Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  When the debates were political, two members with the gift of song fired the blood with their own poems about taxation and the depopulation of the Highlands, and by selling these songs from door to door they made their livelihood.

  Books and pamphlets were brought into the town by the flying stationers, as they were called, who visited the square periodically carrying their wares on their backs, except at the Muckly, when they had their stall and even sold books by auction. The flying stationer best known to Thrums was Sandersy Riach, who was stricken from head to foot with the palsy, and could only speak with a quaver in consequence. Sandersy brought to the members of the club all the great books he could get second hand, but his stockin-trade was Thrummy Cap and Akenstaff, the Fishwives of Buckhaven, the Devil upon Two Sticks, Gilderoy, Sir James the Rose, the Brownie of Badenoch, the Ghaist of Firenden, and the like. It was from Sandersy that Tammas Haggart bought his copy of Shakspeare, whom Mr. Dishart could never abide. Tammas kept what he had done from his wife, but Chirsty saw a deterioration setting in and told the minister of her suspicions. Mr. Dishart was newly placed at the time and very vigorous, and the way he shook the truth out of Tammas was grand. The minister pulled Tammas the one way and Gavin pulled him the other, but Mr. Dishart was not the man to be beaten, and he landed Tammas in the Auld Licht kirk before the year was out. Chirsty buried Shakspeare in the yard.

  BETTER DEAD

  After the success of Auld Lichts, a collection of nostalgic sketches of his home town, Barrie published his first novel, Better Dead, privately and at his own expense in 1888 and it failed to sell. It was published in the shape of a little shilling book with a coloured cover, suggestive of a ‘shilling shocker’, with the device containing a sanguinary sword, a revolver and an anarchical creature with a dagger in his hand. The novel was inspired two years earlier by an article found in a paper published in the St James’s Gazette on April 21, 1885. The story suggested the formation of a society for ‘getting rid of people who would be better out of the way’. The narrative introduces the character Andrew Riach, a young Scotsman who has come to town intending to become the private secretary to a member of the Cabinet, and “if time permitted, he proposed writing for the Press”.

  Barrie as a young man, 1894

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  TO

  FREDERICK GREENWOOD

  INTRODUCTION

  This is the only American edition of my books produced with my sanction, and I have special reasons for thanking Messrs. Scribner for its publication; they let it be seen, by this edition, what are my books, for I know not how many volumes purporting to be by me, are in circulation in America which are no books of mine. I have seen several of these, bearing such titles as “Two of Them,” “An Auld Licht Manse,” “A Tillyloss Scandal,” and some of them announce themselves as author’s editions, or published by arrangement with the author. They consist of scraps collected and published without my knowledge, and I entirely disown them. I have written no books save those that appear in this edition.

  I am asked to write a few lines on the front page of each of these volumes, to say something, as I take it, about how they came into being. Well, they were written mainly to please one woman who is now dead, but as I am writing a little book about my mother I shall say no more of her here.

  Many of the chapters in “Auld Licht Idylls” first appeared in a different form in the St. James’s Gazette, and there is little doubt that they would never have appeared anywhere but for the encouragement given to me by the editor of that paper. It was pressure from him that induced me to write a second “Idyll” and a third after I thought the first completed the picture, he set me thinking seriously of these people, and though he knew nothing of them himself, may be said to have led me back to them. It seems odd, and yet I am not the first nor the fiftieth who has left Thrums at sunrise to seek the life-work that was all the time awaiting him at home. And we seldom sally forth a second time. I had always meant to be a novelist, but London, I thought, was the quarry.

  For long I had an uneasy feeling that no one save the editor read my contributions, for I was leading a lonely life in London, and not another editor could I find in the land willing to print the Scotch dialect. The magazines, Scotch and English, would have nothing to say to me — I think I tried them all with “The Courting of T’nowhead’s Bell,” but it never found shelter until it got within book-covers. In time, however, I found another paper, the British Weekly, with an editor as bold as my first (or shall we say he suffered from the same infirmity?). He revived my drooping hopes, and I was again able to turn to the only kind of literary work I now seemed to have much interest in. He let me sign my articles, which was a big step for me and led to my having requests for work from elsewhere, but always the invitations said “not Scotch — the public will not read dialect.” By this time I had put together from these two sources and from my drawerful of rejected stories this book of “Auld Licht Idylls,” and in its collected form it again went the rounds. I offered it to certain firms as a gift, but they would not have it even at that. And then, on a day came actually an offer for it from Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton. For this, and for many another kindness, I had the editor of the British Weekly to thank. Thus the book was published at last, and as for Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton I simply dare not say what a generous firm I found them, lest it send too many aspirants to their doors. But, indeed, I have had the pleasantest relations with all my publishers.

