981. Right: Cover of Bookplates and labels by Leo Wyatt, 1988. Call Number: D3245. Click collage image to enlarge.
These are two very different examples of daubed paste papers: a boldly colored design executed in a thick layer of paste, and a subtle pattern possibly created with stiff brush bristles.
Left: Back cover of Deutschlands Beruf in der Gegenwart und Zukunft, 1841. Call Number: Howey D126. Right: Cover of Det enda nödvändiga för et rikes financer, 1792. Howey B1083. Click collage image to enlarge.
This charming stamped (or printed) design appears, appropriately, on the cover of a book about decorative papers used in bookbinding. An assortment of stamps in architectural shapes were pressed into the paste to create the pattern. Spattered (or sprinkled) papers were made by loading a brush with the colored paste mixture and striking the brush while holding it above the paper, creating a shower of drops.
Left: Cover of Decorated book papers, 1942. Call number: C6396. Right: Cover of Considerazioni sulle compagnie, 1769. Call Number: Howey B1116. Click collage image to enlarge.
Block printed paste papers used a matrix, probably carved as for a woodblock print, that was “inked” with the colored paste and stamped onto the paper. These designs can be simple or ornate and often use multiple colors. On Summerfield C1300 (at left) the binder used block printed papers in two different patterns.
Left: Cover of Anticamera di D. Pasquale, 1690. Call Number: Summerfield A866. Center: Cover of De iurisprudentia extemporali, 1628-1629. Call Number: Summerfield C1300. Right: Cover of Göttinger Taschen Calender für das Jahr 1790. Call Number: A274 1790. Click collage image to enlarge.
In these examples the makers have used a combination of techniques on a single sheet: stamped over drawn, drawn over pulled, and so on. D2763 (at right) is also an example of a paste paper created using a colored sheet of paper, instead of white or light paper, as the starting point.
Left: Endpaper of Göttinger Taschen Calender für das Jahr 1782. Call Number: A274 1782. Second from left: Cover of Hortus Celsianus i Uppsala, 1927. Call Number: Linnaeana C456. Second from right: Cover of Poems, 1768. Call Number: O’Hegarty C1129. Right: Cover of Poem to the memory of Lady Miller, 1782. Call Number: D2763. Click collage image to enlarge.
In Conservation Services we sometimes make paste papers to use in our own bookbinding models or in book making activities for colleagues or the public. Making paste papers is a fun and messy activity that invites exploration of colors, patterns, and mark-making tools. There are many online tutorials for making paste papers at home; bookbinder Erin Fletcher has a great video and written instructions on her blog. Tutorial // Paste Papers – Flash of the Hand
This post was written Public Services student assistant Kit Cavazos as part of their summer internship supervised by KU English Professor Misty Schieberle and Special Collections Curator Eve Wolynes.
Although medieval manuscripts are well-known for their look and style, the act of actually reading and understanding one can be tough. The image that often comes to mind is that of their non-naturalistic drawings, and thus, a casual viewer may see the squiggles sprinkled across the text as another odd decoration. However, many serve specific and intentional functions, acting as contractions, substitutions, or abbreviations of words or parts of words. Scribes often chose this practice because it saved on ink and parchment space, since both these materials were quite expensive.
Homiliae in Evangelia by Pope Gregory I, recto (detail), 1100–1115 CE. Call Number: MS 9/1:A1. Click image to enlarge.
The first and most prominent thing to note about manuscript notation is the dashes that are most often placed over vowels. Most of the time, these indicate a missing letter N or M. For example, “terram” shortens to “terrā.” The page above has quite a few examples in the first line: “qua[m],” “lapide[m],” and “lapide[m].”
Breviary, verso (detail), 1100-1199 CE. Call Number: MS 9/1:A6. Click image to enlarge.
