Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “You wanted to see me,” Tom said at last.

  “Yes,” said Peter slowly, “I wanted to see you.”

  Tom looked at the other uneasily.

  “Why did you want to see me?” he asked after a pause.

  “I shall tell you,” replied Peter, pointing to a chair.

  Tom sat down, and seemed about to speak. But he changed his mind. Peter looked at him curiously.

  “Perhaps,” Peter said at last, “you know my reasons for requesting an interview with you here?”

  “I cannot say that I do,” answered Tom.

  There was another pause, during which the ticking of the clock could be distinctly heard.

  “You have no idea?” inquired Peter.

  “I have no idea,” replied Tom.

  “Do you remember,” asked the older man, a little nervously, “that when old John Vansittart disappeared so suddenly from the Grange there were some persons who believed that he had been foully murdered?”

  Tom passed his hand through his hair. “John Vansittart,” he muttered to himself.

  “The affair,” continued Peter, “was never cleared up.”

  “It was never cleared up,” said Tom. “But why,” he added, “do you return to this subject?”

  “You may well ask,” said Peter, “why I return to it.”

  And so on. There is so much of this kind of thing in my recent novels that if all the lines of it were placed on end I daresay they would reach round the world. Yet I am never charged with padding now. My writing is said to be beautifully lucid. My shipwreck has made several intelligent critics ask if I have ever been a sailor, though I don’t mind saying here, that like Douglas Jerrold, I only dote upon the sea from the beach. I have been to Dover, but no further, and you will find my shipwreck told (more briefly) in Marryatt. I dashed it off less than two months ago, but for the life of me I could not say whether my ship was scuttled, or went on fire, or sprang a leak. Henceforth I shall only refer to it as the shipwreck, and my memory will do all that is required of it if it prevents my mistaking the novel that contains the shipwreck. Even if I did that, however, I know from experience that my reputation would be as safe as the lives of my leading characters. I began my third novel, meaning to make my hero something of a coward, but though I worked him out after that patter for a time, I have changed my plan. He is to be peculiarly heroic henceforth. This will not lose me my reputation. It will be said of my hero that he is drawn with no ordinary skill, and that the author sees the two-sideness of every man’s character. As for the fourth story, it is the second one over again, with the shipwreck omitted. One night when I did not have a chapter to write — a rare thing with me — I read over the first part of this fourth tale — another rare thing — and found it so slip-shod as to be ungrammatical. The second chapter is entirely taken up with a disquisition on bald heads, but the humor of it will be said to increase my reputation. Sometimes when I become despondent of ever losing my reputation, I think of taking a whole year to write one novel in, just to see what I really could do. I wonder whether the indulgent public would notice any difference? Perhaps I could not write carefully now if I tried. The small section of the public that guesses which of the four-in-hand writers I am may think for a moment that this story of how I tried in vain to lose my reputation will help me toward the goal. They are wrong, however. The public will stand anything from us now — or they would get something better.

  RULES FOR CARVING.

  Rule I. — It is not good form to climb onto the table. There is no doubt a great temptation to this. When you are struggling with a duck, and he wobbles over just as you think you have him, you forget yourself. The common plan is not to leap upon the table all at once. This is the more usual process: The carver begins to carve sitting. By-and-by he is on his feet, and his brow is contracted. His face approaches the fowl, as if he wanted to inquire within about everything except that the duck is reluctant to yield any of its portions. One of his feet climbs onto his chair, then the other. His knees are now resting against the table, and, in his excitement, he, so to speak, flings himself upon the fowl. This brings us to

  Rule II. — Carving should not be made a matter of brute force. It ought from the outset to be kept in mind that you and the duck are not pitted against each other in mortal combat. Never wrestle with any dish whatever; in other words, keep your head, and if you find yourself becoming excited, stop and count a hundred. This will calm you, when you can begin again.

