Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  ‘Who is your Grey?’ I asked. ‘The birds’ Grey,’ he said, ‘the man the grey squirrels are called after.’ He burst into song. ‘Give him a Birthday Party by all means,’ he said; ‘but mind this, we are all in it, all the birds as well as you.’

  Here is a true story. One day in Downing Street during the War some other Ministers asked Lord Grey what he would do if the Germans won and said to him, ‘Unless you salute our flag you shall die.’ But Mr. Lloyd George, who was one of the company, and who I am very sorry has an engagement which prevents his being with us to-day, said, ‘The Germans would put a stiffer one to him than that; they would say, “Unless you salute our flag we shall shoot your squirrels.’”

  My canary — I can’t get away from that confounded bird, so I shall sit down and leave what I was going to say to better hands. May Lord Grey continue to help humanity, which I take to be the statesmen’s special and glorious and terribly anxious province. May he long, on holiday, rod in hand, frequent the pleasant waters of a northern land. May his birds continue to gather round him — but he shan’t have my canary.

  The Prime Minister, Mr. Baldwin, and the Archbishop of Canterbury followed, and Lord Grey spoke in reply. Finally the health of Sir James Barrie was proposed by Mr. Churchill.

  Authors’ Club Dinner

  AT GROSVENOR HOUSE, LONDON; December 12, 1932

  Sir James, as Chairman, proposed ‘The Ladies and Literature,’ and said that he had decided not to talk to them about love or ladies or literature, but to make a will instead.

  Wills are usually disappointing things, especially authors’ wills, but it might add a friendly glow to the proceedings if I were to announce, as I do announce right away, that all of you who are gathered here tonight are to be my sole beneficiary legatees.

  As for myself, I leave to the Author’s Club the most precious possession I ever had — my joy in hard work.

  I do not know when it came to me — not very early, because I was an idler at school, and read all the wrong books at college. But I fell in love with hard work one fine May morning, and I continued to woo her through a big chunk of half a century. She is not at all heavy jowled and weary. She is young and gay and lively.

  I found her waiting for me at a London station. She marched with me all the way to Bloomsbury, and on the way we bought a penny bottle of ink to sling at the Metropolis, and a silk hat with which to impress editors.

  Hard work more than any woman in the world is the one who stands up best for her man. I have lost her now, but younger people who want to look for her will find that she is willing to be theirs.

  She is the prettiest thing in literature, and when you and she think that you have been working pretty well, and you spend an evening having a blow-out, you will think how splendid she looks in her crêpe de chine, but she looked even prettier in her rags.

  I leave to you everything connected with science and machinery; I leave you broadcasting, though I do not believe for one moment that there is any such thing.

  I have a feeling that all those inventions of this age we owe to Mr. H. G. Wells. He has a million motors that chase me through the streets every day, and which are sure to get me in the end. I hold that this age in which we now find ourselves will be known in history as the ‘Dark Days of Wells.’ Mr. Wells is, of course, one of the great men of our calling, and I leave him to you in my will with pride but with misgivings.

  I leave to the younger men the control of the ladies, but breath to keep up with them, the dauntlessness to accept their challenge, and some of their spirit to make up for that rib. In the calendars and almanacks of the future they will read such entries as—’December 12th, 1932 — woman begins.’ It will be such a momentous statement at that time that perhaps there will not be a mention of bars of gold.

  I am not in touch with Ministers, but my Christmas supposition about the whole thing is this. I think our friends across the seas discovered that we intended to send them a Christmas gift. They were afraid we might not send them the right thing, and so they sent a suggestion. Let us pray solemnly that the efforts of our representatives and theirs will be conducted so wisely that the United States and we may still remain staunch friends. May our two countries, as so often in the past, go on giving to each other, they to us and we to them, the three best things either of us has — our love and our ladies and our literature.

