Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “When the great morning arrived Mr Salteena did not have an egg for his breakfast in case he should be sick on the journey.” For my part I love Mr Salteena, who has a touch of Hamlet, and I wished up to the end that Ethel would make him happy, though I never had much hope after I read the description of Bernard Clark’s legs.

  It is not to be wondered at that Mr Salteena soon grew “rarther jellous” of Bernard, who showed off from the first. “My own room is next the bathroom said Bernard it is decerated dark red as I have somber tastes. The bathroom has got a tip up basin.” Thus was Mr Salteena put in his place, and there the cruel authoress (with her tongue farther out than ever) doggedly keeps him. “After dinner Ethel played some merry tunes on the piano and Bernard responded with a rarther loud song in a base voice and Ethel clapped him a good deal. Then Mr Salteena asked a few riddles as he was not musicle.” No wonder Mr Salteena went gloomily to bed, not to sleep, but to think out the greater riddle of how to become a gentleman, with which triumphant adventure the book is largely concerned.

  To many the most instructive part of the story will be the chapter entitled “Bernard’s Idear.” Bernard’s “idear” (warmly acclaimed by Ethel) is that she and he should go up to London “for a few weeks gaierty.” Something of the kind has often been done in fiction and in guide-books, but never probably in such a hearty way as here. Arrived at the “Gaierty” Hotel Bernard pokes his head into the “window of the pay desk. Have you a couple of bedrooms for self and young lady he enquired in a lordly way.” He is told that they have two beauties. “Thank you said Bernard we will go up if you have no objection. None whatever sir said the genial lady the beds are well aired and the view quite pleasant. Come along Ethel cried Bernard this sounds alright eh. Oh quite said Ethel with a beaming smile.” He decides gallantly that the larger room shall be hers. “I shall be quite lost in that large bed,” Ethel says. “Yes I expect you will said Bernard and now what about a little table d’ote followed by a theatre?”

  Bernard’s proposal should be carried in the pocket of all future swains. He decides “whilst imbibing his morning tea beneath the pink silken quilt,” that to propose in London would not be the “correct idear.” He springs out of bed and knocks at Ethel’s door. “Are you up my dear? he called. Well not quite said Ethel hastily jumping from her downy nest.” He explains his “idear.” “Oh hurrah shouted Ethel I shall soon be ready as I had my bath last night so won’t wash very much now.”

  They go up the river in a boat, and after they had eaten and “drunk deeply of the charming viands ending up with merangs and chocklates,” Bernard says “in a passionate voice Let us now bask under the spreading trees. Oh yes lets said Ethel.” “Ethel he murmered in a trembly voice. Oh what is it said Ethel.” What it was (as well she knew) was love eternal. Ethel accepts him, faints and is brought back to life by a clever “idear” of Bernard’s, who pours water on her. “She soon came to and looked up with a sickly smile. Take me back to the ‘Gaierty’ Hotel she whispered faintly. With pleasure my darling said Bernard I will just pack up our viands ere I unloose the boat. Ethel felt better after a few drops of champaigne and began to tidy her hair while Bernard packed the remains of the food. Then arm in arm they tottered to the boat, I trust you have not got an illness my darling murmured Bernard as he helped her in, Oh no I am very strong said Ethel I fainted from joy she added to explain matters. Oh I see said Bernard handing her a cushion well some people do he added kindly.”

  “So I will end my chapter,” the authoress says; and we can picture her doing it complacently, and slowly pulling in her tongue.

  Ethel was married in the Abbey. Her wedding dress was “a rich satin with a humped pattern of gold on the pure white and it had a long train edged with Airum lillies.” “You will indeed be a charming spectacle my darling gasped Bernard as they left the shop,” and I have no doubt she was. She got many delightful presents, the nicest of all being from her father, who “provided a cheque for £2 and promised to send her a darling little baby calf when ready.” This is perhaps the prettiest touch in the story and should make us all take off our hats to the innocent wondering mind that thought of it.

