J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys

by Andrew Birkin

  This theme later became Barbara's Wedding, written in 1917, but not produced until 1927. However, the departure of Second Lieutenant George Llewelyn Davies from Campden Hill Square provided Barrie with an idea for a more immediate play, The New Word. Its theme embodied his own periodic dilemma: the embarrassment which afflicts two males, both undemonstrative, who want to communicate their fondness for each other, but cannot. The two males in question are a father, Mr Torrance, and his son, Roger, a Second Lieutenant about to leave for the Front:

  MR TORRANCE. Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn't want you to smoke till you were twenty?

  ROGER. Oh, it's that, is it? … I never promised.

  MR TORRANCE (almost with a shout). It's not that. (Kindly) Have a cigar, my boy?

  ROGER. Me?

  (A rather shaky hand passes him a cigar-case. ROGER selects from it and lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the worst.)

  MR TORRANCE. … My boy, be ready; I hate to hit you without warning. I'm going to cast a grenade into the middle of you. It's this, I'm fond of you, my boy.

  ROGER (squirming). Father, if any one were to hear you!

  MR TORRANCE. They won't. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is quiet in our street. Won't you – won't you say something civil to me in return, Roger?

  (ROGER looks at him, and away from him)…

  ROGER. Hum. What would you like me to call you?

  MR TORRANCE (severely). It isn't what would I like. But I dare say your mother would beam if you called me ‘dear father’.

  ROGER. I don't think so. … It's so effeminate.

  MR TORRANCE. Not if you say it casually.

  ROGER (with something very like a snort). How does one say a thing like that casually?

  MR TORRANCE. Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said it – or anything of that sort.

  ROGER. Hum. Of course you – if we were to – to be like that, you wouldn't do anything.

  MR TORRANCE. How do you mean?

  ROGER. You wouldn't paw me?

  MR TORRANCE. … Roger! you forget yourself. (But apparently it is for him to continue). That reminds me of a story I heard the other day of a French general. He had asked for volunteers from his airmen for some specially dangerous job – and they all stepped forward. Pretty good that. Then three were chosen and got their orders and saluted, and were starting off when he stopped them. ‘Since when,’ he said, ‘have brave boys departing to the post of danger omitted to embrace their father?’ They did it then. Good story?

  ROGER (lowering). They were French.

  MR TORRANCE. Yes, I said so. Don't you think it's good?

  ROGER. Why do you tell it to me?

  MR TORRANCE. Because it's a good story.

  ROGER (sternly). You are sure that there is no other reason? (MR TORRANCE tries to brazen it out, hut he looks guilty). You know, father, that is barred. …

  (…MR TORRANCE snaps angrily)

  MR TORRANCE. What is barred?

  ROGER. You know.

  When George left London for Winchester, prior to his embarkation for France, he took with him in his kit-bag a somewhat incongruous book to read in the trenches. It was not given to him by Barrie; he had bought it himself, a few days before his departure: The Little White Bird.

  Barrie wrote to him on December 21st, 1914:

  My dear George,

  When your things arrived at 23, I thought it meant you were on the eve of starting, but I admit I hoped I was wrong, and now your letter comes and I know. You are off. It is still a shock to me. I shall have many anxious days and nights too, but I only fall into line with so many mothers. The Orea cigarettes will be sent weekly and anything else I can think of, to cheer you in a foreign land, tho' France and Belgium can scarcely seem that to us any more. I shudder over the weight of your pack, and know that for my part I would be down under it. … Michael was with me at Der Tag today. It was received with much applause, but it struck me that in their hearts the Coliseum audience thought it heavy food. In the programme were performing pigs, and immediately in front of it a man sang a war-song about the Kaiser saying he was ‘in a funk’ and the Crown Prince advising him ‘to do a bunk’. Good company!

  I'll write often and will be so glad of any line from you.

  Your loving,

  J.M.B.