Dashes can often have other meanings when interacting with a consonant, either by hovering above or crossing the letter. The incipit line of the above page has a quite recognizable first word, which substitutes an I for a J. This letter difference is generally because Latin, as a language, does not use the letter J, meaning our first word is “Judea.” Thus it is easier to understand part of the next noun, which has a letter L with a dash intersecting it, with the result resembling a stylized letter T. Picking out when a letter is a T or an L is made easy by way of comparison, as the page’s script will always have a style that differentiates letter that could be confused.
Thus, this L with an intersecting dash in the spine could represent a few similar letter clumps: “ler…,” “…ul,” “lor…,” or “al…,” among others. Despite knowing exactly what variations the letter could stand for, it still introduces a new wrinkle into the fold, as none of the suggested meanings for the substitutions seem to make the word wholly understandable. “Jerlerm,” “Jerulm,” “Jerlorm,” and “Jeralm” are not proper words, and thus, the contraction demonstrates how common words (such as proper nouns) could have more of an abstract contraction. When examining this word in context, it might be a bit easier to understand that this contraction represents the city named “Jerusalem.”
Homily fragment, recto (detail), 1250-1299 CE. Call Number: MS 9/1:A7. Click image to enlarge.
Another common symbol is this: , which often represents a “rum,” “ram, or “rem” sort of ending. The above example has multiple instances of its use within the first line, all taking the first possible ending. The line, when uncontracted, would read “verbi salutaris ac miraculorum suorum dulcidine” (“by the sweetness of his saving word and miracles”). These textual changes – both contractions and substitutions – indicate that both scribes and readers needed to have not only a deep understanding of what each symbol represented, but also a sense of the language. You could either look at the Latin and parse some words, or you could understand how to complete the words but have their meaning completely lost on you. This afforded the literate members of the population some form of exclusivity from everyone else. These manuscripts often contain important information about plants, animals, or other general encyclopedic knowledge.
Bible fragment of I Kings, recto (detail), 1240-1260 CE. Call Number: MS 9/1:A8. Click image to enlarge.
Another important aspect of a manuscript is additions that enhance a reader’s understanding of the text. The most obvious would be the fingers pointing to specific lines. These are manicules, and they are meant to emphasize important parts of the text. Another detail does something similar on the above page. The red lines highlighting specific letters are forms of rubrication, and they have a very similar function to manicules. In this instance, they mean to indicate and emphasize the capital letters in the line.
In other instances, rubrication notates significant parts of the text and frequently has a moralizing meaning. This means it can also come in textual form – often called the rubric – and it can add, emphasize, or reiterate important information to the reader. The term rubrication comes from the Latin word “ruber” (“red”), but important elements to a manuscript are not restricted solely to one color. Red often sees the most use, but blue and occasionally green can also be used for emphasis or decoration.
Leaf Containing the Service of the First Tuesday in Lent, Missal, recto (detail), 1400-1499 CE. Call Number: MS 9:2.30. Click image to enlarge.
With these basic understandings of common aspects of a medieval text (at least within the Spencer collection), reading a manuscript for the first time may be less daunting. The above page, for example, has several features already discussed. Most prominently, the rubrication stands out from the rest of the content, especially in the rubricated initial letters A and I, which have blue decoration that appears to mimic a lace design. The first rubricated word of the text is in the incipit line, which has the same L with an intersecting dash as before. Thus, we know the word would be something like “pp[ul]m” or something similar. If you don’t have a book on contractions easily to hand, sometimes sounding out what letters you do have can help make sense of the word – “populum,” in this instance. Thus, reading through the incipit line, it would say something like “Absol[v]e q[uaesumu]s D[omine] p[o]p[u]l[um] n[ostr]o[rum] vincula peccato[rum]” (“we beseech you, O Lord, to absolve our people from the bonds of their sins”). From even just this first line, we can understand that the reader is meant to focus on the people or population about whom it is speaking.