  Poor Mr Salteena. He was at the wedding, dressed in black and crying into his handkerchief. However he recovered to an extent and married Another and had ten children, “five of each,” none of them of course equal to Ethel’s children, of whom in a remarkably short time there were seven, which the authoress evidently considers to be the right “idear.”

  It seems to me to be a remarkable work for a child, remarkable even in its length and completeness, for when children turn author they usually stop in the middle, like the kitten when it jumps. The pencilled MS. has been accurately reproduced, not a word added or cut out. Each chapter being in one long paragraph, however, this has been subdivided for the reader’s comfort.

  J. M. BARRIE.

  The Memoirs

  100 Bayswater Road, London — Barrie’s home, where he wrote Peter Pan and many other works

  The house today

  The plaque celebrating Barrie’s residence in Bayswater Road

  MARGARET OGILVY

  First published in 1896, Margaret Ogilvy is a biographical account of Barrie’s mother and his relationship with her, and the book appeared in print shortly after her death. The memoir relates much about Barrie’s early emotional life and the persona of his mother. Margaret Ogilvy, was the daughter of a stonemason and her husband was a handloom weaver. The couple had ten children, of whom Barrie was the ninth. Jamie, as he was called, enjoyed listening to his mother’s tales of pirates and Sir Walter Scott novels in the evenings. Interestingly, Barrie’s father rarely makes an appearance in the autobiographical works and in this book he is only mentioned briefly at the end.

  Before her marriage, Margaret Ogilvy belonged to a religious sect called the Auld Lichts, or Old Lights, and many of the stories concerning this sect inspired Barrie’s later work. When Barrie was seven, his brother David died in a skating accident, providing the most compelling part of the memoir. David had been the mother’s favourite child, and his death plunged her into the depression from which she never fully recovered. Apparently, her only comfort was in the thought that David would never grow up and leave her. This has, of course, been suggested by some critics to have inspired the character of Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up. Barrie tried to comfort his mother and gain her affection by dressing up in the dead boy’s clothes, but for a long period after David’s death she took little interest in him or anything else. This book memorialises the obsessive relationship which grew up between them, a relationship that would continue to exert a strong influence throughout Barrie’s life.

  Margaret Ogilvy, the author’s mother

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I — HOW MY MOTHER GOT HER SOFT FACE

  CHAPTER II — WHAT SHE HAD BEEN

  CHAPTER III — WHAT I SHOULD BE

  CHAPTER IV — AN EDITOR

  CHAPTER V — A DAY OF HER LIFE

  CHAPTER VI — HER MAID OF ALL WORK

  CHAPTER VII — R. L. S.

  CHAPTER VIII — A PANIC IN THE HOUSE

  CHAPTER IX — MY HEROINE.

  CHAPTER X — ART THOU AFRAID HIS POWER SHALL FAIL?

  MARGARET OGILVY

  by her son

  J. M. BARRIE

  TO

  THE MEMORY OF

  MY SISTER

  JANE ANN

  CHAPTER I — HOW MY MOTHER GOT HER SOFT FACE

  On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in our little house it was an event, the first great victory in a woman’s long campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-note and the thirty threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, the show they made in possession of the west room, my father’s unnatural coolness when he brought them in (but his face was white) — I so often heard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar triumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be so
mething I remember, as if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how they looked. I am sure my mother’s feet were ettling to be ben long before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was left alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and reopening the door suddenly to take the six by surprise. And then, I think, a shawl was flung over her (it is strange to me to think it was not I who ran after her with the shawl), and she was escorted sternly back to bed and reminded that she had promised not to budge, to which her reply was probably that she had been gone but an instant, and the implication that therefore she had not been gone at all. Thus was one little bit of her revealed to me at once: I wonder if I took note of it. Neighbours came in to see the boy and the chairs. I wonder if she deceived me when she affected to think that there were others like us, or whether I saw through her from the first, she was so easily seen through. When she seemed to agree with them that it would be impossible to give me a college education, was I so easily taken in, or did I know already what ambitions burned behind that dear face? when they spoke of the chairs as the goal quickly reached, was I such a newcomer that her timid lips must say ‘They are but a beginning’ before I heard the words? And when we were left together, did I laugh at the great things that were in her mind, or had she to whisper them to me first, and then did I put my arm round her and tell her that I would help? Thus it was for such a long time: it is strange to me to feel that it was not so from the beginning.

