Barrie soon found that the success of The Little White Bird had a number of unfortunate side effects. His walks in Kensington Gardens were now frequently spoilt by individuals accosting him for further information on the whereabouts of fairies and Peter Pan; moreover his celebrated ‘love’ of children led certain mothers to assume that he would instantly rhapsodize over their offspring. Such presumption invariably invoked the weariest of sighs and a paralysing lift of the eyebrow which rendered many a parent nonplussed. Barrie was singularly selective in his choice of friends, both adult and otherwise, and resented attempts to thrust any young whippersnapper into the path of his affections.
Porthos had been dead for over a year, and Mary Barrie decided to invest in another dog for company: a black and white Newfoundland named Luath. ‘I became a child with him,’ she wrote in Dogs and Men. ‘We played ridiculous games together. … What races we ran in the Kensington Gardens! … Luath's proper place was the nursery. How happy he would have been if there had been one, full of gloriously noisy children!’ Luath's happiness was assured the following summer, when the Davies family spent their third annual holiday with the Barries at Black Lake. He stepped into Porthos's role, joining in the Castaway games with Barrie and the boys as his predecessor had done, ‘bringing hedgehogs to the hut in his mouth as offerings for our evening repasts’.2
Sylvia's friend Dolly Parry, now Dolly Ponsonby, had returned from Copenhagen with her husband, Arthur, and was living at near-by Shulbrede Priory in Hampshire:
‘Friday 21st Aug. 1903. Sylvia, the Barrys [sic], Peter & Michael came in a motor car from Farnham to tea. Jim Barry with a child clinging to each hand at once went & sat in the dining room chimney corner. … Sylvia beautiful & satisfying, loving the house & appealing to “Jimmy” about it, while I tried to make myself pleasant to Mrs Barry—commonplace, 2nd rate & admirable. It is a strange ménage. It was very charming to see Michael give his hand to Jimmy as they walked down the garden path together & into the field. His devotion & genius-like understanding of children is beautiful & touching beyond words as he has none himself.’
Sylvia was now expecting her fifth child, and when Barrie returned to London at the end of August to begin rehearsals for his new play, Little Mary, the Davieses moved on to Rustington. Dolly Ponsonby's diary records a day spent on her father's yacht:
‘Sylvia looking divine, … her beautiful sons more glorious than ever, … splendidly full of courage and hope, swarming up the rigging like monkeys, and George, with the assistance of ropes, bathing off the boat though unable to swim.’
Sylvia (JMB)
On another occasion the Ponsonbys motored over for dinner. Before going into the house, Dolly paused in the road to observe Arthur and Sylvia through the window:
‘The picture of them from the road through the open lamp-lit cottage window was the loveliest I ever saw. Arthur reading, with his Greek-coin profile, and Sylvia with her beautifully poised head and Empire hair, sewing in a gown of white and silver.’