Reading through a medieval text can be difficult; even just reading one line without translation can take hours, depending on how many contractions or abbreviations there are, as well as how obscure each one may be. The result, though, is quite often rewarding, as it means modern readers can understand how information was relayed and what information medieval writers saw as needing to be relayed. An online resource for information on specific abbreviations is Cappelli’s Latin Abbreviations, which has been incredibly helpful for research and compiling the transcription of these lines.
Robin Hood has long been a favorite research topic of mine, and upon arriving at Spencer I was interested to see what we have available. Within Special Collections, the offerings include 19th- and 20th-century printings of the iconic Howard Pyle The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood (Call Number: Children C821), collections of extant ballads (Call Number: O’Hegarty A224), and even a time travel adventure by William Wu (Call Number: ASF B2119). While most of the library’s holdings are within the Children’s Collection, I was interested in looking at some of the oldest items.
The quest for the “real” Robin Hood is as never-ending as it is ambiguous; there are very few (if any) written records that would provide evidence for Robin Hood as a historical person. The legendary outlaw is, primarily, a legendary and even mythic figure, preserved in song and popular imagination throughout the centuries.
You may be familiar with A Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode as being one of the oldest ballads relating to the titular outlaw. Several of the items here at Spencer feature Lytell Geste, which comprises either the entirety of the volume (Call Number: B2069) or includes it amongst a broader collection of ballads (Call Number: O’Hegarty A224). As I was looking through them, a few things stood out to me.
The oldest volume I looked at is a 1795 edition of Joseph Ritson’s volume Robin Hood: A Collection of All the Ancient Poems, Songs, and Ballads, Now Extant, Relative to that Celebrated English Outlaw (Call Number: C4323). The legend is largely credited to items recorded by either Wynken de Wode or William Copland, as you can see here in the introduction to Ritson’s recorded version of Lytell Geste.
The introduction to Joseph Ritson’s 1795 Robin Hood. Call Number: C4323. Click image to enlarge.
While I had initially limited myself to looking at Lyttel Geste, and thought I might write primarily on the poem itself, I was immediately struck by the variance in prefatory materials between editions. Most notably, Ritson includes a detailed history of Robin Hood’s early life, as well as a family tree.
Two pages of “notes and illustrations” from Joseph Ritson’s 1795 Robin Hood. Call Number: C4323. Click image to enlarge.
As you can see, Ritson’s accounting of the life of Robin Hood situates Robin as a member of the nobility, namely the Earl of Huntingdon. One might speculate on this rhetorical choice in light of contemporary events: Was there a need to firmly situate the image of the noble class as a champion of the common person in the wake of the American Revolution? We will likely never know, but Ritson’s scholarship on the subject gives us an interesting and valuable insight into ways in which the Robin Hood mythos has shifted over the years.
Indeed, every printing of Lyttel Geste that I looked at credits Ritson in some way. The volume at call number EPM X293 is an 1820 reprinting of Ritson’s seminal work, edited for younger readers and significantly shorter in length, and which also features a “family tree” of the Earl of Huntingdon.
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The preface (top) and Robin Hood’s pedigree (bottom) in an 1820 reprinting of Joseph Ritson’s Robin Hood. Call Number: EPM X293. Click images to enlarge.
The other major player in the printings I looked at is a scholar by the name of John Mathew Gutch, who reprinted Ritson’s Lyttel Geste text with some heavy revisions (Call Number: O’Hegarty A213). Gutch includes a version of Lyttel Geste that had been completely rewritten by the Rev. John Eagles, not only standardizing the spelling, but changing the language entirely.
Joseph Ritson’s 1795 version of Lytell Geste, taken from manuscripts by Wynken de Worde and William Copland. Call Number: C4323. Click image to enlarge.
John Mathew Gutch’s revised 1866 version, rewritten by Rev. John Eagles. Call Number: O’Hegarty A213. Click image to enlarge.