  Madge Titheradge as Peter Pan in the 1914/15 revival

  The following night, Peter Pan opened for its tenth revival, with Madge Titheradge as the new Peter, and Barrie's niece, Madge Murray, as Mrs Darling. Barrie wrote to his god-daughter, Pauline Chase, who had married Alec Drummond in October: ‘To wish you both a very happy Christmas. In a sense it is pretty grim to send Christmas greetings this year, but tho’ we cannot forget the war, it makes us think still more of the home, and I wish you much of the truest happiness in yours. … I am going to the P. Pan performance today, and hope all will be well, but you needn't be afraid, I shan't forget the Peter of the Past. I expect the fairies have their knuckles in their eyes today.’3 Barrie took his godson, Peter Scott, to see the play; at the end, he asked the five-year-old boy what he had liked best, and was particularly gratified by his answer: ‘What I think I liked best was tearing up the programme and dropping the bits on people's heads.’4 Peter gave him an empty box as a Christmas present, and Barrie duly acknowledged it:

  Adelphi Terrace House,

  Strand, W.C.

  Dec. 30, 1914.

  Dear Peter,

  When I look upon my Box,

  With pride and joy I rocks,

  From my head to my socks,

  And everybody knocks

  At my door, and flocks

  To see my box.

  Signed by The Author.

  The writes of translation are reserved.

  Your Loving

  Godfather,

  J.M.B.

  On the same day, George wrote to his brother Peter from France:

  ‘How goes it in Sheerness? I expect it's getting bloodier and bloodier. I invent little prayers of thanksgiving that I'm not there still. … We have been here for five days now, with no immediate prospect of moving. … I am becoming a most accomplished linguist. Next time we advance on Rue Pasquier I shall be irresistible! I have two reasons for writing to you. (1) Will you send me a pair of those things you put inside gum-boots? … (2) In the event of my being killed, wounded or missing, you might communicate with Josephine. A loathsome job for you, but otherwise she won't know till it's in the papers. … I did very well in the interval between Sheerness and Winchester (oh! Winchester was loathsome). I told you about meeting G. Deslys, didn't I? Of course, that was the great show, but I had a good time all round.’

  Peter replied on January 10th, 1915:

  ‘I haven't got those gum-boot sock things yet but as soon as I can I will send them. The other duty I will try to perform if it becomes necessary, though it wouldn't be a particularly easy letter to compose, would it? … Perhaps by the time this reaches you you will have been “in the trenches”, receiving your baptism of fire, and all that sort of thing. I wish you would write and tell me exactly what your sensations are, and whether you experience any more of that jolly old depression which descended upon us during the first week at [Sheerness]. I still get it sometimes, and if I thought the war was bound to last more than a year from now, I believe I should commit suicide.’

  George wrote to Barrie on January 13th:

  Dear Uncle Jim,

  I have got some spare time now that is not occupied with sleeping, & I'll try & see how much news I can give you.

  The fear of death doesn't enter so much as I expected into this show. The hardships are the things that count, and one gets very soon into the way of taking them as they come. … [After a long account of trench routine] Don't you get worried about me. I take every precaution I can, & shall do very well. It is an amazing show, & I am unable to look forward more than two or three hours. Also don't get anxious about letters. I'll send them whenever t
here's a chance, but there are less chances than I expected.

  Your affec.

  George

  One of George's letters from France. The ‘Passed by Censor’ stamp was a particular source of pride to Barrie

  Barrie meanwhile was writing to George:

  Jack in 1914

  ‘Hoping for another letter as soon as you have the time. You should see how I plunge thro' my letter-bag looking for one from you. It is almost too exciting, and I have some bad nights, I can tell you. I have an idea your Uncle Guy goes out this week. Jack is now on the Harpy, a destroyer as big as the Brazen, and I hope a bit more comfortable. … Peter is still signalling at Chatham, and I hope to have him up for Saturday night. Today Mick, Nick and I were at David Copperfield, a big [audience] of school girls largely, and every time Owen Nares came on as David there were loud gasps of ‘Oh how sweet!’ Almost too sweet I shd have thought. … There is what I believe to be a well grounded idea that we shall be visited in this isle, and probably in this metropolis very soon, by Zeppelins & other air craft. Have been making enquiries as to where the coal-cellar is at 23. … Johnstone said he thought you were near Ypres. Wherever you are, I hope you see near your bed the flowers I want to place there in a nice vase, and the illustrated papers, and a new work by Compton Mackenzie which I read aloud to you! I shall be so anxious till I get another line from you.’

