All
children, except one, grow
up. They soon
know that they
will grow up, and the way
Wendy knew was this. One day
when
she was two years old she
was playing in a garden, and
she
plucked another flower and
ran with it to her mother.
I suppose she must have looked
rather delightful, for Mrs.
Darling put her hand to her
heart and cried, "Oh,
why can't you remain like this
for ever!" This was
all that passed between them
on
the subject, but henceforth
Wendy knew that she must
grow up. You always know
after you
are two. Two is the beginning
of the end. Of course they lived at 14 [their
house number on their street],
and until Wendy came her mother
was the chief one. She was a
lovely lady, with a romantic
mind and such a sweet mocking
mouth. Her romantic mind was
like the tiny boxes, one within
the other, that come from the
puzzling East, however many you
discover there is always one
more; and her sweet mocking mouth
had one kiss on it that Wendy
could never get, though there
is was, perfectly conspicuous
in the right-hand corner.
The way Mr. Darling won her
was this: the many gentlemen
who had been boys when she was
a girl discovered simultaneously
that they loved her, and they
all ran to her house to propose
to her except Mr. Darling, who
took a cab and nipped in first,
and so he got her. He got all
of her, except the innermost
box and the kiss. He never knew
about the box, and in time he
gave up trying for the kiss.
Wendy thought Napoleon could
have got it, but I can picture
him trying, and then going off
in a passion, slamming the door.
Mr. Darling used to boast to
Wendy that her mother not only
loved him but respected him.
He was one of those deep ones
who know about stocks and shares.
Of course no one really knows,
but he quite seemed to know,
and he often said stocks were
up and shares were down in a
way that would have made any
woman respect him.
Mrs. Darling was married in
white, and at first she kept
the books perfectly, almost gleefully,
as if it were a game, not so
much as a Brussels sprout was
missing; but by and by whole
cauliflowers dropped out, and
instead of them there were pictures
of babies without faces. She
drew them when she should have
been totting up. They were Mrs.
Darling's guesses.
Wendy came first, then John,
then Michael.
For a week or two after Wendy
came it was doubtful whether
they would be able to keep her,
as she was another mouth to feed.
Mr. Darling was frightfully proud
of her, but he was very honourable,
and he sat on the edge of Mrs.
Darling's bed, holding her hand
and calculating expenses, while
she looked at him imploringly.
She wanted to risk it, come what
might, but that was not his way;
his way was with a pencil and
a piece of paper, and if she
confused him with suggestions
he had to begin at the beginning
again.
"Now don't interrupt," he
would beg of her. "I have
one pound seventeen here, and
two and six at the office; I
can cut off my coffee at the
office, say ten shillings, making
two nine and six, with your eighteen
and three makes three nine seven,
with five naught naught in my
cheque-book makes eight nine
seven -- who is that moving?
-- eight nine seven, dot and
carry seven -- don't speak, my
own -- and the pound you lent
to that man who came to the door
-- quiet, child -- dot and carry
child -- there, you've done it!
-- did I say nine nine seven?
yes, I said nine nine seven;
the question is, can we try it
for a year on nine nine seven?"
"Of course we can, George," she
cried. But she was prejudiced
in Wendy's favour, and he was
really the grander character
of the two.
"Remember mumps," he
warned her almost threateningly,
and off he went again. "Mumps
one pound, that is what I have
put down, but I daresay it will
be more like thirty shillings
-- don't speak -- measles one
five, German measles half a guinea,
makes two fifteen six -- don't
waggle your finger -- whooping-cough,
say fifteen shillings" --
and so on it went, and it added
up differently each time; but
at last Wendy just got through,
with mumps reduced to twelve
six, and the two kinds of measles
treated as one.
There was the same excitement
over John, and Michael had even
a narrower squeak; but both were
kept, and soon, you might have
seen the three of them going
in a row to Miss Fulsom's Kindergarten
school, accompanied by their
nurse.
Mrs. Darling
loved to have everything just
so, and Mr. Darling had
a passion for being exactly like
his neighbours; so, of course,
they had a nurse. As they were
poor, owing to the amount of
milk the children drank, this
nurse was a prim Newfoundland
dog, called Nana, who had belonged
to no one in particular until
the Darlings engaged her. She
had always thought children important,
however, and the Darlings had
become acquainted with her in
Kensington Gardens, where she
spent most of her spare time
peeping into perambulators, and
was much hated by careless nursemaids,
whom she followed to their homes
and complained of to their mistresses.
She proved to be quite a treasure
of a nurse. How thorough she
was at bath-time, and up at any
moment of the night if one of
her charges made the slightest
cry. Of course her kennel was
in the nursery. She had a genius
for knowing when a cough is a
thing to have no patience with
and when it needs stocking around
your throat. She believed to
her last day in old-fashioned
remedies like rhubarb leaf, and
made sounds of contempt over
all this new-fangled talk about
germs, and so on. It was a lesson
in propriety to see her escorting
the children to school, walking
sedately by their side when they
were well behaved, and butting
them back into line if they strayed.