Gutch casts some aspersions on Ritson’s scholarship and provides an overview of the scholarship to date. While Gutch does not broadly contest Ritson’s claim to Robin Hood’s nobility, he takes issue with a few key points of Ritson’s argument. Namely, Gutch stipulates that Robin Hood must have been of Saxon descent rather than Norman. Gutch draws out the distinction between Norman King Richard and Saxon Robin Hood, quoting from antiquarian and fellow scholar M. Thierry as well as delving etymologically into the origins of Robin’s surname.
Pages from John Mathew Gutch’s revised 1866 version, rewritten by Rev. John Eagles. Call Number: O’Hegarty A213. Click image to enlarge.
While I can’t speculate on the utility of Gutch drawing out this particular narrative thread during his contemporary setting, I can say that it is a rich insight into possible interpretations of the story. There is general agreement that Robin Hood’s narrative fits best into the latter half of the 12th century, during the Princes’ Crusade, during which there is a noted divide between the French-speaking Norman aristocracy and the English-speaking common people.
The story of Robin Hood has long been mutable, with its various written forms being complemented or augmented by a rich oral history that is, for obvious reasons, unavailable to us here at Spencer. As Gutch says, “the surprising adventures of this chief of bandits of the twelfth century, his victories over the men of foreign race, his stratagems and escapes, were long the only stock of national history that a plain Englishman of those ages transmitted to his sons, after receiving it from his forefathers.” Robin Hood continues to fascinate and charm even outside of the era of his origin.
I had initially thought that limiting myself to comparing variations between versions of a singular poem would be a small enough scope for a blog post. As so often happens, I was mistaken. Even looking at just four items, I uncovered a wealth of information to dive into and a thousand threads of inquiry to follow. If you, too, are an aspiring outlaw hobbyist, I encourage you to peruse the following items, both at Spencer and in the broader KU Libraries collection.
Grace Brazell Administrative Associate
Selected Further Reading at KU Libraries:
John Mathew Gutch’s scholarship on Robin Hood, 1847 (Call Number: PR2125 .G8)
Reading Robin Hood: Content, Form and Reception in the Outlaw Myth by Stephen Knight, 2015 (Call Number: PR2129 .K57 2015)
Images of Robin Hood: Medieval to Modern by Lois Potter, 2008 (Call Number: PR2129 .I63 2008)
Selected Further Reading at Spencer:
Headlong Hall. : Nightmare Abbey. ; Maid Marian. ; Crotchet Castle by Thomas Love Peacock, 1837 (Call Number: O’Hegarty B4480)
The English Archer; Or, Robert Earl of Huntingdon, Vulgarly Called Robin Hood, 1821, 1823 (Call Number: B1177)
The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown, in Nottinghamshire by Howard Pyle, 1940 (Call Number: Children C101)
Robin Hood and Little John or the Merry Men of Sherwood Forest by Pierce Egan, 1850 (Call Number: O’Hegarty D168)
Robin Hood and the Archers of Merrie Sherwood by George Emmett, approximately 1875 (Call Number: O’Hegarty D275)
Robin Hood and His Merry Foresters by Joseph Cundall, 1850 (Call Number: Children 1258A)
Kenneth Spencer Research Library’s current short-term exhibit explores some choice items from the library’s collection of medieval seals. This is a collaborative project put together by myself – Kaya Taylor – and my collaborator Eli Kumin, both of us long-time student workers here at the library.
A view of the exhibit. Click image to enlarge.
Eli and I have cultivated a particular interest in medieval wax seals, spurred on by our work on a Sanders Scholar research project under the supervision of Dr. John McEwan. Beginning in September 2024, we spent the project exploring the Abbey Dore collection (Call Number: MS Q80) at Spencer, given the remarkably well-preserved seals and documents dating back from the 12th and 13th centuries. As the project came to a close in May 2025, Eli and I realized that we could memorialize our work and interests in the form of an exhibit case. Titled Sigillum, it is our way of giving others a look into these fascinating and unique pieces of history, here to be enjoyed roughly 4,000 miles away from where they originated.
