J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys

by Andrew Birkin

  The record made at thirty-three.

  So sure am I her crooked ways

  Will baffle Time and all his tricks,

  Impatiently I count the days

  Till Jocelyn shall be sixty-six.

  Sylvia and Peter (JMB)

  The Boer War had broken out in October, and Sylvia's elder brother Guy, a professional soldier, left for South Africa to command a Mounted Infantry company. But to his three young nephews, six thousand miles away, the war meant little more than shouting ‘Kruger!’ at old men with chin beards in Kensington Gardens. During one of their walks with Barrie, George noticed a pair of grey stones engraved ‘W ST. M’ and ‘13a P.P. 1841’. These were boundary stones, still in existence today, marking the various parish boundaries within Kensington Gardens. The initials on this particular pair marked the border between the Parish of Westminster St Mary's and the Parish of Paddington. George asked Barrie what they were for, and his explanation was somewhat more exotic. He told him that when Peter Pan found dead children in the Gardens after Lock-out Time, he would dig a grave and bury them, preferably in pairs, erecting a tombstone to mark the spot. The initials ‘W St. M’ and ‘P.P.’ indicated the mortal remains of Walter Stephen Matthews and Phœbe Phelps, two babies who had fallen from their perambulators while their nurse was looking the other way. Evidently Peter Pan had quite an appetite for grave-digging, and was sometimes rather too quick with his spade—hence the profusion of gravestones in Kensington Gardens. Moreover, when children died—a common occurrence in Victorian days—Peter would ‘sing gaily to them when the bell tolls’,3 dancing on their graves and playing riotously on his pipes to make them laugh; at other times he ‘went part of the way with them, so that they should not be frightened’.4 Their initial destiny was some unspecified after-life, later developed into the Never Never Land—a child's paradise, haven of the Lost Boys, abounding in pleasures designed to gratify a boy's appetite for blood. Such visions of delight led George to make the not unnatural declaration, ‘To die will be an awfully big adventure!’

  The Peter Pan ‘gravestones’ in Kensington Gardens (Rackham)

  Sylvia was now expecting her fourth child, but to Barrie the event held all the novelty of a first-born. George, Jack and Peter had each to some extent been moulded before his arrival in their lives, but he would be able to share in the birth of this new child as if it were his own. It was hoped by Arthur that the newcomer would be a girl, and Barrie started to make notes for a story about an unborn child—Barbara:

  Sylvia (JMB)

  — Barbara. Children chorus she's expected (excited) but not come yet tho' mother doing all kinds of things preparing for her—she's like ghost, there & not there—when she comes father in agony, says it may mean mother dying &c (mother recovers?). Story told for children as if of a real strange child they can't see yet (a child's ghost story in a sense. They discuss it—how children come, &c). The way she prepares children for new-comer (all their talk to me) pretend wants boy again—I send jeering messages—she wants girl (Barbara)—my White Bird a book, hers a baby. (His work is like babies to him—evidently he can't have babes).

  — A mother dying when her child born—they pass each other in their dif[ferent] voyages (the one landing, the other setting sail)—seem to hail each other, all well—the only times we are confident, beginning & end.

  — Ghost Story (Idea that ghosts shd be much more frightened at us than we at them). A young married woman dies—Haunts house to look after children—they grow up, age, &c—She always young—doesn't know them.

  Barrie had already started working on the manuscript of The Little White Bird, and he did not have to wait long before finding a ready slot for these notes. When the narrator, Captain W—, meets the expectant father in the street, he comments to himself:

  ‘Poor boy, his wife has quite forgotten him and his trumpery love. If she lives [through childbirth] she will come back to him, but if she dies, she will die triumphant and serene. Life and death, the child and the mother, are ever meeting as the one draws into harbour and the other sets sail. They exchange a bright “All's well,” and pass on.

  ‘But afterwards?

  ‘The only ghosts, I believe, who creep into this world, are dead young mothers, returned to see how their children fare. There is no other inducement great enough to bring the departed back. They glide into the acquainted room when day and night, their jailers, are in the grip, and whisper, “How is it with you, my child?”