  It is all guesswork for six years, and she whom I see in them is the woman who came suddenly into view when they were at an end. Her timid lips I have said, but they were not timid then, and when I knew her the timid lips had come. The soft face — they say the face was not so soft then. The shawl that was flung over her — we had not begun to hunt her with a shawl, nor to make our bodies a screen between her and the draughts, nor to creep into her room a score of times in the night to stand looking at her as she slept. We did not see her becoming little then, nor sharply turn our heads when she said wonderingly how small her arms had grown. In her happiest moments — and never was a happier woman — her mouth did not of a sudden begin to twitch, and tears to lie on the mute blue eyes in which I have read all I know and would ever care to write. For when you looked into my mother’s eyes you knew, as if He had told you, why God sent her into the world — it was to open the minds of all who looked to beautiful thoughts. And that is the beginning and end of literature. Those eyes that I cannot see until I was six years old have guided me through life, and I pray God they may remain my only earthly judge to the last. They were never more my guide than when I helped to put her to earth, not whimpering because my mother had been taken away after seventy-six glorious years of life, but exulting in her even at the grave.

  She had a son who was far away at school. I remember very little about him, only that he was a merry-faced boy who ran like a squirrel up a tree and shook the cherries into my lap. When he was thirteen and I was half his age the terrible news came, and I have been told the face of my mother was awful in its calmness as she set off to get between Death and her boy. We trooped with her down the brae to the wooden station, and I think I was envying her the journey in the mysterious wagons; I know we played around her, proud of our right to be there, but I do not recall it, I only speak from hearsay. Her ticket was taken, she had bidden us goodbye with that fighting face which I cannot see, and then my father came out of the telegraph-office and said huskily, ‘He’s gone!’ Then we turned very quietly and went home again up the little brae. But I speak from hearsay no longer; I knew my mother for ever now.

  That is how she got her soft face and her pathetic ways and her large charity, and why other mothers ran to her when they had lost a child. ‘Dinna greet, poor Janet,’ she would say to them; and they would answer, ‘Ah, Margaret, but you’re greeting yoursel.’ Margaret Ogilvy had been her maiden name, and after the Scotch custom she was still Margaret Ogilvy to her old friends. Margaret Ogilvy I loved to name her. Often when I was a boy, ‘Margaret Ogilvy, are you there?’ I would call up the stair.

