Masters of the Theatre

by Delphi Classics

  MENDOZA. He is right, Mr Tanner. Trust to the air of the Sierra. [He withdraws delicately to the garden steps].

  TANNER. [rising] I yield to your superior knowledge of physiology, Henry. [He withdraws to the corner of the lawn; and Octavius immediately hurries down to him].

  TAVY. [aside to Tanner, grasping his hand] Jack: be very happy.

  TANNER. [aside to Tavy] I never asked her. It is a trap for me. [He goes up the lawn towards the garden. Octavius remains petrified].

  MENDOZA. [intercepting Mrs Whitefield, who comes from the villa with a glass of brandy] What is this, madam [he takes it from her]?

  MRS WHITEFIELD. A little brandy.

  MENDOZA. The worst thing you could give her. Allow me. [He swallows it]. Trust to the air of the Sierra, madam.

  For a moment the men all forget Ann and stare at Mendoza.

  ANN. [in Violet’s ear, clutching her round the neck] Violet, did Jack say anything when I fainted?

  VIOLET. No.

  ANN. Ah! [with a sigh of intense relief she relapses].

  MRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, she’s fainted again.

  They are about to rush back to her; but Mendoza stops them with a warning gesture.

  ANN. [supine] No I haven’t. I’m quite happy.

  TANNER. [suddenly walking determinedly to her, and snatching her hand from Violet to feel her pulse] Why, her pulse is positively bounding. Come, getup. What nonsense! Up with you. [He gets her up summarily].

  ANN. Yes: I feel strong enough now. But you very nearly killed me, Jack, for all that.

  MALONE. A rough wooer, eh? They’re the best sort, Miss Whitefield. I congratulate Mr Tanner; and I hope to meet you and him as frequent guests at the Abbey.

  ANN. Thank you. [She goes past Malone to Octavius] Ricky Ticky Tavy: congratulate me. [Aside to him] I want to make you cry for the last time.

  TAVY. [steadfastly] No more tears. I am happy in your happiness. And I believe in you in spite of everything.

  RAMSDEN. [coming between Malone and Tanner] You are a happy man, Jack Tanner. I envy you.

  MENDOZA. [advancing between Violet and Tanner] Sir: there are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it. Mine and yours, sir.

  TANNER. Mr Mendoza: I have no heart’s desires. Ramsden: it is very easy for you to call me a happy man: you are only a spectator. I am one of the principals; and I know better. Ann: stop tempting Tavy, and come back to me.

  ANN. [complying] You are absurd, Jack. [She takes his proffered arm].

  TANNER. [continuing] I solemnly say that I am not a happy man. Ann looks happy; but she is only triumphant, successful, victorious. That is not happiness, but the price for which the strong sell their happiness. What we have both done this afternoon is to renounce tranquillity, above all renounce the romantic possibilities of an unknown future, for the cares of a household and a family. I beg that no man may seize the occasion to get half drunk and utter imbecile speeches and coarse pleasantries at my expense. We propose to furnish our own house according to our own taste; and I hereby give notice that the seven or eight travelling clocks, the four or five dressing cases, the salad bowls, the carvers and fish slices, the copy of Tennyson in extra morocco, and all the other articles you are preparing to heap upon us, will be instantly sold, and the proceeds devoted to circulating free copies of the Revolutionist’s Handbook. The wedding will take place three days after our return to England, by special license, at the office of the district superintendent registrar, in the presence of my solicitor and his clerk, who, like his clients, will be in ordinary walking dress.

  VIOLET. [with intense conviction] You are a brute, Jack.

  ANN. [looking at him with fond pride and caressing his arm] Never mind her, dear. Go on talking.

  TANNER. Talking!

  Universal laughter.

  PETER PAN by J. M. Barrie

  1904

  THE BOY WHO WOULDN’T GROW UP

  Barrie’s most famous work was originally written in the form of a stage play, which premiered in London on 27 December, 1904, with Nina Boucicault, daughter of playwright Dion Boucicault, in the title role. Due to its immediate commercial success, Barrie published several other works featuring Peter Pan, including a 1911 novelised account of the dramatic work. The play tells the immortal story of the mischievous boy that can fly and his adventures on the island of Neverland with Wendy Darling, her brothers, the fairy Tinker Bell, the Lost Boys and the infamous Captain Hook.

  The story of Peter Pan was inspired by Barrie’s friendship with the sons of Arthur and Sylvia Llewelyn Davies. The Davies boys served as the inspiration for the characters of Peter Pan and the other boys, with several of the main characters being named after them. Barrie became their guardian following the middle-age deaths of the parents, and they were publicly associated with Barrie and with Peter Pan for the rest of their lives. Originally, Barrie had created Peter Pan in stories he told to the sons, with whom he had forged a special relationship.

  The character’s name comes from two sources: Peter Llewelyn Davies, one of the boys, and Pan, the mischievous Greek god of the woodlands. It has also been suggested that the inspiration for the character was Barrie’s elder brother David, whose death in a skating accident at the age of fourteen deeply affected their mother. It is believed that she drew a measure of comfort from the notion that David, in dying a boy, would remain a boy for ever, in turn inspiring her son’s creation of the character Peter Pan.