Jack (JMB)
Little Mary opened at Wyndham's Theatre on September 24th, 1903, and despite its ‘rather silly’ plot (as The Times commented) ran for over 200 performances. As usual, it contained a sprinkling of lines contributed by the boys, including a remark from Jack. When stuffing himself with cakes at tea, Sylvia had warned him, ‘You'll be sick tomorrow.’ ‘I'll be sick tonight,’ replied Jack cheerily, and went on stuffing. Barrie utilized the line, but when Jack heard it being used on stage, he felt his contribution entitled him to a share of the spoils. Barrie agreed to pay him a halfpenny a night during the run of the play, and drew up a document setting out the terms of their transaction:
Barrie's Agreement with Jack
Jack's contribution to Little Mary netted him a grand total of 8s. 8d., which caused a good deal of jealousy among his brothers. Barrie later wrote of them, ‘You watched for my next play with peeled eyes, not for entertainment but lest it contained some chance witticism of yours that could be challenged as collaboration.’3
The first 22 of Barrie's 500-plus notes for Peter Pan, headed Fairy, which were long believed lost (see Roger Lancelyn Green's Fifty Years of Peter Pan). They have now been transcribed in full, and can be found at www.jmbarrie.co.uk
The boys did not have to wait long. On November 23rd, 1903, the day before the birth of Sylvia's fifth child, Barrie commenced work on the play that was to become Peter Pan, at present simply entitled ‘Anon. A Play’. The opening scene, ‘The Night Nursery of the Darling Family’, in which Wendy and her two brothers play at Mothers and Fathers, bore a strong resemblance to a similar scene taking place at 23 Kensington Park Gardens, where doctors were standing by to deliver Sylvia's child. Mary Hodgson later wrote an account of ‘The Night that Heralded Your Arrival’ for the benefit of that child:
Opening page of the play that was to become Peter Pan, entitled ‘Anon: A Play’ and dated November 23rd 1903 – the eve of Nico's birth
‘Your father with a grim set face thought “Bed Time” might be earlier—… And one by one he took the four in turns to bid “Good Night”—somewhat disappointed. As G remarked “Why is father in a hurry?” … Quick on the spot—“Mother's got a Headache & isn't very well!” The hours dragged on & heavier grew your Father's step upon the stair. … Drs Bott & Rendell—up & down and restless as time wore on. No comfort to your father—outwardly the calmest of the three. At Dawn you came——How welcome, who shall say? Your father wan & weary to the Night Nursery came, announcing in glad tones—“This is a great day. I have a fifth son—and you a little brother.”’4
Sylvia and her fifth son, Nicholas, soon nick-named Nico (or Nik-o)
It was mooted among the family that the new baby might be named Timothy, possibly at Sylvia's instigation. Arthur, not unnaturally, appears to have favoured other names (any name, one would imagine, but Timothy), and within two days of the birth he was writing to his sister Margaret suggesting Nicholas as a possibility:
2 Garden Court Temple.
Nov 26, 1903.
Dear Margaret,
Many thanks for your letter. Both Sylvia and the infant (Nicholas???) are doing very well, though S. will require great care for some time. We are much gratified by the size, vigour, maturity & unbaldness of the infant. He weighed 11 lb 3 oz at birth, a very unusual weight, & in face reminds us of the early George. George says he is not exactly pretty but looks agreeable & sensible. Michael gazes at him with wide eyes & Peter makes inarticulate noises at him. …
Yours affectly,
A.Ll.D.
Sylvia conceded the name Nicholas for her fifth son, who, like Peter and Michael, was not christened. She also began to yield to another of Arthur's wishes: a cherished ambition to move from London to the country. She wrote to Dolly Ponsonby in early January 1904:
Peter and Nico
Beloved Dolly,
… My Nicholas is a dear creature, so fat & well—& very like George was at first—however they seem to alter every day. I am stronger now & longing to get up. Five sons, Dolly, think of it! We are thinking of living in the country now there are so many to bring up—perhaps at Berkhamsted which has a very good school & near my sister Trixie & not too far from London. We have heard of a nice old house, but of course we can settle nothing till I am well enough to look about. … We often talk about you, you dear pretty Dolly. Write soon as I so enjoy hearing from you.
Your Sylvia.
Five boys and a resident staff of four made living at 23 Kensington Park Gardens a tight fit. Arthur's years of steady toil at the Bar had begun to pay their reward, but larger houses in London were beyond his means; moreover the prospect of educating five boys at boarding school was a formidable financial undertaking, even in those days. The ‘nice old house’ in Berkhamsted High Street—Egerton House—seemed to solve all problems. It was close to the station, which would allow Arthur to commute every day to London; it was large enough to accommodate an ever-expanding household; it had an excellent day school within w
alking distance of the house; it would provide the growing boys with clean country air; and it was twenty-five miles from J. M. Barrie's doorstep.