  Opening a Bazaar at Kirriemuir

  IN THE TOWN HALL, Kirriemuir August 26, 1933

  I WISH, ladies and gentlemen, that even half of what the Provost has so kindly said of me were true. I wish also that he had not drawn attention to my modesty, because how can I be modest at such a meeting as this? Instead of going on being modest, I shall give it up at once. I shall instead tell you of another compliment that was paid to me about a week ago. I ought not to reveal things, but there is something so very agreeable about your appearance. This was a little compliment paid to me by the person whom I describe as the most delicious lady in the land. The occasion was on her birthday, on her third birthday, not far from here. She was sitting gazing with entranced delight at one of her birthday presents. It was a little toy table, so far as I could see, with two painted flower-pots on it, each about the size of a thimble. I said to her, ‘Is that really yours?’ and she said at once, ‘It is yours and mine.’

  I cannot pretend that I am able to have such a pretty thought as that, but I think in the circumstances I may be allowed to borrow Princess Margaret’s phrase and say, ‘Oh Kirriemuir! if there is any grace in me that is worth sharing, it is all yours and mine.’ Except, perhaps, my canary. Some of you may remember that when I was here last I told you about the canary that Mr. Robb had presented to me, a canary from this place, which had been giving me some trouble. Mr. Robb did me an ill turn when he gave me that canary. It is a funny little animal. Really, when I look at it carrying on in my flat in London — it is nearly always out of the cage — I sometimes think that, as Adam must sometimes have said to himself, and as many another Adam has probably said since about many another Eve — namely, ‘Since I was tied to this creature I can neither live with her nor without her.’

  My canary is a male, but he is so inquisitive — he needn’t be — and all his curiosity is about his birthplace. He is an illiterate bird. He thinks there are only two words in the language that begin with the letter ‘k’ — Kirriemuir and canary. You should see him and me of an evening in London when the rest of the city is sunk in slumber, gossiping away together about you. Would you like to know how he found out that I was coming to Glenprosen? I found him hopping about among my luggage, trying to read the labels. I carefully avoided telling him about this bazaar, but he somehow got wind of it, and when he heard that the Town Band were musicians,1 he piped out, ‘Same as me,’ and he wanted to come up and join the band. When I said that couldn’t be, he said that he would follow the train and get somehow into the hall and offer himself by auction to the highest bidder.

  1 The Bazaar was in aid of the Town Band.

  I don’t know whether he has actually got up. I think I ‘jouked’ him, but there is never any saying. He may be here at this moment in one of those stalls or even, more probably, in the roof (Sir James Barrie anxiously scanned the ceiling). I can’t see him, but I don’t feel easy. If he does offer himself, I hope none of you will bid for him. I give you all the rest of me, but leave, oh leave me my Kirriemuir canary.

  I hope that all of us here are as avid as he is to help the Town Band to the instruments of which they stand so much in need. Who in a proud race of Kirriemarians would let himself be beaten by a bird? I shall be very careful, in case of his being present, not to say one word about this bazaar that is not strictly true. You watch and see.

  No one, I am sure, could come in here and look upon these richly-laden stalls without feeling that here are the articles of which their houses stand most in need, and that they are being offered at bargains such as never were heard of at a bazaar before. The same may be said about the raffles. How
ever many tickets you have got, my advice to you, in your own interests, is to get more. Every ticket is safe to win the first prize. I would suggest that you follow the example of the man near here — a Northmuir man, I think he was — who sent his little daughter into the town to buy a sheep’s head, and she said to the butcher, ‘Father told me to ask you to cut it off as near the tail as you can.’ It is on that principle that our bazaar is to be conducted to-day. Every article is to be sold nearer to the tail than ever was heard of before.

  This town of memories! How strange to find it is now a town of motor cars. You step into one at one door, and before you have time to sit down you step out at another door into one of the glens. It is also to me naturally a town of ghosts. I see them running about terrified from the square through the wynds, and I guess that they are running away in fear of the electric light. You see all those ghosts. What has terrified them is going into such a glare of light. They don’t quite know where they are for the moment. They have a horrible sinking feeling that perhaps they are only at Dundee or Forfar instead of Kirriemuir. Let them hear the Town Band again, and they will know that all is well.