The overarching narrative of the Abbey Dore collection is one of property and the interplay between royal and religious power in the medieval period. The language used in the documents points to the exchange of land for the salvation of the donors and their loved ones, e.g. “for her soul and the soul of Madoc [her husband]” (Call Number: MS Q80:13).
Visitors may notice there is one document unlike the others in the exhibit case, labeled “land conveyance of Sir Roger Lasceles to his four daughters” (Call Number: MS C150). Although separate from the Abbey Dore collection, this document is included because it’s a particular favorite of ours and it boasts several unique qualities: a chirograph edge and three intact seals with very clear impressions. We chose to include it at the starting point of the exhibit because of its eye-catching quality, pulling visitors into the discussion of further seals and documents within the case.
A legal agreement, dated 1301-1302, whereby the lands of Sir Roger Lasceles are divided amongst his four daughters. Call Number: MS C150. Click image to enlarge.
Although Eli and I came to know the Abbey Dore collection very well over time, we still felt a bit confused as to the relative geography of the Welsh Marches and the locations mentioned in the collection. We felt that visitors could benefit from seeing a map of the region, and so we resolved to make one that centered the relevant places and landmarks stretching across the Welsh-English border. Ultimately, we used ArcGIS software to put together the map seen in the exhibit.
Our ArcGIS map of the Welsh-English border. Click image to enlarge.
We hope that Sigillum gives visitors a chance to appreciate not just the wax seals themselves, but the real human stories that stand behind them. We are excited to offer this glimpse into the medieval past, and grateful for the opportunity to bring these objects to light at Kenneth Spencer Research Library.
Sigillum: Seals and the Making of Medieval Authority is free and open to the public in Spencer’s North Gallery through July 31st.
Kaya Taylor and Eli Kumin Public Services student assistants KU Libraries Sanders Scholars 2024-2025
This Monday is “Bloomsday,” an annual celebration of the day (June 16, 1904) on which James Joyce’s novel Ulysses is set. “Bloomsday” takes its name from one of the book’s central characters, Leopold Bloom, and each June 16th fans of Joyce and Ulysses often celebrate with marathon readings of the novel and other events. In honor of Bloomsday 2025, we’re highlighting a figure without whom Ulysses might not have been published—Sylvia Beach (1887-1962)—and Beach’s connection to an equally-interesting (though less well-known) Lawrence resident, Jane van Meter (1906-1992).
Postcard portrait of Sylvia Beach and Jane van Meter in Shakespeare and Company bookshop, with portraits of writers, including H. D., William Carlos Williams, and Bryher, D. H. Lawrence, Ernest Hemingway, and James Joyce (among others), visible on the wall behind them. Joyce is the figure in white with his hand held to his head. Circa 1934. Jane van Meter Collection. MS 383, Box 1, Folder 22.
As those well-versed in lore surrounding Ulysses will know, Sylvia Beach was an American living in Paris who ran a bookshop and lending library named Shakespeare and Company. The bookshop served as a hub for expatriate literary life on Paris’s Left Bank during the years between the two world wars. It was Beach and Shakespeare and Company who published Ulysses in 1922. Beach had stepped in following the obscenity case in New York courts which saw the editors of The Little Review fined for the magazine’s serialization of episodes from Ulysses. This ruling left publishers, including Joyce’s US publisher Huebsch, wary of the legal troubles and financial risks involved in publishing a novel that would likely be seized before its costs could be recouped in sales. Though not normally a publisher, Beach, working in the more permissive publishing environment of France, volunteered to take on the task in order to champion a writer and a novel she admired.
To help offset the costs of production, Shakespeare and Company sold copies of Ulysses by subscription in advance of its printing, offering the novel in three different paper formats at different price points (350, 250, and 150 Francs). Of the 1000 copies of first edition of Ulysses, Spencer Research Library holds examples of all three different paper issues (four copies in total), including the scarcest issue, which was numbered from 1-100 on Dutch handmade paper and signed by Joyce.
