Complete Works of J. M. Barrie
Page 239
‘I can’t give you up, Dick.’
Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little aggrieved.
‘I called to you, Robert.’
‘Yes, I thought — I was just going to — —’
He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from her to Dick, whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the fire. An awe falls upon Mr. Don. He says her name, meaning, ‘See, Grace, who is with us.’
Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms outstretched to her. ‘What is it, Robert? What is the matter?’
She does not hear a voice say, ‘Mother!’
‘I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?’
The father cannot speak.
‘Now you’re in a hole, father!’ says a mischievous, voice.
‘Can I not be told, Robert?’
‘Something in the paper,’ the voice whispers.
Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. ‘Oh, a newspaper joke! Please, I don’t want to hear it.’
‘Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?’
‘No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick thought you could laugh!’ She goes to the little table. ‘I came back for these slips of paper.’ She lifts them and presses them to her breast. ‘These precious slips of paper!’
Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot hear him, he blurts out, ‘How do you mean, mother? Why are they precious?’
Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer.
‘What is it, Robert?’
‘Didn’t you — hear anything, Grace?’
‘No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.’
‘I wish,’ Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, ‘I wish Laura would come back and say goodnight to me.’
‘I daresay she will.’
‘And,’ valiantly, ‘if she could be — rather brighter, Grace.’
‘Robert!’
‘I think Dick would like it.’
Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever forgiving, ‘Is that how you look at it, Robert? Very well, laugh your fill — if you can. But if Dick were to appear before me tonight — —’
In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the fire, ‘Dick, if you can appear to your mother, do it.’
There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing happens. Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his father.
‘Really, Robert!’ Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of reproach, she goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father, who has sank into a chair, and puts a loving hand on him. Mr. Don clasps it without looking up.
‘Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have liked to hug her; but I can’t.’
‘You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn’t have minded me.’
The wiser boy says, ‘Mother’s a darling, but she doesn’t need me as much as you do.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s all right. I’m glad she’s so keen about that game, though.’
He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager to make amends to Dick’s father if she hurt him when she went out.
Softly, ‘I have come to say goodnight, Mr. Don.’
‘It’s nice of you, Laura,’ taking both her hands.
Dick speaks. ‘I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can’t see her very well there.’
For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard nothing. He becomes quite cunning in Dick’s interests.
‘Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to look at you.’
She sits on the hearthstone by Dick’s feet.
Shyly, ‘Am I all right?’
It is Dick who answers. ‘You’re awfully pretty, Laura. You are even prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think, she can’t be quite as pretty as I think her; and then when you came you were just a little prettier.’
She has been warming her hands. ‘Why don’t you say anything?’ she asks Mr. Don.
‘I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.’
‘What a pretty soul she has, father,’ says the boy; ‘I can see right down into it now.’
‘If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and he — ?’
With shining eyes, ‘I think — if he had wanted it very much.’
‘I expect he would, my dear.’
There is an odd candour about Dick’s contribution. ‘I think so, too, but I never was quite sure.’ They are a very young pair.
Laura is trembling a little. ‘Mr. Don—’
‘Yes, Laura?’
‘I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes feel quite light-hearted — though Dick has gone.’
‘Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame when they blossom, Laura; but they can’t help doing it. I hope you are yet to be a happy woman, a happy wife.’
‘It seems so heartless to Dick.’
‘Not a bit; it’s what I should like,’ Dick says.
‘It’s what he would like, Laura.’
‘Do you remember, Laura,’ Dick goes on, ‘I kissed you once. It was under a lilac in the Loudon Woods. I knew at the time that you were angry, and I should have apologised. I’m sorry, Laura.’
His sweetheart has risen, tasting something bitter-sweet. ‘What is it, Laura?’ Mr. Don asks.
‘Somehow — I don’t know how — but, for a moment I seemed to feel the smell of lilac. Dick was once — nice to me under a lilac. Oh, Mr. Don—’ She goes to him like a child, and he soothes and pets her.
‘There, there! That will be all right, quite all right.’ He takes her to the door. ‘Goodnight, my dear.’
‘Goodnight, Mr. Don.’
‘Goodbye, Laura,’ says the third voice.
Mr. Don is looking so glum that the moment they are alone Dick has to cry warningly, ‘Face!’ He is probably looking glum himself, for he says candidly, ‘Pretty awful things, these partings. Father, don’t feel hurt though I dodge the goodbye business when I leave you.’
‘That’s so like you, Dick!’
‘I’ll have to go soon.’
‘Oh, Dick! Can’t you—’
‘There’s something I want not to miss, you see.’
‘I’m glad of that.’
‘I’m not going yet; but I mean that when I do I’ll just slip away.’