  Peter Davies wrote, ‘I think this letter well illustrates … the peculiar and characteristic form which J.M.B.'s affection for George and Michael took: a dash of the paternal, a lot of the maternal, and much, too, of the lover – at this stage Sylvia's lover still imperfectly merged into the lover of her son. To criticise would be easy; yet I don't think it did, or would have done, George any harm.’

  Barrie's letter crossed in the post with George's news of the 22nd:

  ‘The malady that laid me low has been successfully vanquished, & I am now a young bull once again, & ready for our next show. We shall be in the trenches again either tomorrow night or the night after. … I don't think there's very much danger to expect, except from sickness, which is always ready in this weather to show its face. … But I take every care that can be taken, I can promise you. … I suppose Uncle Guy is somewhere about by now. I should like to come across him, but there isn't much chance. … I dare bet he won't have much to say for this game. Picturesqueness is distinctly lacking.’

  Guy du Maurier, a professional soldier too sensitive for his job. During the Boer War he saw a man killed next to him; the shock was so profound that within a few days his hair had turned completely white

  Guy du Maurier, now a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Royal Fusiliers, was fighting four miles farther down the line from George. He too was sending home regular accounts of life in the trenches, to his wife Gwen. Unlike George, who clearly took great pains to shield Barrie from the reality of the trenches, Guy – a professional soldier and a veteran of the Boer War – gave his wife as accurate a picture as the Army Censor would allow him to paint:

  ‘The trenches are full of dead Frenchmen. When one is killed they let him lie in the squelching mud and water at the bottom; and when you try and drain or dig you unearth them in an advanced state of decomposition. … All the filth of an Army lies around rotting. … The stink is awful. There are many dead Highlanders just in front – killed in December I think – and they aren't pleasant. One gets used to smells. … Two hundred of my men went to hospital today – mostly frost-bitten feet; bad cases are called gangrene and very bad cases the toes drop off. … When we've done our four days I'll try and go over and see George who I think is only two miles off. I haven't seen anyone I know lately. I fancy most of the Army I know are killed or wounded.’

  George wrote to Barrie on January 27th, telling him that ‘I have recovered entirely from my late sickness, and have never been better in my life. … On the whole then, my dear Uncle Jim, there's nothing for you to be anxious about. Of course, there's always the chance of stopping an unaimed bullet, but you can see it's a very small one. And I am far too timorous a man (I am a man now, I think) to run any more risk than I must. … Are you rehearsing with Gaby yet?’

  Barrie had finished writing his revue for Gaby, entitled Rosy Rapture, or The Pride of the Beauty Chorus, and was out filming new sequences which had to be edited before rehearsals could begin. He wrote to George on February 8th: ‘I have not heard from you since the postcard sent Jan 31, which of course is not very long, and you warned me there might necessarily be these pauses. So I grin and bear it. Not much grinning. … How I wish I knew what you are doing at this moment. I wish I was your ghillie.’

  George was also writing frequent letters to his four brothers, his girl Josephine, and Mary Hodgson:

  Feb. 11 [1915]

  Dear Mary,

  The veteran is off to the trenches again soon, after a fine rest, & finds himself with terrible holes in his pants. Do send me out two pairs of long ones, new, you know the kind. Also some soap, or I must go unwashen.

  By Jove, Mary, when I get home I shall never get up in the mornings at all. I shall be frightfully idle. That is one advantage of the firing-line trenches. As an officer I don't sleep at all in the night, so there is no getting up in the morning. But sheets! And a proper bed! Oh, I hope the war isn't going on for ten years.

  Meanwhile life is very bearable here. And when I get back I shall be more conceited than ever. You'll all shudder.