  Rule III. — It will not assist you to call the fowl names. This rule is most frequently broken by a gentleman carving for his own family circle. If there are other persons present, he generally manages to preserve a comparatively calm exterior, just as the felon on the scaffold does; but in privacy he breaks out in a storm of invective. If of a sarcastic turn of mind, he says that he has seen many a duck in his day, but never a duck like this. It is doublejointed. It is so tough that it might have come over to England with the Conqueror.

  Rule IV. — Don’t boast when it is all over. You must not call the attention of the company to the fact that you have succeeded. Don’t exclaim exultingly, “I knew I would manage it,” or “I never yet knew a duck that I couldn’t conquer somehow.” Don’t exclaim in a loud gratified voice how you did it, nor demonstrate your way of doing it by pointing to the débris with the carving knife. Don’t even be mock-modest, and tell everybody that carving is the simplest thing in the world. Don’t wipe your face repeatedly with your napkin, as if you were in a state of perspiration, nor talk excitedly, as if your success had gone to your head. Don’t ask your neighbors what they think of your carving. Your great object is to convince them that you look upon carving as the merest bagatelle, as something that you do every day and rather enjoy.

  ON RUNNING AFTER A HAT.

  Some don’t run. They pretend to smile when they see their hat borne along on the breeze, and glance at the laughing faces around in a way implying, “Yes, it is funny, and I enjoy the joke, although the hat is mine.” Nobody believes you, but if this does you good, you should do it. You don’t attempt to catch your hat as it were on the wing. You walk after it, smiling, as if you liked the joke the more you think of it, and confident that the hat will come to rest presently. You are not the sort of man to make a fuss over a hat. You won’t give the hat the satisfaction of thinking that it can annoy you. Strange though it may seem, there are idiots who will join you in pursuit of the hat. One will hook it with a stick, and almost get it, only not quite. Another will manage to hit it hard with an umbrella. A third will get his foot into it or on it. This does not improve the hat, but it shows that there is a good deal of the milk of human kindness flowing in the street as well as water, and is perhaps pleasant to think of afterwards. Several times you almost have the hat in your possession. It lies motionless, just where it has dropped after coming in contact with a hansom. Were you to make a sudden rush at it you could have it, but we have agreed that you are not that sort of man. You walk forward, stoop, and —— . One reads how the explorer thinks he has shot a buffalo dead, and advances to put his foot proudly on the carcass, how the buffalo then rises, and how the explorer then rises also. I have never seen an explorer running after his hat (though I should like to), but your experience is similar to his with the buffalo. As your hand approaches the hat, the latter turns over like a giant refreshed, and waddles out of your reach. Once more your hand is within an inch of it, when it makes off again. There are ringing cheers from the audience on the pavement, some of them meant for the hat, and the others as an encouragement to you. Before you get your hat you have begun to realize what deer-stalking is, and how important a factor is the wind.

  TWO OF THEM

  CONTENTS

  TWO OF THEM.

  OUR NEW SERVANT.

  REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA.

  THE INCONSIDERATE WAITER.

  THE PLAYWRIGHT AND THE FOWL.

  THE “FOX-TERRIER” FRISKY.

  THE FAMILY HONOR.
/>   THE WICKED CIGAR.

  THE RESULT OF A TRAMP IN SURREY.

  MY HUSBAND’S BOOK.

  A LADY’S SHOE.

  WAS IT A WATCH?

  “THE MAN FROM NOWHERE.”

  A HOLIDAY IN BED.

  IS IT A MAN?

  A WOODLAND PATH.

  WOMAN AND THE PRESS.

  A PLEA FOR SMALLER BOOKS.

  BOYS’ BOOKS: THEIR GLORIFICATION.

  THE LOST WORKS OF GEORGE MEREDITH.

  THE HUMOR OF DICKENS.

  GRETNA GREEN REVISITED.

  THOUGHTFUL BOYS MAKE THOUGHTFUL MEN.