  ‘What is saddest about ghosts is that they may not know their child. They expect him to be just as he was when they left him, and they are easily bewildered, and search for him from room to room, and hate the unknown boy he has become. Poor, passionate souls, they may even do him an injury. These are the ghosts that go wailing about old houses, and foolish wild stories are invented to explain what is all so pathetic and simple. … All our notions about ghosts are wrong. It is nothing so petty as lost wills or deeds of violence that brings them back, and we are not nearly so afraid of them as they are of us.’

  Bird Island, on the Hyde Park side of the Serpentine, where ‘all the birds are born that become baby boys and girls’ (Rackham)

  On June 16th, 1900, Sylvia gave birth to her fourth boy. Barrie wrote to her on the 21st:

  My dear Jocelyn,

  It is very sweet and kind of you to write me from the throne, which is what I take your present residence to be. He is a gorgeous boy, is Delight, which was your own original name for him in the far back days of last week or thereabouts when you used to hug Peter with such sudden vehemence that I am sure he wondered whether you were up to anything.

  I don't see how we could have expected him to be a girl, you are so good at boys, and this you know is the age of specialists. And you were very very nearly being a boy yourself.

  May he always be a dear delight to you and may all your dreams about all of them come true.

  Ever yours,

  J.M.B.

  All the boys so far had been given names of special family significance, but for their fourth son Arthur and Sylvia had no particular namesake in mind. Like Peter, the new baby was not christened, and as with all the boys he was given only one name: Michael.

  Michael and Sylvia (JMB)

  6

  1900–1901

  Mary Barrie's search for a country retreat had at last yielded results. In April 1900, she found a house near Farnham in Surrey known as Black Lake Cottage. The house was almost entirely surrounded by a pine forest, with only a dusty, winding road to connect it with the outside world. On the far side of the road lay the Black Lake, hidden among the pines, while beyond it rose the crumbling ruins of Waverley Abbey.

  Mary bought the cottage and set to work with a team of builders and gardeners, transforming it into a habitable country home, and by July the Allahakbarrie Cricket Team were able to forgather there for their annual match. Barrie's initial indifference to his wife's investment soon began to waver: she had thoughtfully converted one of the largest upstairs rooms into a private study for him, while the south lawn provided ample space for games of cricket and golf-croquet. Charles Frohman was an early visitor to Black Lake, ostensibly to discuss production details for The Wedding Guest, which was to be entrusted to his new London producer, Dion Boucicault. However, he spent most of his time playing golf-croquet or driving with Barrie to near-by Burpham, where the Davies family were on holiday. The play was due to open at the Garrick Theatre on September 27th, with H. B. Irving and Irene Vanbrugh's sister Violet in the leading roles. Barrie wrote to Sylvia on the 26th:

  Black Lake Cottage

  My dear Jocelyn,

  I am so glad you are coming tomorrow. The Box is Box 1 & is on the stalls floor on the audience's left hand. Stall is being sent to Arthur. I fully expect the men of the world to stamp on the thing, but never mind.

  Yours,

  J.M.B.

  George aged 7 (JMB)

  Barrie's expectations proved correct. Both audience and critics had as
sumed that this was to be another light-weight comedy in the style of The Little Minister, and were astonished and even shocked to find themselves confronted by a ‘problem play’ in the Ibsen mould, about an artist who is brought face to face with his ex-mistress and illegitimate child on his wedding day. The Daily Telegraph accused its author of ‘unpleasantness, painfulness and doubtful morality’, and suggested that the play advocated ‘promiscuous seduction’. Only William Archer, a passionate Ibsenite, acclaimed the work, hailing Barrie as ‘our new dramatist’.