  “Better Dead” is, by my wish, no longer on sale in Great Britain, and I should have preferred not to see it here, for it is in no way worthy of the beautiful clothes Messrs. Scribner have given it. Weighted with “An Edinburgh Eleven” it would rest very comfortably in the mill dam, but the publishers have reasons for its inclusion; among them, I suspect, is a well-grounded fear that if I once began to hack and hew, I should not stop until I had reduced the edition to two volumes. This juvenile effort is a field of prickles into which none may be advised to penetrate — I made the attempt lately in cold blood and came back shuddering, but I had read enough to have the profoundest reason for declining to tell what the book is about. And yet I have a sentimental interest in “Better Dead,” for it was my first — published when I had small hope of getting any one to accept the Scotch — and there was a week when I loved to carry it in my pocket and did not think it dead weight. Once I almost saw it find a purchaser. She was a pretty girl and it lay on a bookstall, and she read some pages and smiled, and then retired, and came back and began another chapter. Several times she did this, and I stood in the background trembling with hope and fear. At last she went away without the book, but I am still of opinion that, had it been just a little bit better, she would have bought it.

  CHAPTER I

  When Andrew Riach went to London, his intention was to become private secretary to a member of the Cabinet. If time permitted, he proposed writing for the Press.

  “It might be better if you and Clarrie understood each other,” the minister said.

  It was their last night together. They faced each other in the manse-parlour at Wheens, whose low, peeled ceiling had threatened Mr. Eassie at his desk every time he looked up with his pen in his mouth until his wife died, when he ceased to notice things. The one picture on the walls, an engraving of a boy in velveteen, astride a tree, entitled “Boyhood of Bunyan,” had started life with him. The horsehair chairs were not torn, and you did not require to know the sofa before you sat down on it, that day thirty years before, when a chubby minister and his lady walked to the manse between two cartloads of furniture, trying not to look elated.

  Clarrie rose to go, when she heard her name. The love-light was in her eyes, but Andrew did not open th
e door for her, for he was a Scotch graduate. Besides, she might one day be his wife.

  The minister’s toddy-ladle clinked against his tumbler, but Andrew did not speak. Clarrie was the girl he generally adored.

  “As for Clarrie,” he said at last, “she puts me in an awkward position. How do I know that I love her?”

  “You have known each other a long time,” said the minister.

  His guest was cleaning his pipe with a hairpin, that his quick eye had detected on the carpet.

  “And she is devoted to you,” continued Mr. Eassie.

  The young man nodded.

  “What I fear,” he said, “is that we have known each other too long. Perhaps my feeling for Clarrie is only brotherly—”

  “Hers for you, Andrew, is more than sisterly.”

  “Admitted. But consider, Mr. Eassie, she has only seen the world in soirées. Every girl has her day-dreams, and Clarrie has perhaps made a dream of me. She is impulsive, given to idealisation, and hopelessly illogical.”

  The minister moved uneasily in his chair.

  “I have reasoned out her present relation to me,” the young man went on, “and, the more you reduce it to the usual formulae, the more illogical it becomes. Clarrie could possibly describe me, but define me — never. What is our prospect of happiness in these circumstances?”

  “But love—” began Mr. Eassie.

  “Love!” exclaimed Andrew. “Is there such a thing? Reduce it to syllogistic form, and how does it look in Barbara?”

  For the moment there was almost some expression in his face, and he suffered from a determination of words to the mouth.

  “Love and logic,” Mr. Eassie interposed, “are hardly kindred studies.”

  “Is love a study at all?” asked Andrew, bitterly. “It is but the trail of idleness. But all idleness is folly; therefore, love is folly.”

  Mr. Eassie was not so keen a logician as his guest, but he had age for a major premiss. He was easy-going rather than a coward; a preacher who, in the pulpit, looked difficulties genially in the face, and passed them by.

  Riach had a very long neck. He was twentyfive years of age, fair, and somewhat heavily built, with a face as inexpressive as book-covers.

  A native of Wheens and an orphan, he had been brought up by his uncle, who was a weaver and read Herodotus in the original. The uncle starved himself to buy books and talk about them, until one day he got a good meal, and died of it. Then Andrew apprenticed himself to a tailor.

  When his time was out, he walked fifty miles to Aberdeen University, and got a bursary. He had been there a month, when his professor said good-naturedly —

  “Don’t you think, Mr. Riach, you would get on better if you took your hands out of your pockets?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so,” replied Andrew, in all honesty.

  When told that he must apologise, he did not see it, but was willing to argue the matter out.

  Next year he matriculated at Edinburgh, sharing one room with two others; studying through the night, and getting their bed when they rose. He was a failure in the classics, because they left you where you were, but in his third year he woke the logic class-room, and frightened the professor of moral philosophy.

  He was nearly rusticated for praying at a debating society for a divinity professor who was in the chair.

  “O Lord!” he cried, fervently, “open his eyes, guide his tottering footsteps, and lead him from the paths of folly into those that are lovely and of good report, for lo! his days are numbered, and the sickle has been sharpened, and the corn is not yet ripe for the cutting.”

  When Andrew graduated he was known as student of mark.

  He returned to Wheens, before setting out for London, with the consciousness of his worth.