  Yours affec.

  George

  When George had been at Eton, Barrie had treated him to the occasional hamper from Fortnum & Mason in response to his claims that he was on the verge of starvation. The trenches were no different:

  23 Campden Hill Square,

  Kensington, W.

  14 Feb. 1915.

  My dear George,

  Practical affairs first. The eatables were sent off instanter from Fortnum & Mason, and shd arrive to-day or tomorrow according to their calculation, but I can see that you are probably already back in the trenches. Besides the usual things in their hampers there is a tongue, ham & turkey, and if you find that those keep, we shall repeat. Mary is also sending you some new underwear. …

  I can understand that getting ready to go back [into the trenches] is uncommonly like ‘putting on your pads’, but what I should feel worst … is that cutting across in the moonlight. Certainly it must be a bit creepy, and I don't feel as friendly to the moon as I once did. My own feeling about the moon is that it is at its best at Rustington, because we had many lovely moons there in the days when we were all so happy together. However I trust your best moons are still to come. …

  I am always at Nico about writing to you, and he is always deciding to do it tomorrow, with results known to you. He seems to have got to a stage when letter-writing assumes the appearance of a Frankenstein to him. …

  Loving

  J.M.B.

  Nico's confession for Charlie Chaplin. It was an enthusiasm shared by Barrie, who harboured an ambition that Chaplin should play Peter Pan on screen

  Nico summoned up the requisite concentration a week later:

  Sunday 21st [Feb. 1915]

  Dear George,

  Excusez-vous moi s'il vous plait for not writing before. … I am going to tea with Aunt Gwen to day and I shall see Angela and Daphne. Uncle Jim is at present laid up with a cold. Uncle Guy is having an awful time I believe. He went out with 900 men. He has only 200 left. The other 700 are laid up with their toes nearly off. … Jack wears a ring now. Have you fallen in love with any French girls yet? I guess so Eh! What!!? … I went to Peter Pan a few weeks ago and the new Peter is quite good. … Mary hopes you've got the underclothing. …

  Love from your affectionate

  Nico.

  A postscript doodle from Nico to George

  George received a slight leg-wound on the night of February 14th, but he made no mention of it to Barrie (the information was given in a letter from Guy to Gwen), and his next letter was as cheerful as ever:

  ‘W
e had an awful walk up to [the] trench, through a sea of mud, & it was a pitch dark night. … Oh, Lord it was muddy! I did badly that night. I had to go along behind, & by mistake I got into the communication-trench behind, which is full of liquid mud above the knees. Here, being a bit unsteady on my pins, I elected to fall over backwards. Behold me sitting with exceedingly cold water trickling into me everywhere, unable to move, & shouting for help! … Is Gaby still ill? How I long to see the revue.’

  Barrie replied on February 19th:

  ‘Gaby is back so I expect the burlesque shd be on in about three weeks. I'm writing a little one-act thing [The New Word] to go with it, and as all my thoughts are with 2nd Lieutenants, it has to be about one. It is just a family talk between one & his people, chiefly his father, on his first appearance in uniform. I fancy “2nd Lieut” is the most popular word in the language today, tho' a short time ago it didn't exist to us. … Tomorrow is your father's birthday, and I feel he would be very pleased with you all, which was always the best birthday to him.’

  The New Word was to be a short curtain-raiser to Rosy Rapture, now in rehearsal at the Duke of York's. Although it had been motivated by George's departure for the Front, an older theme had found its way into the play – a memory that had been in the author's mind since the age of six:

  MRS TORRANCE. … Rogie dear, … I'll tell you something. You know your brother Harry died when he was seven. To you, I suppose, it is as if he had never been. You were barely five.

  ROGER. I don't remember him, mater.

  MRS TORRANCE. No – no. But I do, Rogie. He would be twenty-one now; but though you and Emma grew up I have always gone on seeing him as just seven. Always till the war broke out. And now I see him a man of twenty-one, dressed in khaki, fighting for his country, same as you. …