by Unknown
‘There are such a lot of them,’ he said. ‘I expect she is no more.’
I expect he was right, for fairies don’t live long, but they are so little that a short time seems a good while to them.
Wendy was pained too to find that the past year was but as yesterday to Peter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her. But he was exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring cleaning in the little house on the tree tops.
Next year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock because the old one simply would not meet; but he never came.
‘Perhaps he is ill,’ Michael said.
‘You know he is never ill.’
Michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver, ‘Perhaps there is no such person, Wendy!’ and then Wendy would have cried if Michael had not been crying.
Peter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he never knew he had missed a year.
That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer she tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was untrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge. But the years came and went without bringing the careless boy; and when they met again Wendy was a married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little dust in the box in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other girls.
All the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so it is scarcely worth while saying anything more about them. You may see the twins and Nibs and Curly any day going to an office, each carrying a little bag and an umbrella. Michael is an engine-driver. Slightly married a lady of title, and so he became a lord. You see that judge in a wig coming out at the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The bearded man who doesn’t know any story to tell his children was once John.
Wendy was married in white with a pink sash. It is strange to think that Peter did not alight in the church and forbid the banns.
Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to be written in ink but in a golden splash.
She was called Jane, and always had an odd inquiring look, as if from the moment she arrived on the mainland she wanted to ask questions. When she was old enough to ask them they were mostly about Peter Pan. She loved to hear of Peter, and Wendy told her all she could remember in the very nursery from which the famous flight had taken place. It was Jane’s nursery now, for her father had bought it at the three per cents. from Wendy’s father, who was no longer fond of stairs. Mrs. Darling was now dead and forgotten.
There were only two beds in the nursery now, Jane’s and her nurse’s; and there was no kennel, for Nana also had passed away. She died of old age, and at the end she had been rather difficult to get on with; being very firmly convinced that no one knew how to look after children except herself.
Once a week Jane’s nurse had her evening off; and then it was Wendy’s part to put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories. It was Jane’s invention to raise the sheet over her mother’s head and her own, thus making a tent, and in the awful darkness to whisper:
‘What do we see now?’
‘I don’t think I see anything tonight,’ says Wendy, with a feeling that if Nana were here she would object to further conversation.
‘Yes, you do,’ says Jane, ‘you see when you were a little girl.’
‘That is a long time ago, sweetheart,’ says Wendy. ‘Ah me, how time flies!’
‘Does it fly,’ asks the artful child, ‘the way you flew when you were a little girl?’
‘The way I flew! Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I ever did really fly.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘The dear old days when I could fly!’
‘Why can’t you fly now, mother?’
‘Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way.’
‘Why do they forget the way?’
‘Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly.’
‘What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I was gay and innocent and heartless.’
Or perhaps Wendy admits that she does see something. ‘I do believe,’ she says, ‘that it is this nursery.’
‘I do believe it is,’ says Jane. ‘Go on.’
They are now embarked on the great adventure of the night when Peter flew in looking for his shadow.
‘The foolish fellow,’ says Wendy, ‘tried to stick it on with soap, and when he could not he cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it on for him.’
‘You have missed a bit,’ interrupts Jane, who now knows the story better than her mother. ‘When you saw him sitting on the floor crying what did you say?’
‘I sat up in bed and I said, “Boy, why are you crying?”’
‘Yes, that was it,’ says Jane, with a big breath.
‘And then he flew us all away to the Neverland and the fairies and the pirates and the redskins and the mermaids’ lagoon, and the home under the ground, and the little house.’
‘Yes! which did you like best of all?’
‘I think I liked the home under the ground best of all.’
‘Yes, so do I. What was the last thing Peter ever said to you?’
‘The last thing he ever said to me was, “Just always be waiting for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing.”’
‘Yes.’
‘But, alas, he forgot all about me.’ Wendy said it with a smile. She was as grown up as that.
‘What did his crow sound like?’ Jane asked one evening.
‘It was like this,’ Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter’s crow.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Jane said gravely, ‘it was like this’; and she did it ever so much better than her mother.
Wendy was a little startled. ‘My darling, how can you know?’
‘I often hear it when I am sleeping,’ Jane said.
‘Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but I was the only one who heard it awake.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Jane.
And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and the story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the fire, so as to see to darn, for there was no other light in the nursery; and while she sat darning she heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of old, and Peter dropped on the floor.