On John's footer [in England
soccer was called football, "footer
for short] days she never once
forgot his sweater, and she usually
carried an umbrella in her mouth
in case of rain. There is a room
in the basement of Miss Fulsom's
school where the nurses wait.
They sat on forms, while Nana
lay on the floor, but that was
the only difference. They affected
to ignore her as of an inferior
social status to themselves,
and she despised their light
talk. She resented visits to
the nursery from Mrs. Darling's
friends, but if they did come
she first whipped off Michael's
pinafore and put him into the
one with blue braiding, and smoothed
out Wendy and made a dash at
John's hair.
No nursery could possibly have
been conducted more correctly,
and Mr. Darling knew it, yet
he sometimes wondered uneasily
whether the neighbours talked.
He had his position in the city
to consider.
Nana also troubled
him in another way. He had
sometimes a feeling
that she did not admire him. "I
know she admires you tremendously,
George," Mrs. Darling would
assure him, and then she would
sign to the children to be specially
nice to father. Lovely dances
followed, in which the only other
servant, Liza, was sometimes
allowed to join. Such a midget
she looked in her long skirt
and maid's cap, though she had
sworn, when engaged, that she
would never see ten again. The
gaiety of those romps! And gayest
of all was Mrs. Darling, who
would pirouette so wildly that
all you could see of her was
the kiss, and then if you had
dashed at her you might have
got it. There never was a simpler
happier family until the coming
of Peter Pan.
Mrs. Darling first heard of
Peter when she was tidying up
her children's minds. It is the
nightly custom of every good
mother after her children are
asleep to rummage in their minds
and put things straight for next
morning, repacking into their
proper places the many articles
that have wandered during the
day. If you could keep awake
(but of course you can't) you
would see your own mother doing
this, and you would find it very
interesting to watch her. It
is quite like tidying up drawers.
You would see her on her knees,
I expect, lingering humorously
over some of your contents, wondering
where on earth you had picked
this thing up, making discoveries
sweet and not so sweet, pressing
this to her cheek as if it were
as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly
stowing that out of sight. When
you wake in the morning, the
naughtiness and evil passions
with which you went to bed have
been folded up small and placed
at the bottom of your mind and
on the top, beautifully aired,
are spread out your prettier
thoughts, ready for you to put
on.
I don't know whether you have
ever seen a map of a person's
mind. Doctors sometimes draw
maps of other parts of you, and
your own map can become intensely
interesting, but catch them trying
to draw a map of a child's mind,
which is not only confused, but
keeps going round all the time.
There are zigzag lines on it,
just like your temperature on
a card, and these are probably
roads in the island, for the
Neverland is always more or less
an island, with astonishing splashes
of colour here and there, and
coral reefs and rakish-looking
craft in the offing, and savages
and lonely lairs, and gnomes
who are mostly tailors, and caves
through which a river runs, and
princes with six elder brothers,
and a hut fast going to decay,
and one very small old lady with
a hooked nose. It would be an
easy map if that were all, but
there is also first day at school,
religion, fathers, the round
pond, needle-work, murders, hangings,
verbs that take the dative, chocolate
pudding day, getting into braces,
say ninety-nine, three-pence
for pulling out your tooth yourself,
and so on, and either these are
part of the island or they are
another map showing through,
and it is all rather confusing,
especially as nothing will stand
still.
Of course the Neverlands vary
a good deal. John's, for instance,
had a lagoon with flamingoes
flying over it at which John
was shooting, while Michael,
who was very small, had a flamingo
with lagoons flying over it.
John lived in a boat turned upside
down on the sands, Michael in
a wigwam, Wendy in a house of
leaves deftly sewn together.
John had no friends, Michael
had friends at night, Wendy had
a pet wolf forsaken by its parents,
but on the whole the Neverlands
have a family resemblance, and
if they stood still in a row
you could say of them that they
have each other's nose, and so
forth. On these magic shores
children at play are for ever
beaching their coracles [simple
boat]. We too have been there;
we can still hear the sound of
the surf, though we shall land
no more.
Of all delectable islands the
Neverland is the snuggest and
most compact, not large and sprawly,
you know, with tedious distances
between one adventure and another,
but nicely crammed. When you
play at it by day with the chairs
and table-cloth, it is not in
the least alarming, but in the
two minutes before you go to
sleep it becomes very real. That
is why there are night-lights.
Occasionally in her travels
through her children's minds
Mrs. Darling found things she
could not understand, and of
these quite the most perplexing
was the word Peter. She knew
of no Peter, and yet he was here
and there in John and Michael's
minds, while Wendy's began to
be scrawled all over with him.
The name stood out in bolder
letters than any of the other
words, and as Mrs. Darling gazed
she felt that it had an oddly
cocky appearance.