Much has been written about the publication history of Ulysses, so we won’t re-tread that ground here, and instead we’ll turn to a Lawrence figure with deep ties to Beach and Shakespeare and Company: Jane van Meter. Van Meter moved to Lawrence in 1960 with her then husband, the Shakespearean scholar, Charlton Hinman. Though the couple later divorced, van Meter remained in Lawrence until her death in 1992. She was a memorable figure on campus, known by some as “the Blue Lady,” for her habit of always wearing a powder blue outfit.[1] Before her marriage, however, van Meter had worked as an assistant to Sylvia Beach at Shakespeare and Company. Hired in 1932, ten years after the publication of Ulysses, van Meter nevertheless found herself amidst the various writers still living in and passing through Paris, including Joyce.
Letters from Sylvia Beach to Jane van Meter, including Beach’s September 23, 1932 letter hiring van Meter. Jane van Meter Collection. MS 383, Box 1, Folder 23.
At the shop, van Meter quickly made herself an indispensable and highly trusted employee. In her memoir, Shakespeare and Company, Beach wrote of her, “The first and only really professional assistant I ever had was Miss Jane van Meter […]. I had put an ad in the Paris Herald Tribune, and Miss van Meter answered it. I couldn’t wish anybody better luck than to have her as an assistant.”[2] As the correspondence now housed at Spencer Library shows, van Meter was even trusted to handle operations of the bookstore and lending library while Beach traveled to Savoie for the summer with her partner, Adrienne Monnier, who ran a French language bookshop/lending library, La Maison des Amis des Livres, across the street on the rue de l’Odéon. After van Meter left Paris and the job in late 1935, Beach continued to write to her, often updating her, especially in the early years, on goings on in and around the bookstore. In a March 6th, 1936 letter, Beach was clearly feeling the loss of her right-hand woman, writing to van Meter, “You are still and always will be a part of the Firm [i.e. Shakespeare and Company] and one of the best friends I ever had. And I miss you so.” Beach then continues by outlining some of the shortcomings of the woman helping out in van Meter’s absence:
…she has done her best (or worst) to help me but there is nothing on which we see ‘eye-to-eye.’ You ought to hear her disparaging remarks about the ‘seances’ which everyone else has found so interesting. She says “living is better than to bury ones nose in silly stuffy books” etc., that [French writer] Jules Romain (looking at his portrait) has an ignoble mouth and his eyes give one an impression that he is positively ‘louche’; that Joyce’s head is terrifying, and that she doesn’t see why Adrienne and I treated [André] Gide with such respect when he came one day to talk about his reading and where he was to sit. So we shall soon have to part. […]
Opening of a four-page letter from Sylvia Beach to Jane van Meter, March 6, 1936. Jane van Meter Collection. MS 383, Box 1, Folder 23
In the same letter, Beach also reports on the various literary goings on around the shop, including readings at Shakespeare and Company by the French writers André Gide (February 1st) and Paul Valéry (February 29th), with James Joyce in attendance:
Jane I wish you could have been here for Gide and Valéry! They went off beautifully, as Agnes has probably told you. Gide read passages from his next novel Geneviève in a remarkable way, in spite of a bad cold and chills & fever from which he complained he was suffering. […] And Valéry read some fascinating unpublished prose pieces on the alphabet, and ‘Narcisse’ – then at Joyce’s request, ‘Le serpent.’ It was so fine – everybody was carried away by it. The Paulhans were there, and the Churches and a M. Lu[??]gneaux director of the TSF, and Destin & Clive Bell, and Joyce brought his son Georgio [sic] and his wife, and Carlotta sat with the Valéry family who was ‘au complet’ but he had asked them not to sit where he could see them – he had seen them so often he couldn’t read with them in front of him, which amused them very much. They came to hear Gide too, also Joyce. These readings, in spite of having to move all of the furniture out of the shop every time, are really interesting and a pleasure. I think you would have enjoyed them.