  Still smarting from the critics' attack on ‘my bleeding and broken play’,1 Barrie returned to the safety of The Little White Bird. George was now seven, and had become his firm favourite among the boys, but the newly-arrived Michael had an instinctive appeal to him from the moment of his birth: it was as if his imaginary Timothy had come to life. And yet for all his romantic, sentimental side, Barrie was a realist at heart, and the joy he experienced in George and Michael was frequently soured by his frustration and yearnings for real paternity—as the following episode in The Little White Bird makes painfully clear, despite its humour:

  Peter, George and Jack in a wheelbarrow (JMB)

  George (JMB)

  ‘David and I had a tremendous adventure. It was this—he passed the night with me. We had often talked of it as a possible thing, and at last [his mother] consented to our having it.

  ‘The adventure began with David's coming to me at the unwonted hour of six p.m., carrying what looked like a packet of sandwiches, but proved to be his requisites for the night done up in a neat paper parcel. …

  ‘We were to do all the important things precisely as they are done every evening at his own home, and so I am in a puzzle to know how it was such an adventure to David. But I have now said enough to show you what an adventure it was to me. …

  ‘At twenty-five past six I turned on the hot water in the bath, and covertly swallowed a small glass of brandy. I then said, “Half-past six; time for little boys to be in bed.” I said it in the matter-of-fact voice of one made free of the company of parents, as if I had said it often before, and would have to say it often again, and as if there was nothing particularly delicious to me in hearing myself say it. I tried to say it in that way.

  Sylvia and George in 1900 (JMB)

  ‘And David was deceived. To my exceeding joy he stamped his little foot, and was so naughty that, in gratitude, I gave him five minutes with a match-box. Matches, which he drops on the floor when lighted, are the greatest treat you can give David; indeed, I think his private heaven is a place with a roaring bonfire.

  ‘Then I placed my hand carelessly on his shoulder, like one a trifle bored by the dull routine of putting my little boys to bed, and conducted him to the night nursery, which had lately been my private chamber. There was an extra bed in it tonight, very near my own, but differently shaped, and scarcely less conspicuous was the new mantleshelf ornament: a tumbler of milk, with a biscuit on top of it, and a chocolate riding on the biscuit. To enter the room without seeing the tumbler at once was impossible. I had tried it several times, and David saw and promptly did his frog business, the while, with an indescribable emotion, I produced a night-light from my pocket and planted it in a saucer on the washstand.

  ‘David watched my preparations with distasteful levity, but anon made a noble amend by abruptly offering me his foot as if he had no longer use for it, and I knew by intuition that he expected me to take off his boots. I took them off with all the coolness of an old hand, and then I placed him on my knee and removed his blouse. This was a delightful experience, but I think I remained wonderfully calm until I came somewhat too suddenly to his little braces, which agitated me profoundly.

  George ‘on the idle hill of summer’ (JMB)

  ‘I cannot proceed in public with the disrobing of David.

  ‘Soon the night nursery was in darkness but for the glimmer from the night-light, and very still save when the door creaked as a man peered in at the little figure on the bed. However softly I opened the door, an inch at a time, his bright eyes turned to me at once.

  ‘“Are you never to fall asleep, David?” I always said.

  ‘“When are you coming to bed?” he always replied, very brave but in a whisper, as if he feared the bears and wolves might have him. When little boys are in bed there is nothing between them and bears and wolves but the night-light.

  ‘I returned to my chair to think, and at last he fell asleep with his face to the wall, but even then I stood many times at the door, listening.

  ‘Long after I had gone to bed a sudden silence filled the chamber, and I knew that David had awaked. I lay motionless, and, after what seemed a long time of waiting, a little far-away voice said in a cautious whisper, “Irene!”

  ‘“You are sleeping with me to-night, you know, David,” I said.

  ‘“I didn't know,” he replied, a little troubled, but trying not to be a nuisance.

  ‘I think he had nigh fallen asleep again when he stirred and said, “Is it going on now?”

  ‘“What?”

  ‘“The adventure.”

  ‘“Yes, David.”

  ‘Perhaps this disturbed him, for by and by I had to inquire, “You are not frightened, are you?”

  ‘“Am I not?” he answered politely, and I knew his hand was groping in the darkness, so I put out mine and he held on tightly to one finger.