"Yes, he is rather cocky," Wendy
admitted with regret. Her mother
had been questioning her.
"But who
is he, my pet?"
"He is
Peter Pan, you know, mother."
At first Mrs. Darling did not
know, but after thinking back
into her childhood she just remembered
a Peter Pan who was said to live
with the fairies. There were
odd stories about him, as that
when children died he went part
of the way with them, so that
they should not be frightened.
She had believed in him at the
time, but now that she was married
and full of sense she quite doubted
whether there was any such person.
"Besides," she said
to Wendy, "he would be grown
up by this time."
"Oh no, he isn't grown
up," Wendy assured her confidently, "and
he is just my size." She
meant that he was her size in
both mind and body; she didn't
know how she knew, she just knew
it.
Mrs. Darling
consulted Mr. Darling, but
he smiled pooh-pooh. "Mark
my words," he said, "it
is some nonsense Nana has been
putting into their heads; just
the sort of idea a dog would
have. Leave it alone, and it
will blow over."
But it would not blow over and
soon the troublesome boy gave
Mrs. Darling quite a shock.
Children have the strangest
adventures without being troubled
by them. For instance, they may
remember to mention, a week after
the event happened, that when
they were in the wood they had
met their dead father and had
a game with him. It was in this
casual way that Wendy one morning
made a disquieting revelation.
Some leaves of a tree had been
found on the nursery floor, which
certainly were not there when
the children went to bed, and
Mrs. Darling was puzzling over
them when Wendy said with a tolerant
smile:
"I do believe
it is that Peter again!"
"Whatever
do you mean, Wendy?"
"It is so naughty of him
not to wipe his feet," Wendy
said, sighing. She was a tidy
child.
She explained in quite a matter-of-fact
way that she thought Peter sometimes
came to the nursery in the night
and sat on the foot of her bed
and played on his pipes to her.
Unfortunately she never woke,
so she didn't know how she knew,
she just knew.
"What nonsense
you talk, precious. No one
can get into
the house without knocking."
"I think he comes in by
the window," she said.
"My love,
it is three floors up."
"Were not
the leaves at the foot of the
window, mother?"
It was quite true; the leaves
had been found very near the
window.
Mrs. Darling did not know what
to think, for it all seemed so
natural to Wendy that you could
not dismiss it by saying she
had been dreaming.
"My child," the mother
cried, "why did you not
tell me of this before?"
"I forgot," said
Wendy lightly. She was in a
hurry to
get her breakfast.
Oh, surely she must have been
dreaming.
But, on the other hand, there
were the leaves. Mrs. Darling
examined them very carefully;
they were skeleton leaves, but
she was sure they did not come
from any tree that grew in England.
She crawled about the floor,
peering at it with a candle for
marks of a strange foot. She
rattled the poker up the chimney
and tapped the walls. She let
down a tape from the window to
the pavement, and it was a sheer
drop of thirty feet, without
so much as a spout to climb up
by.
Certainly Wendy had been dreaming.
But Wendy had not been dreaming,
as the very next night showed,
the night on which the extraordinary
adventures of these children
may be said to have begun.
On the night we speak of all
the children were once more in
bed. It happened to be Nana's
evening off, and Mrs. Darling
had bathed them and sung to them
till one by one they had let
go her hand and slid away into
the land of sleep.
All were looking so safe and
cosy that she smiled at her fears
now and sat down tranquilly by
the fire to sew.
It was something for Michael,
who on his birthday was getting
into shirts. The fire was warm,
however, and the nursery dimly
lit by three night-lights, and
presently the sewing lay on Mrs.
Darling's lap. Then her head
nodded, oh, so gracefully. She
was asleep. Look at the four
of them, Wendy and Michael over
there, John here, and Mrs. Darling
by the fire. There should have
been a fourth night-light.
While she slept she had a dream.
She dreamt that the Neverland
had come too near and that a
strange boy had broken through
from it. He did not alarm her,
for she thought she had seen
him before in the faces of many
women who have no children. Perhaps
he is to be found in the faces
of some mothers also. But in
her dream he had rent the film
that obscures the Neverland,
and she saw Wendy and John and
Michael peeping through the gap.
The dream by itself would have
been a trifle, but while she
was dreaming the window of the
nursery blew open, and a boy
did drop on the floor. He was
accompanied by a strange light,
no bigger than your fist, which
darted about the room like a
living thing and I think it must
have been this light that wakened
Mrs. Darling.
She started up with a cry, and
saw the boy, and somehow she
knew at once that he was Peter
Pan. If you or I or Wendy had
been there we should have seen
that he was very like Mrs. Darling's
kiss. He was a lovely boy, clad
in skeleton leaves and the juices
that ooze out of trees but the
most entrancing thing about him
was that he had all his first
teeth. When he saw she was a
grown-up, he gnashed the little
pearls at her.
About the author:
James
Matthew Barrie 1860 - 1937
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