Nico
8
1904–1905
Unaware of the Davies family's impending exodus, Barrie continued to work on his new play. In an early (unpublished) draft of the 1928 Dedication to Peter Pan, he wrote of the Davies boys: ‘The play of Peter is streaky with you still, though none see this save you and I. A hundred acts must be left out, and you were in them all. … You never thought when you were at your brightest to claim the authorship of Peter. … You obviously have a better claim than most, and you could certainly trust to my remaining silent. … This dedication is no more than giving you back yourselves.’ Barrie's generosity is perhaps overcharged, for although Peter Pan is indeed streaky with the Davies boys—and would become more so as he subjected it to constant annual revision—it is Barrie himself who pervades every character and situation to a degree unparalleled in all his other plays. The boys' very real contribution lay in their unwitting ability to sharpen his own memories and preoccupation with childhood which, when blended with the omnipotence of Margaret Ogilvy and the particular tragedy of his own being, produced the quintessence of all that lay deepest in his soul. Had he conceived Peter Pan at an earlier stage in his life, he would have doubtless tempered it with an excess of intellect; as it was, he allowed his heart to steer his pen, guided only by his practical and masterly knowledge of stagecraft, and as a result produced a play that was utterly different from anything yet known.
Postscript sketch by Barrie of Sylvia and her five boys
Barrie finished the first draft of his new play on March 1st, 1904. He was still undecided on a title, but had begun referring to it in his notebook as ‘Peter & Wendy’. George was far from keen on Wendy's intrusion into the saga, but to Barrie she had become an element as integral as Peter Pan himself. He had promised Frohman that he would have a new vehicle ready for Maude Adams at the end of April, and he looked upon Wendy as that vehicle, while Peter, he assumed, would be played by a boy. He wrote to Maude Adams on April 18th, 1904:
My dear Maudie,
I have written a play for children, which I don't suppose would be much use in America. She [Wendy] is rather a dear of a girl with ever so many children long before her hair is up and the boy is Peter Pan in a new world. I should like you to be the boy and the girl and most of the children and the pirate captain. I hope you are coming here before the summer is ended and I also hope I may have something to read you and tell you about. I can't get along without an idea that really holds me, but if I can get it how glad I shall be to be at work for little Maudie again.
Barrie's fears that the play might prove unacceptable to Frohman were not without justification. By contemporary standards, ‘Peter & Wendy’ read like a Barnum & Bailey circus extravaganza. Not only did the script require massive sets and a cast of over fifty – to include pirates, redskins, wolves, a lion, a jaguar, a crocodile, an eagle, an ostrich, a dog, and a ‘living’ fairy – but at least four of the cast were called upon to fly in highly complex movements. Aside from the mammoth cost of staging such a production, it was none too clear what sort of an audience Barrie had in mind. The story seemed to be aimed primarily at children, yet much of the dialogue was curiously sophisticated; there was a confusion of styles and moods: swashbuckling pirates juxtaposed with harlequins and columbines of the old pantomime tradition, burlesque and farce interlarded with heavy sentimentality, melodrama, and tragedy, while much of it appeared to consist of private jokes intelligible only to the author and the Davies family. Indeed the whole play seemed like self-indulgence on the grand scale, and as only Barrie could have written it, perhaps only Barrie might want to watch it. In Frohman's absence, Barrie took his play to the actor-manager Beerbohm Tree for consideration. Tree's elaborate and sumptuous productions at His Majesty's Theatre had earned him a considerable reputation for extravagance, and Barrie felt that he might put on ‘Peter & Wendy’ if Frohman turned it down. He read him the entire play, but Tree did not take kindly to it, and wrote to Frohman in America warning him: ‘Barrie has gone out of his mind. … I am sorry to say it, but you ought to know it. He's just read me a play. He is going to read it to you, so I am warning you. I know I have not gone woozy in my mind, because I have tested myself since hearing the play; but Barrie must be mad.’1
Tree's reaction seemed ominous, and Barrie hurriedly extracted another play that he had written some months before, Alice Sit-by-the-Fire, in order to give himself bargaining power. When Frohman arrived from New York at the end of April, Barrie went to dine with him at the Garrick Club. He took both plays with him—Alice Sit-by-the-Fire, and ‘Peter & Wendy’, which he had retitled ‘The Great White Father’. Their meeting was recounted by Frohman's biographers in Charles Frohman: Manager and Man:
‘Barrie seemed nervous and ill at ease.