  Yet he was only born to follow, and his chance of making a noise in the world rested on his meeting a stronger than himself. During his summer vacations he had weaved sufficient money to keep himself during the winter on porridge and potatoes.

  Clarrie was beautiful and all that.

  “We’ll say no more about it, then,” the minister said after a pause.

  “The matter,” replied Andrew, “cannot be dismissed in that way. Reasonable or not, I do undoubtedly experience sensations similar to Clarrie’s. But in my love I notice a distinct ebb and flow. There are times when I don’t care a hang for her.”

  “Andrew!”

  “I beg your pardon. Still, it is you who have insisted on discussing this question in the particular instance. Love in the abstract is of much greater moment.”

  “I have sometimes thought, Andrew,” Mr. Eassie said, “that you are lacking in the imaginative faculty.”

  “In other words, love is a mere fancy. Grant that, and see to what it leads. By imagining that I have Clarrie with me I am as well off as if I really had. Why, then, should I go to needless expense, and take her from you?”

  The white-haired minister rose, for the ten o’clock bell was ringing and it was time for family worship.

  “My boy,” he said, “if there must be a sacrifice let the old man make it. I, too, have imagination.”

  For the moment there was a majesty about him that was foreign to his usual bearing. Andrew was touched, and gripped his hand.

  “Rather,” he cried, “let the girl we both love remain with you. She will be here waiting for me — should I return.”

  “More likely,” said the minister, “she will be at the bank.”

  The banker was unmarried, and had once in February and again in June seen Clarrie home from the Dorcas Society. The town talked about it. Strictly speaking, gentlemen should not attend these meetings; but in Wheens there was not much difference between the men and the women.

  That night, as Clarrie bade Andrew farewell at the garden gate, he took her head in his hands and asked what this talk about the banker meant.

  It was no ignoble curiosity that prompted him. He would rather have got engaged to her there and then than have left without feeling sure of her.

  His sweetheart looked her reply straight his eyes.

  “Andrew!” was all she said.

  It was sufficient. He knew that he did not require to press his point.

  Lover’s watches stand still. At last Andrew stooped and kissed her upturned face.

  “If a herring and a half,” he said anxiously, “cost three halfpence, how many will you get for elevenpence?”

  Clarrie was mute.

  Andrew shuddered; he felt that he was making a mistake.

  “Why do I kiss you?” he cried. “What good does it do either of us?”

  He looked fiercely at his companion, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Where even is the pleasure in it?” he added brutally.

  The only objectionable thing about Clarrie was her long hair.

  She wore a black frock and looked very breakable. Nothing irritates a man so much.

  Andrew gathered her passionately in his arms, while a pained, puzzled expression struggled to reach his face.

  Then he replaced her roughly on the ground and left her.

  It was impossible to say whether they were engaged.

  CHAPTER II

  Andrew reached King’s Cross on the following Wednesday morning.

  It was the first time he had set foot in England, and he naturally thought of Bannockburn.

  He left his box in the cloakroom, and, finding his way into Bloomsbury, took a bedroom at the top of a house in Bernard Street.

  Then he returned for his box, carried it on his back to his lodgings, and went out to buy a straw hat. It had not struck him to be lonely.

  He bought two pork pies in an eating-house in Gray’s Inn Road, and set out for Harley Street, looking at London on the way.

  Mr. Gladstone was at home, but all his private secretaryships were already filled.

  Andrew was not greatly disappointed, though he was too polite to say so. In politics he was a granite-headed Radical; and on several questions, such a
s the Church and Free Education, the two men were hopelessly at variance.

  Mr. Chamberlain was the man with whom, on the whole, he believed it would be best to work. But Mr. Chamberlain could not even see him.

  Looking back to this time, it is impossible not to speculate upon how things might have turned out had the Radical party taken Andrew to them in his day of devotion to their cause.

  This is the saddest spectacle in life, a brave young man’s first meeting with the world. How rapidly the milk turns to gall! For the cruellest of his acts the vivisectionist has not even the excuse that science benefits.

  Here was a young Scotchman, able, pure, of noble ambition, and a first medallist in metaphysics. Genius was written on his brow. He may have written it himself, but it was there.

  He offered to take a pound a week less than any other secretary in London. Not a Cabinet Minister would have him. Lord Randolph Churchill would not speak to him. He had fifty-eight testimonials with him. They would neither read nor listen to them.

  He could not fasten a quarrel on London, for it never recognised his existence. What a commentary on our vaunted political life!

  Andrew tried the Press.

  He sent one of the finest things that was ever written on the Ontology of Being to paper after paper, and it was never used. He threatened the “Times” with legal proceedings if it did not return the manuscript.

  The “Standard” sent him somebody else’s manuscript, and seemed to think it would do as well.

  In a fortnight his enthusiasm had been bled to death.

  His testimonials were his comfort and his curse. He would have committed suicide without them, but they kept him out of situations.

  He had the fifty-eight by heart, and went over them to himself all day. He fell asleep with them, and they were there when he woke.