He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still had all his first teeth.
He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.
‘Hullo, Wendy,’ he said, not noticing any difference, for he was thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might have been the nightgown in which he had seen her first.
‘Hullo, Peter,’ she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible. Something inside her was crying ‘Woman, woman, let go of me.’
‘Hullo, where is John?’ he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.
‘John is not here now,’ she gasped.
‘Is Michael asleep?’ he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.
‘Yes,’ she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as well as to Peter.
‘That is not Michael,’ she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall on her.
Peter looked. ‘Hullo, is it a new one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Girl.’
Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.
‘Peter,’ she said, faltering, ‘are you expecting me to fly away with you?’
‘Of course that is why I have come.’ He added a little sternly, ‘Have you forgotten that this is spring-cleaning time?’
She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring-cleaning times pass.
‘I can’t come,’ she said apologetically, ‘I have forgotten how to fly.’
‘I’ll soon teach you again.’
‘O Peter, don’t waste the fairy dust on me.’
She had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him. ‘What is it?’ he cried, shrinking.
‘I will turn up the light,’ she said, ‘and then you can see for yourself.’
For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was afraid. ‘Don’t turn up the light,’ he cried.
She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little girl heartbroken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were wet smiles.
Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply.
‘What is it?’ he cried again.
She had to tell him.
‘I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago.’
‘You promised not to!’
‘I couldn’t help it. I am a married woman, Peter.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby.’
‘No, she’s not.’
But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child with his dagger upraised. Of course he did not strike. He sat down on the floor instead and sobbed; and Wendy did not know how to comfort him, though she could have done it so easily once. She was only a woman now, and she ran out of the room to try to think.
Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in bed, and was interested at once.
‘Boy,’ she said, ‘why are you crying?’
Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.
‘Hullo,’ he said.
‘Hullo,’ said Jane.
‘My name is Peter Pan,’ he told her.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I came back for my mother,’ he explained; ‘to take her to the Neverland.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Jane said, ‘I been waiting for you.’
When Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting on the bed-post crowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying round the room in solemn ecstasy.
‘She is my mother,’ Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by his side, with the look on her face that he liked to see on ladies when they gazed at him.
‘He does so need a mother,’ Jane said.
‘Yes, I know,’ Wendy admitted rather forlornly; ‘no one knows it so well as I.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the shameless Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving about.
Wendy rushed to the window.
‘No, no,’ she cried.
‘It is just for spring-cleaning time,’ Jane said; ‘he wants me always to do his spring cleaning.’
‘If only I could go with you,’ Wendy sighed.
‘You see you can’t fly,’ said Jane.
Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse of her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky until they were as small as stars.
As you look at Wendy you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a common grownup, with a daughter called Margaret; and every spring-cleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly. When Margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be Peter’s mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.
THE END
The Novellas
At the age of 14, Barrie left home for Dumfries Academy, where he became an avid reader, fond of Penny Dreadfuls, and the works of Robert Michael Ballantyne and James Fenimore Cooper.
The plaque at the school commemorating Barrie’s attendance
A TILLYLOSS SCANDAL
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH WE APPROACH HAGGART, HAT IN HAND.
According to those who have thought the thing over, it would defy the face of clay to set forth this prodigious affair of Tillyloss, the upshot of which was that Tammas Haggart became a humorist. It happened so far hack as the Long Year, so called by reason of disease in the potato crop; and doubtless the house, which still stands, derides romance to those who cavil at an outside stair. Furthermore, the many who only knew Haggart in his later years, whether personally or through written matter or from Thrums folk who have traveled, will not readily admit that he may once have been an everyday man. There is also against me the vexing practice of the farmer of Lookaboutyou, who never passes Tillyloss, if there is a friend of mine within earshot, without saying:
“Gravestane or no gravestane, Tammas Haggart would have been a humorist.”
Look about you thus implies that he knew Haggart for a man of parts when the rest of us were blind, and it is tantalizing beyond ordinary to see his word accepted in this matter by people who would not pay him for a drill of potatoes without first stepping it to make sure of the length.