‘“What's the matter?” said Charles.
‘“Simply this,” said Barrie. “You know I have an agreement to deliver you the manuscript of a play?”
‘“Yes,” said Frohman.
‘“Well, I have it, all right,” said Barrie, “but I am sure it will not be a commercial success. But it is a dream-child of mine, and I am so anxious to see it on the stage that I have written another play which I will be glad to give you and which will compensate you for any loss on the one I am so eager to see produced.’
Notebook entry for Peter Pan (actual size): ‘Peter. Wendy, I'll teach you. I'll show you how to jump on the wind's back, and then away we go – and if there are more winds than one they toss you about in the sky – they fling you miles & miles – but you always fall soft on to another wind –and sometimes you go crashing through the tops of trees, scaring the owls – and if you meet a boy's kite in the air you shove your foot through it. The stars are giving a party tonight! Oh, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed, you might be flying about with me playing hide and seek with the stars! saying funny things to the stars.
‘(Wind rustles) W'what was that? That was the west wind whistling to me. It is waiting outside to take me back.’ The proposed dialogue indicates Barrie's debt to George MacDonald's At the Back of the North Wind (1870), an allegorical novel in which a boy discovers Heaven by flying with the North Wind to a country very similar to Barrie's Never Land
‘“Don't bother about that,” said Frohman. “I will produce both plays.”’
Frohman was true to his word. He found Alice Sit-by-the-Fire mildly amusing, and thought it would make a satisfactory vehicle for Ellen Terry. But ‘The Great White Father’ was something entirely different: he had never read anything quite like it, and the story went straight to his heart. He loved everything about the play except the title, which he suggested should be simply Peter Pan. The author welcomed the change; he also acceded to Frohman's second proposal: that Peter should be played by Maude Adams in America. Frohman had perceived at once that Peter Pan was the star role; besides, if Peter were played by a boy, then the ages of the other children would have to be scaled down in proportion, which in any event could not be under fourteen since English law prohibited the use of minors on stage after 9 p.m. Maude Adams was not available until the following summer, and Frohman was impatient to see the play produced. He therefore instructed his London manager, William Lestocq, to proceed at once with a West End production in time for Christmas. The decision required considerable courage, but then, as Bernard Shaw observed, Frohman was ever a gambler with his own money:
‘There is a prevalent impression that Charles Frohman is a hard-headed American man of business who would not look at anything that is not likely to pay. On the contrary, he is the most wildly romantic and adventurous man of my acquaintance. As Charles XII became an excellent soldier because of his passion for putting himself in the way of being killed, so Charles Frohman became a famous manager through his passion for putting himself in the way of being ruined.’2
An impresario of less
daring and vision might well have restricted his investment to a minimum, but this had never been Frohman's way. He gave instructions that Barrie was to have everything he wanted. ‘No half-measures. Never mind the risk’, wrote Denis Mackail in The Story of J.M.B. ‘Never had [Frohman's] megalomania risen to greater heights. Never had this inspired little Jew been happier. And never, of course, had any author had quite such astounding luck.’
It was at this point that Arthur chose to move his family to Berkhamsted. Barrie's reaction is unrecorded, but it must have come as a bitter blow. For six years now he had looked upon the Davieses as his own family; hardly a week had gone by when he had not taken them out to dinner or the theatre, visited their nursery, or merely strolled with one or more of the boys through Kensington Gardens. He had even moved house to be closer to them. And now they were leaving London – at the very moment when he thought he needed the boys most. In fact they had already played their part in Peter Pan's creation, but Barrie still regarded George as his sounding-board and technical adviser for the story. In the previous autumn he had been accorded the unique honour of being presented with his own personal key to the gates of Kensington Gardens, in recognition of the fame he had brought it in The Little White Bird. But what use was a key to the Gardens with no George?
Charles Frohman readily perceived how listless London would become for Barrie once the Davieses had gone. He therefore invited him over to Paris for a fortnight in June. Frohman's biographers recounted ‘one of the great Frohman-Barrie adventures’ that followed:
J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys Page 14