  And those people of whom the Provost has just spoken a little — those Kirriemarians far away — they hear the Town Band or they seem to hear it, and they see or they seem to see it — people in distant Canada, Australia, Honolulu — they all hear the band in their imagination as if it was carried to them across the seas by carrier pigeons. It has been said that no bird lives in last year’s nest, but our people who go wandering over the face of the earth, as the Provost has said, seem more than the people of any other town to think of their own nest and to long to get back to it, and very, very often they come. I think we should be ready to meet them all at the station with warm hearts and musical welcome and subscription lists.

  Before declaring the bazaar open, I should like to say this one word to the males here present. Up to now it has been the ladies of the town and district who have borne most of the brunt of this effort for the band. It is now for us to show that we are worthy of them. To the ladies I dare say it has been a labour of love, because all true women love a band — not only love the band; they often love the members thereof. Looking back over many years, it seems to me that the Town Band nearly always had first pick of the ladies. Well, we can’t all be musical, but at least we can acquit ourselves to-day so valorously that perhaps we shall be included among the second possibilities. Otherwise, I warn you bachelors, all is up with you. Of course, you may go and marry into some other town, but that hardly counts.

  And I now propose, with your consent, to turn myself illegally into an auctioneer. There has been put into my possession — or will be as soon as it is handed over to me by the Lord Provost — a very interesting relic of the past. It has been presented to me most generously by the daughter of a Kirriemarian well remembered, much loved in his day, a famous musician, the man who created the Kirriemuir Town Band, and whom some of you may have seen, as I have seen him, marching at the head of it to the Den, playing upon his clarinet. I mean Mr. George Deuchar. His most generous daughter, who was up here lately, presents this, the very clarinet on which he played the first day the Town Band marched to the Den or anywhere else. He played it for years and years, the last time fifty years ago — yesterday, I think, was the 50th year of his death — and the idea is that I should now auction this famous clarinet in the interests of the Town Band.

  Sir James Barrie then looked up to the roof, and gravely declared that the canary was there. Yes, I see him. He is up there. He tells me to make a bid, just as a start, of £5 for the clarinet. £5 is offered for the clarinet. Any advance on £5?

  (After consulting once more with the canary, Sir James Barrie accepted an imaginary bid of £6 from the Provost, and, looking up to the roof again, asked if there was any advance on £6.) Yes (he exclaimed without the ghost of a smile), he says that although the Provost’s offer is generous, he does not think it is enough, and he now says that the Provost has offered £12 for the clarinet.

  £ 12 is offered for the clarinet. Any advance on £12? This famous clarinet, it can’t go for that price. Consider the feelings of the Provost.

  (Again scanning the ceiling, Sir James Barrie announced that £20 was offered for the clarinet.) I didn’t catch the name. Oh! Mr. James Robb. He won’t get the canary back for £20.

  (Imaginary bids of £25 by Mr. Joseph Alexander and oj £11 by Mr. Lamb followed.) Any further bid? (asked Sir James) Yes, yes, this will be good. The Kirriemuir Observer offers £30 for the clarinet. The Kirriemuir Free Press offers £31. The Observer £32. The Free Press, £34. The Observer, £35. The Free Press, £36. The Observer, £37.

  (After this brisk round of newspaper ‘bidding,’ the auctioneer looked upwards with the question): — Not bidding high enough? I think it is pretty good. All right. £40 is bid for the clarinet. Who is the bidder? Messrs. W. & D. Doig bid £40.

  What, a bigger bid still! (after another glance at the roof) £50 is offered for the clarinet. Who has bid £50? (In mock dismay) What! You villain! Going, going, gone!

  (Having bought the clarinet himself for £50, Sir James Barrie said)’. Now that the clarinet has become mine, I have great pleasure in offering it in perpetuity to the town of Kirriemuir. It ought to belong to the town. It ought to be the beginning of what might have begun long ago — a collection of the interesting articles still to be found that commemorate the wonderful character of this town of towns. I feel sure that the Provost and the Town Council will look after this famous instrument in the interests of the Band. Along with it, Miss Deuchar, to whom indeed we must be very grateful, sent me a number of letters which go with it. These are letters about the Town Band in the days of its infancy, chiefly written by a famous Kirriemarian, Colonel Kinloch of Logie, whose connection with the town of course every one knows. There is also a letter from a famous clergyman, a Kirriemarian, Mr. Stirling, who says he has a boy of twelve who is dying — like the canary — to become a member of the Town Band. The letters from Colonel Kinloch are vastly interesting. I won’t read them to you, but here they are, and I recommend them to the consideration of the local Press; they are full of interest.