  NDINTPILE PONT (?).

  TO THE INFLUENZA.

  FOUR-IN-HAND NOVELISTS.

  Q.

  RULES FOR CARVING.

  WHAT IS SCOTT’S BEST NOVEL?

  MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS.

  TWO OF THEM.

  SHE is a very pretty girl, though that counts for nothing with either of us, and her frock is yellow and brown, with pins here and there. Some of these pins are nearly a foot long, and when they are not in use she keeps them in her hat, through which she stabs them far down into her brain. This makes me shudder; but, so is she constructed that it does not seem to hurt, and in that human pin-cushion the daggers remain until it is time for her to put on her jacket again. Her size is six-and-a-quarter, and she can also get into sixes.

  She comes here occasionally (always looking as if she had been born afresh that morning) to sit in the big chair and discuss what sort of girl she is, with other matters of moment. When she suddenly flings herself forward — clasping her hands on her knee — and says “Oh!” I know that she has remembered something which must out at once or endanger her health; and whether it be “I don’t believe in anybody or anything — there!” or “Why do we die so soon?” or “I buy chocolate drops by the halfpound,” I am expected to regard it, for the time being, as one of the biggest things of the day. I allow her, but no other, to mend my fire; and some of her most profound thoughts have come to her with a jerk while holding the poker. However, she is not always serious, for, though her face is often so wistful that to be within a yard of it is too close for safety, she sometimes jests gleefully, clapping her hands; but I never laugh, rather continue smoking hard; and this she (very properly) puts down to my lack of humor. The reason we get on so well is because I treat her exactly as if she were a man, as per agreement. Ours is a platonic friendship, or, at least, was, for she went off half-an-hour ago with her head in the air.

  THE BARGAIN.

  After only one glance in the mirror, she had spread herself out in the big chair, which seems to me to put its arms round her. Then this jumped out:

  “And I had thought you so trustworthy!” (She always begins in the middle.)

  “What have I done?” I asked, though I knew.

  “Yesterday,” she said; “when you put me into that cab. Oh, you didn’t do it, but you tried to.”

  “Do what?”

  She screwed her mouth, whereupon I smoked hard, lest I should attempt to do it again. But she would have an answer.

  “Men are all alike,” she said, indignantly.

  “And you actually think,” I broke out, bitterly, “that if I did meditate such an act (for one brief moment), I was yielding to the wretched impulses to which other men give way! Miss Gunnings, do you know me no better than that?”

  “I don’t see what you mean,” she replied. (Her directness is sometimes a little annoying.)

  I wagged my head mournfully, and there ensued a pause, for I did not quite know what I meant myself.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, more gently, my face showing her that I was deeply hurt — not angry, but hurt.

  I laid my pipe on the mantelpiece, and speaking very sadly, proved to her that I had nothing in common with other young men, though I forget now how I proved it. If I seemed to act as they did my motives were quite different, and therefore I should be judged from another standpoint. Also I looked upon her as a child, while I felt very old. (There are six years between us.)

  “And now,” said I, with emotion, “as you still think that I tried to — to do it from the wretched, ordinary motive (namely, because I wanted to) I suppose you and I must part. I have explained the affair to you because it is painful to me to be misunderstood. Good-by, I shall always think of you with sincere regard.”

  Despite an apparent effort to control it, my voice broke. Then she gave way. She put her hand into mine, and with tears in her eyes, asked me to forgive her, which I did.

  This little incident it was that showed her how different I am from other men, and led to the drawing up of our platonic agreement, which we signed, so to speak, that afternoon over the poker. I promised to be to her such a friend as I am to Mr. Thomson; I even undertook, if necessary, to scold her though she cried (as she hinted she should probably do), and she was to see that it was for her good, just as Thomson sees it when I scold him.

  A NECESSARY CONSEQUENCE.

  “I shall have to call you ‘Mary.’”

  “I don’t see that.”