  ‘“I am not frightened now,” he whispered.

  ‘“And there is nothing else you want?”

  ‘“Is there not?” he again asked politely. “Are you sure there's not?” he added.

  ‘“What can it be, David?”

  ‘“I don't take up very much room,” the far-away voice said.

  ‘“Why, David,” said I, sitting up; “do you want to come into my bed?”

  ‘“Mother said I wasn't to want it unless you wanted it first,” he squeaked.

  Peter (JMB)

  ‘“It is what I have been wanting all the time,” said I, and then without more ado the little white figure rose and flung itself at me. For the rest of the night he lay on me and across me, and sometimes his feet were at the bottom of the bed and sometimes on the pillow, but he always retained possession of my finger, and occasionally he woke me to say that he was sleeping with me. I had not a good night. I lay thinking.

  ‘Of this little boy, who, in the midst of his play while I undressed him, had suddenly buried his head on my knees. …

  ‘Of David's dripping little form in the bath, and how when I essayed to catch him he had slipped from my arms like a trout.

  ‘Of how I had stood by the open door listening to his sweet breathing, had stood so long that I forgot his name and called him Timothy.’

  * * *

  133 Gloucester Road, S.W.

  27 December 1900

  My dear Couch,

  To wish a merry Christmas time—to wish the same to thee and thine. From this you will see that I am writing a pantomime. We have been mad enough to be inveigled thereinto and the result will be on view at this address on January 7. Drawing-room turned into a Hall by magic. We much and deeply deplore that the Pippa cannot be present though he is now rather big. Our aim is to convulse the four year olds. …

  Mary is at present trying on her fairy costume. She is a ‘very-good-little-girl.’ I tried on my trousers last night and have wanted to go into hiding ever since. Oh, that I had chosen the part of the Bear. … take off twelve waistcoats.

  Exit to rehearsal.

  J.M.B.

  The previous Christmas, Barrie had taken George and Jack to a pantomime of The Babes in the Wood at the Coronet Theatre in Notting Hill Gate. This year he decided to go one better and write them a pantomime himself. The result was ‘The Greedy Dwarf, subtitled ‘A moral tale’ for Mary Hodgson's benefit, which received its first and last performance at 133 Gloucester Road on January 7th, 1901. The audience consisted of the Davies boys, their father, and numerous other children. As they entered the drawing-room, e
ach was handed a programme, printed for the occasion and bearing a photograph of Peter as the author. The distinguished cast was headed by Sylvia as Prince Robin, A. E. W. Mason as Sleepyhead, Barrie himself as Cowardy Custard, Sylvia's brother Gerald as the Dwarf (his first appearance in a Barrie play), Meredith's son Will as the Policeman, Barrie's agent Arthur Addison Bright as the Bear, Mary Barrie as Brownie, and Porthos as the dog Chang. One of the children in the audience was Cyril Maude's daughter, Pamela:

  Michael

  ‘We were dressed in our party frocks and wrapped in white Shetland shawls and we drove to the house in the Gloucester Road, in a four-wheeler. … We went into a room near the front door which was crammed with children. It was quite dark and there was whispering around us. We were late: a play was about to begin. In the centre of the stage was an erection on which a horrible dwarf suddenly appeared, with a strong light on him. It was frightening but none of us cried—we were too excited. We saw the dim figures of the other children in the darkness, all of us staring at the dwarf who was really Mr Gerald du Maurier. Mr Barrie was a schoolboy with a moustache and Mrs Barrie looked like a little girl, and happy. …

  ‘It was not the same as watching the Drury Lane pantomime, but there was even better magic.’2

  Another child in the audience was Barrie's future biographer, Denis Mackail, then aged nine:

  ‘The children in front, only few of whom had ever seen a play at all, would never forget that afternoon. None of them, perhaps, would remember the plot, simple as it was and almost implicit in the programme; but to see grown-up people dressed up, and fighting each other, or being brave, or romantic, or funny; to know at least some of their faces, and yet to find them transformed like this—here was richness, and amazement, and silent joy. …