‘What I am afraid of is that you won’t come back.’
‘I will — honest Injun — if you keep bright.’
‘But, if I do that, Dick, you might think I wasn’t missing you so much.’
‘We know better than that. You see, if you’re bright, I’ll get a good mark for it.’
‘I’ll be bright.’
Dick pops him into the settle again.
‘Remember your pipe.’
‘Yes, Dick.’
‘Do you still go to that swimming-bath, and do your dumb-bell exercises?’
‘No, I—’
‘You must.’
‘All right, Dick, I will.’
‘And I want you to be smarter next time. Your hair’s awful.’
‘I’ll get it cut, Dick.’
‘Are you hard at work over your picture of those three Graces?’
‘No. I put that away. I’m just doing little things nowadays. I can’t—’
‘Look here, sonny, you’ve got to go on with it. You don’t seem to know how interested I am in your future.’
‘Very well, Dick; I’ll bring it out again.’
Mr. Don hesitates.
‘Dick, there is something I have wanted to ask you all the time.’
Some fear seems to come into the boy’s voice. ‘Don’t ask it, father.’
‘I shall go on worrying about it if I don’t — but just as you like, Dick.’
‘Go ahead, father; ask me.’
‘It is this. Would you rather be — here — than there?’
After a pause
the boy says, ‘Not always.’
‘What is the great difference, Dick?’
‘Well, down here one knows he has risks to run.’
‘And you miss that?’
‘It must be rather jolly.’
‘Did you know that was what I was to ask?’
‘Yes. But, remember, I’m young at it.’
‘And your gaiety, Dick; is it all real, or only put on to help me?’
‘It’s — it’s half and half, father.’
‘Face!’ he cries, next moment. Then cajolingly, ‘Father, K.C.M.G.!’
‘When will you come again, Dick?’
‘There’s no saying. One can’t always get through. They keep changing the password.’ His voice grows troubled. ‘It’s awfully difficult to get the password.’
‘What was it tonight?’
‘Love Bade Me Welcome.’
Mr. Don rises; he stares at his son.
‘How did you get it, Dick?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Dick seems to go closer to his father, as if for protection. ‘There are lots of things I don’t understand yet.’
‘There are things I don’t understand either. Dick, did you ever try to send messages — from there — to us?’
‘Me? No.’
‘Or get messages from us?’
‘No. How could we?’
‘Is there anything in it?’
Mr. Don is not speaking to his son. He goes to the little table and looks long at it. Has it taken on a sinister aspect? Those chairs, are they guarding a secret?
‘Dick, this table — your mother — how could they — —’
He turns, to find that Dick has gone.
‘Dick! My boy! Dick!’
The well-remembered voice leaves a message behind it.
‘Be bright, father.’
Mr. Don sits down by the fire to think it all out.
The Short Stories
Barrie, 1910
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
THE SCHOOLHOUSE
THRUMS
THE AULD LICHT KIRK
LADS AND LASSES
THE AULD LICHTS IN ARMS
THE OLD DOMINIE
CREE QUEERY AND MYSY DROLLY
THE COURTING OF T’NOWHEAD’S BELL
DAVIT LUNAN’S POLITICAL REMINISCENCES
A VERY OLD FAMILY
LITTLE RATHIE’S “BURAL”
A LITERARY CLUB
A HOLIDAY IN BED.
LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE.
LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE. A WEDDING IN A SMIDDY.
A POWERFUL DRUG. (NO HOUSEHOLD SHOULD BE WITHOUT IT.)
EVERY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR.
GRETNA GREEN REVISITED.
MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE SCHOOL.
THOUGHTFUL BOYS MAKE THOUGHTFUL MEN.
IT.
TO THE INFLUENZA.
FOUR-IN-HAND NOVELISTS.
RULES FOR CARVING.
ON RUNNING AFTER A HAT.
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.
THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS
THE NEW WORD
BARBARA’S WEDDING
A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
A HOLIDAY IN BED.
A LADY’S SHOE.
A LITERARY CLUB
A PLEA FOR SMALLER BOOKS.
A POWERFUL DRUG. (NO HOUSEHOLD SHOULD BE WITHOUT IT.)
A VERY OLD FAMILY
A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE
A WOODLAND PATH.
BARBARA’S WEDDING
BOYS’ BOOKS: THEIR GLORIFICATION.
CREE QUEERY AND MYSY DROLLY
DAVIT LUNAN’S POLITICAL REMINISCENCES
EVERY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR.
FOUR-IN-HAND NOVELISTS.
GRETNA GREEN REVISITED.
IS IT A MAN?
IT.
LADS AND LASSES
LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE.
LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE. A WEDDING IN A SMIDDY.