  “Yes, it is customary among real friends. They expect it of each other.”

  I was not looking her in the face, so cannot tell how she took this at first. However, after she had eaten a chocolate drop in silence, she said:

  “But you don’t call Mr. Thomson by his Christian name?”

  “Certainly I do.”

  “And he would feel slighted if you did not?”

  “He would be extremely pained.”

  “What is his Christian name?”

  “Thomson’s Christian name? Oh, his Christian name. Thomson’s Christian name is — ah — Harry.”

  “But I thought his initials were J. T.? Those are the initials on that umbrella you never returned to him.”

  “Is that so? Then my suspicions were correct, the umbrella is not his own. How like him!”

  “I had an idea that you merely called him Thomson?”

  “Before other people only. Men friends address each other in one way in company, but in quite another way when they are alone.”

  “Oh, well, if it is customary.”

  “If it were not I would not propose such a thing.”

  Another chocolate drop, and then, “Mary, dear—”

  “Dear!”

  “That is what I said.”

  “I don’t think it worthy of you. It is taking two chocolate drops when I only said you could have one.”

  “Well, when I get my hand into the bag I admit — I — I mean Thomson would have not been so niggardly.”

  “I am certain you don’t call him ‘Harry, dear.’”

  “Not, perhaps, as a rule, but at times men friends are more demonstrative than you think them. For instance, if Thom — I mean Harry — was ill—”

  “But I am quite well.”

  “Still, with all this influenza about—”

  HER BACK.

  She had put her jacket on the table, her chocolate drops on the mantelpiece, her gloves on the couch. Indeed, the room was full of her, and I was holding her scarf, just as I hold Thomson’s.

  “I walked down Regent Street behind you yesterday,” I said, sternly, “and your back told me that you were vain.”

  “I am not vain of my personal appearance, at any rate.”

  “How could you be?”

  She looked at me sharply, but my face was without expression, and she sighed. She remembered that I had no humor.

  “Whatever my faults are, and they are many, vanity is not one of them.”

  “When I said you had a bad temper you made the same remark about it. Also when—”

  “That was last week, stupid! But, of course, if you think me ugly—”

  “I did not say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “But if you think nothing of your personal appearance, why blame me if I agree with you?”

  She rose haughtily.

  “Sit down.”

  “I won’t. G
ive me my scarf.” Her eyes were flashing. She has all sorts of eyes.

  “If you really want to know what I think of your personal appearance—”

  “I don’t.” — .

  I resumed my pipe.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Well?”

  “Oh, I thought you were going to say something.”

  “Only that your back pleased me in certain other respects.”

  She let the chair take her back into its embrace.

  “Mary, dear!”

  It is a fact that she was crying. After I had made a remark or two:

  “I am so glad you think me pretty,” she said, frankly, “for though I don’t think so myself, I like other people to think it, and somehow I thought you considered me plain. My nose is all wrong, isn’t it?”

  “Let me see.”

  “So you admit you were entirely mistaken in calling me vain?”

  “You have proved that I was.”

  However, after she had drawn the daggers out of her head and put them into the scarf (or whatever part of a lady’s dress it is that is worked with daggers), and when the door had closed on her, she opened it and hurriedly fired these shots at me:

  “Yes, I am horridly vain — I do my hair every night before I go to bed — I was sure you admired me the very first time we met — I know I have a pretty nose — good-afternoon.”

  HER SELFISHNESS.

  She was making spills for me, because those Thomson made for me had run down.

  “Mary.”

  “Well?”

  “Mary, dear!”

  “I am listening.”

  “That is all.”

  “You have such a curious, wasteful habit of saying one’s name as if it was a remark by itself.”

  “Yes, Thomson has noticed that also. However, I think I meant to add that it is very good of you to make those spills. I wonder if you would do something else for me?”

  “As a friend?”

  “Yes. I want you to fill my pipe, and ram down the tobacco with your little finger.”