Event notice card in French for a reading by Paul Valéry at Shakespeare and Company on Saturday, February 29, 1936, with Sylvia Beach’s pencil note. Jane van Meter Collection. MS 383, Box 1, folder 23.
The more than 80 letters from Beach in the van Meter collection are often full of such fascinating details of writers, literature, and Paris life. Many of Sylvia Beach’s letters to van Meter are from the 1930s and 1940s, but the two women continued to correspond into the 1950s, even sending books and other gifts to one another from time to time. Shakespeare and Company closed in 1941, during the German occupation, though Adrienne Monnier’s La Maison des Amis des Livres remained in business until 1951. The collection includes a letter, dated October 22, 1955 (MS 383, Box 1, Folder 29), that Beach sent discussing Monnier’s death:
I don’t know whether you have heard the news of Adrienne’s death in June. My sister who lives in Greenwich, as you know, was making me a visit [in Paris] at the time. Adrienne suffered dreadfully. I am glad that it is over. But no use in trying to be happy without Adrienne, as you know. […]
It was a profound loss for Beach; the couple had been together for over 35 years. Monnier killed herself after being in poor health for some time, including a 1954 diagnosis of Ménière’s disease, which was (and remains) incurable. The last dated letter from Beach to van Meter in the collection is from November of 1955, however they must have continued to correspond beyond that since van Meter’s collection includes a copy of Les années vingt: les écrivains Américains a Paris et leurs amis, published in 1959, that is inscribed “For Jane with love from Shakespeare and Company, Sylvia.” Beach died in Paris in 1962, and her papers are housed at Princeton University. Van Meter’s care in preserving Beach’s letters and materials related to her studies in France suggest the importance that period held for her.
The story of how these materials came to be housed at Spencer Research Library is an interesting one, too. In 1967, Jane van Meter met Wayne Propst at the Kansas Union while he was a student at KU. Despite their age difference, the two developed a long-running friendship, and Propst helped to care for van Meter in her later years. Propst, a writer and artist (and a countercultural figure around Lawrence in his own right), recently published a remembrance of van Meter in the volume Embattled Lawrence Kansas: The Enduring Struggle for Freedom (2022). Materials used for this piece also appear in the collection.
Jane van Meter and Wayne Propst, circa 1978. Jane van Meter Collection. MS 383, Box 1, Folder 66
It is thanks to Propst that Spencer Research Library houses Sylvia Beach’s letters to Jane van Meter. Propst donated them, alongside other materials related to Jane van Meter’s time in France, to the library on June 16th (Bloomsday), 2022. It is only fitting, then, that we celebrate Bloomsday 2025 by highlighting the correspondence of two women, Sylvia Beach and Jane van Meter, who had been at the center of literary life on Paris’s Left Bank during the interwar years.
Want to learn more?
Visit Spencer Research Library and explore the Jane van Meter Collection (MS 383)
Read Sylvia Beach’s account of the publication of Ulysses (1922) and other stories of Paris life in her memoir, Shakespeare and Company (1959). Copies are available at Spencer Research Library and in KU’s circulating Collections.
Read Wayne Propst’s piece on Jane van Meter in Embattled Lawrence Kansas: The Enduring Struggle for Freedom (2022), edited by Dennis Domer. The volume includes articles outlining different and overlooked aspects of Lawrence’s history by various authors, including current and retired KU faculty and staff.
, which often represents a “rum,” “ram, or “rem” sort of ending. The above example has multiple instances of its use within the first line, all taking the first possible ending. The line, when uncontracted, would read “verbi salutaris ac miraculorum suorum dulcidine” (“by the sweetness of his saving word and miracles”). These textual changes – both contractions and substitutions – indicate that both scribes and readers needed to have not only a deep understanding of what each symbol represented, but also a sense of the language. You could either look at the Latin and parse some words, or you could understand how to complete the words but have their meaning completely lost on you. This afforded the literate members of the population some form of exclusivity from everyone else. These manuscripts often contain important information about plants, animals, or other general encyclopedic knowledge.