LITTLE RATHIE’S “BURAL”
MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS.
MY HUSBAND’S BOOK.
NDINTPILE PONT (?).
ON RUNNING AFTER A HAT.
OUR NEW SERVANT.
Q.
REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA.
RULES FOR CARVING.
THE “FOX-TERRIER” FRISKY.
THE AULD LICHT KIRK
THE AULD LICHTS IN ARMS
THE CAPTAIN OF THE SCHOOL.
THE COURTING OF T’NOWHEAD’S BELL
THE FAMILY HONOR.
THE HUMOR OF DICKENS.
THE INCONSIDERATE WAITER.
THE LOST WORKS OF GEORGE MEREDITH.
THE MAN FROM NOWHERE.
THE NEW WORD
THE OLD DOMINIE
THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS
THE PLAYWRIGHT AND THE FOWL.
THE RESULT OF A TRAMP IN SURREY.
THE SCHOOLHOUSE
THE WICKED CIGAR.
THOUGHTFUL BOYS MAKE THOUGHTFUL MEN.
THRUMS
TO THE INFLUENZA.
TWO OF THEM.
WAS IT A WATCH?
WHAT IS SCOTT’S BEST NOVEL?
WOMAN AND THE PRESS.
The Plays
Toole’s Theatre, London — where Barrie’s first solo play was performed in 1891
IBSEN’S GHOST
OR
TOOLE UP-TO-DATE
This play was written in 1891, when Barrie was already well-established as a novelist and journalist, being the same year in which he wrote his most successful novel, The Little Minister. Barrie had had one attempt at presenting a play previously in April that year. It was titled Richard Savage, on which he had collaborated with H. B. Marriott Watson, and it ran for only one night. Sadly, the play no longer survives in print.
His second play is a dramatic parody or burlesque on the works of the Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen, whose plays had created a furore in the theatre world. Ghosts (1881) caused a scandal with its frank portrayal of the inherited venereal disease syphilis and was as much as anything responsible for Ibsen’s reputation as an author of ‘problem plays’, dramas whose principal concern was to illuminate social issues.
Just over a month after Barrie’s first dramatic attempt, Ibsen’s Ghost appeared on Saturday, 20th May at Toole’s Theatre, with the comic actor, J. L. Toole, playing the lead. It was the first public performance of a play by J. M. Barrie alone. Toole apparently paid Barrie three guineas for the play, and as Toole had only just returned from a long tour of the antipodes, he had been out of England while the fierce controversy raged round the plays of Ibsen. The sub-title — Toole Up To Date — therefore presents a play on words. Not only was it falling into the current nineteenth century burlesque practice of bringing plays ‘up-to-date’, but it also implies the belated entry of Toole into the Ibsen fray. Ibsen’s Ghost played to packed houses
until Toole let his theatre in July and went on tour until Boxing Day that year.
Henrik Ibsen (1828– 1906) was a major 19th-century Norwegian playwright, theatre director and poet, often referred to as ‘the father of realism’ and one of the founders of Modernism in the theatre.
CAST
GEORGE TESMAN (an idiot)
THEA (his wife for the present)
PETER TERENCE (her Grandpapa)
DELIA TERENCE (Peter’s doll)
Scene: The room in George’s house where rubbish is shot.
Note: Peter uses the Gosse’s translation and the other characters the Archers.
Scene as in Hedda Gabler.
IBSEN’S GHOST
(GEORGE sits writing at desk R. TIA is at fireplace L.I. burning letters. She is very mournful, kisses letters, etc.)
GEORGE: Do you know, dear, I think I shall be able to make something of poor Eylbert Lovborg’s notes after all. There is no title, cast list or note in TH. Then I will publish the book as my own, and it may bring me fame. Just think of that now, Hedda!
TIA: I wish you would remember that my name is Tia.
GEORGE: I mean Tia, I married you so soon after Hedda shot herself, that I mix you up still. Tia, how many T’s in ‘tentative’.
TIA (indifferently): Four.
GEORGE: And how many z’s in ‘influenza’?
TIA: What does that matter, you take it all the same.
GEORGE: Does ‘civil’ begin with ‘s’?
TIA: Don’t know, write polite.
GEORGE: I will Hedda, I mean Tia, and is there a K in Christianity.
TIA: There is nothing in Christianity.
GEORGE: Tia, I think I had better leave the spelling to my secretary, where is he now?
TIA: He is upstairs packing his bag.
GEORGE: Think of that now, Hedda. (rises) He is leaving me, and he is the sixth secretary I have engaged during the last month — I wonder why they all desert me thus?
(comes to her)
TIA: Dear simple George, can he not guess.