I have it from Tammas Haggart that until the extraordinary incident occurred which I propose telling as he dropped it into my mouth, he was such a man as myself. True, he was occasionally persuaded by persons of Lookabout you’s stamp to gloss over this admission, as incredible on the face of it, but that was in his last years, when he had become something of a show, and was in a puzzle about himself. Of the several reasons he gave me in proof of a non-humorous period in his life the following seem worthy of especial attention: —
First, that for some years after his marriage he had never thought of himself as more nicely put together than other men. He could not say for certain whether he had ever thought of himself at all, his loom taking up so much of his time.
Second, that Chirsty was able to aggravate him by saying that if which was which she would have married James Pitbladdo.
Third, that he was held of little account by the neighbors, who spoke of his living “above Lunan’s shoppy,” but never localized the shop as “below Haggart’s house.”
Fourth, that while on his wanderings he experienced certain novel and singular sensations in his inside, which were probably his humor trying to force a passage.
Fifth, that in the great scene which ended his wanderings, his humor burst its banks like a dam, and had flowed in burns ever since.
During nearly forty years we contrived now and again to harness Tammas to his story, but often he would stop at the difficulty of realizing the man he must have been in his pre-humorous days, and remark, in his sarcastic way, that the one Haggart could not fathom the other. Thus our questionings sometimes ended in silence, when we all looked in trouble at the fire and then went home. As for starting him on the story when he was not in the vein, it was like breasting the brae against a high wind.
When the events happened I was only a lad. I cannot send my mind back to the time when I could pass Haggart without the side-glance nearly all Thrums offered to his reputation, and he is best pictured hunkering at Tillyloss, one of a row of his admirers. After eight o’clock it was the pleasant custom of the weavers to sit in the open against a house or dyke, their knees near their chins and their ears ready for Haggart. Then his face would be contracted in pain as some strange idea bothered him and he searched for its humorous aspect. Perhaps ten minutes afterwards his face would expand, he would slap his knees, and we knew that the struggle was over. It was one of his ways, disliked at the time, yet admired on reflection, not to take us into the secret of his laughter; but he usually ended by looking whimsically in the direction of the burying-ground, when we were perfectly aware of the source of the joke,
and those of us nudged each other who were not scared. Until the spell was broken we might sit thus for the space of a quarter of an hour, none speaking, yet in the completest sympathy, because we were all thinking of the same thing, and that a gravestone.
Tillyloss is three broken rows of houses in the east end of Thrums, with gardens between them, nearly every one of which used to contain a pig-sty. There are other ways of getting into the gardens than by windows, for those who are sharp at knowing a gate when it looks like something else. Three or four other houses stand in odd corners, blocking the narrow road, which dodges through Tillyloss like a hunted animal. Starting from the west end of the suburb, as Tillyloss will be called as soon as we can say the word without smirking, the road climbs straight from the highway to the uppermost row, where it runs against a two-storey house. Here we leave it, as many a curious stranger has done, to get out of Tillyloss the best way it can, for that two-storied house is where Tammas Haggart lived, up the outside stair, the west room.
Tammas flitted to the Tenements a year after he became a humorist, and it is an extraordinary tribute to his memory that the road from the pump up to his old residence in Tillyloss is still called Haggart’s Roady. Many persons have inhabited his room since he left it, but though the younger ones hold out for an individuality of their own, the graybeards still allow that it is Haggart’s house. To this day Tillyloss residents asked for a landmark to their dwellings may reply, “I’m sax houses south frae Haggart’s,” or “Onybody can point out Haggart’s stair to you. Ay, weel, gang to that, and then come back three doors.”
The entrance to Lunan’s shop was beneath Haggart’s stair, which provided a handy retiring place in wet weather. Lunan’s personality had the enormous advantage of a start of Tammas’s, as has been seen, yet Haggart has practically swallowed Lunan, who in his more crabbed age scowled at the sightseers that came to look at the second story of the house and ignored the shop. As boys we envied, more than learning, the companion whose father kept a shop, and I remember Lunan’s son going with his fists for the banker’s son who — though he never really believed it — said that his father could have a shop if he liked. Yet the grand romance of Haggart choked the fame of Lunan even with the lads who played dumps at Tillyloss, and the shop came to be localized as “beneath Haggart’s stair.” Even Lunan’s stoutness, which was a landmark in itself, could not save him. The passage between his counter and the wall was so narrow and the rest of his shop so full of goods that before customers could enter Lunan had to come out, but in this quandary his dignity never left him. He always declined to join the company who might be listening on the stair to Tammas’s adventures, but some say he was not above hearkening through a hole in one of the steps.