  She was always delicate from that hour, and for many months she was very ill. I have heard that the first thing she expressed a wish to see was the christening robe, and she looked long at it and then turned her face to the wall. That was what made me as a boy think of it always as the robe in which he was christened, but I knew later that we had all been christened in it, from the oldest of the family to the youngest, between whom stood twenty years. Hundreds of other children were christened in it also, such robes being then a rare possession, and the lending of ours among my mother’s glories. It was carried carefully from house to house, as if it were itself a child; my mother made much of it, smoothed it out, petted it, smiled to it before putting it into the arms of those to whom it was being lent; she was in our pew to see it borne magnificently (something inside it now) down the aisle to the pulpit-side, when a stir of expectancy went through the church and we kicked each other’s feet beneath the bookboard but were reverent in the face; and however the child might behave, laughing brazenly or skirling to its mother’s shame, and whatever the father as he held it up might do, look doited probably and bow at the wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped them through. And when it was brought back to her she took it in her arms as softly as if it might be asleep, and unconsciously pressed it to her breast: there was never anything in the house that spoke to her quite so eloquently as that little white robe; it was the one of her children that always remained a baby. And she had not made it herself, which was the most wonderful thing about it to me, for she seemed to have made all other things. All the clothes in the house were of her making, and you don’t know her in the least if you think they were out of the fashion; she turned them and made them new again, she beat them and made them new again, and then she coaxed them into being new again just for the last time, she let them out and took them in and put on new braid, and added a piece up the back, and thus they passed from one member of the family to another until they reached the youngest, and even when we were done with them they reappeared as something else. In the fashion! I must come back to this. Never was a woman with such an eye for it. She had no fashion-plates; she did not need them. The minister’s wife (a cloak), the banker’s daughters (the new sleeve) — they had but to pass our window once, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my mother’s hands. Observe her rushing, scissors in hand, thread in mouth, to the drawers where her daughters’ Sabbath clothes were kept. Or go to church next Sunday, and watch a certain family filing in, the boy lifting his legs high to show off his new boots, but all the others demure, especially the timid, unobservant-looking little woman in the rear of them. If you were the minister’s wife that day or the banker’s daughters you would have got a shock. But she bought the christening robe, and when I used to ask why, she would beam and look conscious, and say she wanted to be extravagant once. And she told me, still smiling, that the more a woman was given to stitching and making things for herself, the greater was her passionate desire now and again to rush to the shops and ‘be foolish.’ The christening robe with its pathetic frills is over half a century old now, and has begun to droop a little, like a daisy whose time is past; but it is as fondly kept together as ever: I saw it in use again only the other day.

  My mother lay in bed with the christening robe beside her, and I peeped in many times at the door and then went to the stair and sat on it and sobbed. I know not if it was that first day, or many days afterwards, that there came to me, my sister, the daughter my mother loved the best; yes, more I am sure even than she loved me, whose great glory she has been since I was six years old. This sister, who was then passing out of her ‘teens, came to me with a very anxious face and wringing her hands, and she told me to go ben to my mother and say to her that she still had another boy. I went ben excitedly, but the room was dark, and
when I heard the door shut and no sound come from the bed I was afraid, and I stood still. I suppose I was breathing hard, or perhaps I was crying, for after a time I heard a listless voice that had never been listless before say, ‘Is that you?’ I think the tone hurt me, for I made no answer, and then the voice said more anxiously ‘Is that you?’ again. I thought it was the dead boy she was speaking to, and I said in a little lonely voice, ‘No, it’s no him, it’s just me.’ Then I heard a cry, and my mother turned in bed, and though it was dark I knew that she was holding out her arms.

  After that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to make her forget him, which was my crafty way of playing physician, and if I saw any one out of doors do something that made the others laugh I immediately hastened to that dark room and did it before her. I suppose I was an odd little figure; I have been told that my anxiety to brighten her gave my face a strained look and put a tremor into the joke (I would stand on my head in the bed, my feet against the wall, and then cry excitedly, ‘Are you laughing, mother?’) — and perhaps what made her laugh was something I was unconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly now and then, whereupon I screamed exultantly to that dear sister, who was ever in waiting, to come and see the sight, but by the time she came the soft face was wet again. Thus I was deprived of some of my glory, and I remember once only making her laugh before witnesses. I kept a record of her laughs on a piece of paper, a stroke for each, and it was my custom to show this proudly to the doctor every morning. There were five strokes the first time I slipped it into his hand, and when their meaning was explained to him he laughed so boisterously, that I cried, ‘I wish that was one of hers!’ Then he was sympathetic, and asked me if my mother had seen the paper yet, and when I shook my head he said that if I showed it to her now and told her that these were her five laughs he thought I might win another. I had less confidence, but he was the mysterious man whom you ran for in the dead of night (you flung sand at his window to waken him, and if it was only toothache he extracted the tooth through the open window, but when it was something sterner he was with you in the dark square at once, like a man who slept in his topcoat), so I did as he bade me, and not only did she laugh then but again when I put the laugh down, so that though it was really one laugh with a tear in the middle I counted it as two.