  Now, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you warmly for bearing with me so long, and I now declare the bazaar open, and I invite you to fall to.

  (Acknowledging a vote of thanks proposed by Mr. J. A. Carnegie, the Baron Bailie, Sir James Barrie said): —

  I am not going to go on talking; we have had enough of it. What I keep looking at is an empty chair down here, and I feel that that chair is kept empty quite rightly, because in it there should be sitting, if she were alive, the woman of all women outside my own family whom I most cared for, who was the friend of my life from my infancy, whom I loved and who took care of me in many ways for years — known to some of you by the name of Belle Lunan. Now I see her empty chair, many empty chairs. We had better not go into that. I thank you all from my heart.

  The 350th Anniversary of Edinburgh University

  EDINBURGH — October 1933

  I

  IN THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS, GEORGE STREET, October 27, 1933

  My Lord Provost and City Fathers (that is a name I love well), — It would ill become a University so exultant to-day if it did not thank with pride all of you for your warm and fatherly reception of us. You, my Lord Provost, in the warmth of your welcome, have forgotten that you — all of you — have a right to celebrate a little anniversary just now of your own, not so old as ours, but still, broadly speaking, one hundred and fifty years old.

  I see you don’t know to what I am referring, and I hope some of you are beginning to be a little anxious. I remember the matter well; not that I existed at the time — but because I reside in London in a romantic garret in the Adelphi, just a few steps from the erstwhile home one hundred and fifty years ago of the only mortal who ever terrified the Town Council of Edinburgh.

  I am not asking you to commemorate that anniversary for that reason, but because o
f the Town Council’s glorious recovery from it, which, II — calculate, took about ten years.

  The man was one Graham, a quack doctor, who you may begin to recall once treated young Walter Scott for lameness. He set up an establishment in the Adelphi — a somewhat doubtful establishment — for medical men, which he called the temple of health, and for some considerable time that temple flourished exceedingly, so much so that Dr. Graham came up to Edinburgh and suggested the propriety — if that is the right word — of establishing a branch here. To think of anybody daring to propose to establish a mere branch in Edinburgh!

  The Town Council was magnificent, partly perhaps because they did not quite know what they were up against. They refused to allow him to lecture on this subject. He then attacked them in letters and speeches and with lampoons of the most terribly eloquent character. All he said about them I cannot remember, but I have Sir Walter Scott’s authority for telling you one thing.

  He said: ‘I look down upon you as the meridian sun in its glory looks down upon an expiring farthing candle, and as God Almighty himself might regard the impertinent twitchings of the little animals in a rotten cheese.’

  My Lord Provost — As I say, in ten years the city had recovered and was itself again, and I can assure my Lord Provost, in the name of the University and the many illustrious delegates who are coming here to grace us tomorrow — many here at this moment — I can assure him that if ever the Town Council of Edinburgh is in need of help — I cannot picture it ever coming about — but, if it should be, all he has to do is to call upon the University. Together we are invincible.

  II

  AT THE HONORARY GRADUATION CEREMONIAL IN THE M’EWAN HALL, October 30, 1933

  Madam Edinburgh University, only for a few moments will I venture on this high occasion to come between you and your battalions. At ordinary graduations — if such a thing there be — it is customary for the Chancellor, if he be present, not to speak; he is only here of stern duty, and doing the deed with the cap. But, to-day, Madam — I am still addressing the University — Madam, I do believe that you who know so much do not know until I tell you that this is your three hundred and fiftieth birthday. How time passes, does not it? Grandmama, your sons and daughters are here to salute you. You remember your lowly beginning — in just a pinafore, was it not? and now you have sixty professors to carry the train of your gown. Is that enough for glory?