  Although the character appeared previously in Barrie’s novel The Little White Bird, the play Peter Pan contains the elements of the mythos that have since become most famous. The play opens with the portrayal of how Peter makes night-time calls on the Darlings’ house in Bloomsbury, listening in on Mrs. Mary Darling’s bedtime stories by the open window. One night Peter is spotted and, while trying to escape, he loses his shadow. On returning to claim it, Peter wakes Mary’s daughter, Wendy Darling. Wendy succeeds in re-attaching Peter’s shadow and he learns that she knows lots of bedtime stories. He invites her to Neverland to be a mother to his gang, the Lost Boys, children who were lost in Kensington Gardens. Wendy agrees, and her brothers John and Michael go along. Their magical flight to Neverland is followed by many adventures, including the saving of the Indian Princess Tiger Lily and battles with Captain Hook and his band of pirates.

  A 1904 advertisement for the play at Duke of York’s Theatre, London

  Sylvia Llewelyn Davies, the boys’ mother

  The Davies boys with their father Arthur: Nico (in his arms), Jack, Peter, George, Michael (front, left to right)

  Barrie playing Neverland with Michael Llewelyn Davies

  This play was taken from our Complete Works edition:

  CONTENTS

  ACT I

  ACT II

  ACT III

  ACT IV

  ACT V. SCENE 1

  ACT V. SCENE 2

  Zena Dare as Peter, 1907

  Disney’s famous 1953 animation film

  The 1954 musical adaptation

  The 2004 biographical film about Barrie’s relationship with the family that inspired him to create Peter Pan

  The 2011 television series inspired by the Peter Pan mythos

  TO THE FIVE

  A DEDICATION

  Some disquieting confessions must be made in printing at last the play of Peter Pan; among them this, that I have no recollection of having written it. Of that, however, anon. What I want to do first is to give Peter to the Five without whom he never would have existed. I hope, my dear sirs, that in memory of what we have been to each other you will accept this dedication with your friend’s love. The play of Peter is streaky with you still, though none may see this save ourselves.A score of Acts had to be left out, and you were in them all.We first brought Peter down, didn’t we, with a blunt-headed arrow in Kensington Gardens? I seem to remember that we believed we had killed him, though he was only winded, and that after a spasm of exultation in our prowess the more soft
hearted among us wept and all of us thought of the police.There was not one of you who would not have sworn as an eye-witness to this occurrence; no doubt I was abetting, but you used to provide corroboration that was never given to you by me. As for myself, I suppose I always knew that I made Peter by rubbing the five of you violently together, as savages with two sticks produce a flame. That is all he is, the spark I got from you.

  We had good sport of him before we clipped him small to make him fit the boards. Some of you were not born when the story began and yet were hefty figures before we saw that the game was up. Do you remember a garden at Burpham and the initiation there of No. 4 when he was six weeks old,and three of you grudged letting him in so young? Have you,No. 3, forgotten the white violets at the Cistercian abbey in which we cassocked our first fairies (all little friends of St.Benedict), or your cry to the Gods, ‘Do I just kill one pirate all the time?’ Do you remember Marooners’ Hut in the haunted groves of Waverley, and the St. Bernard dog in atiger’s mask who so frequently attacked you, and the literary record of that summer, The Boy Castaways, which is so much the best and the rarest of this author’s works? What was it that made us eventually give to the public in the thin form of a play that which had been woven for ourselves alone? Alas, I know what it was, I was losing my grip. One by one as you swung monkey-wise from branch to branch in the wood of make-believe you reached the tree of knowledge. Sometimes you swung back into the wood, as the unthinking may at a cross-road take a familiar path that no longer leads to home;or you perched ostentatiously on its boughs to please me, pretending that you still belonged; soon you knew it only as the vanished wood, for it vanishes if one needs to look for it. A time came when I saw that No. I, the most gallant of you all,ceased to believe that he was ploughing woods incarnadine, and with an apologetic eye for me derided the lingering faith of No. 2; when even No. 3 questioned gloomily whether he did not really spend his nights in bed. There were still two who knew no better, but their day was dawning. In these circumstances, I suppose, was begun the writing of the play of Peter.That was a quarter of a century ago, and I clutch my brows in vain to remember whether it was a last desperate throw to retain the five of you for a little longer, or merely a cold decision to turn you into bread and butter.

  This brings us back to my uncomfortable admission that I have no recollection of writing the play of Peter Pan, now being published for the first time so long after he made his bow upon the stage. You had played it until you tired of it, and tossed it in the air and gored it and left it derelict in the mud and went on your way singing other songs; and then I stole back and sewed some of the gory fragments together with a pen-nib. That is what must have happened, but I cannot remember doing it. I remember writing the story of Peter and Wendy many years after the production of the play, but I might have cribbed that from some typed copy. I can haul back to mind the writing of almost every other assay of mine,however forgotten by the pretty public; but this play of Peter,no. Even my beginning as an amateur playwright, that noble mouthful, Bandelero the Bandit, I remember every detail of its composition in my school days at Dumfries. Not less vivid is my first little piece, produced by Mr. Toole. It was calledIbsen’s Ghost, and was a parody of the mightiest craftsman that ever wrote for our kind friends in front. To save the management the cost of typing I wrote out the ‘parts,’ after being told what parts were, and I can still recall my first words, spoken so plaintively by a now famous actress,— ‘To run away from my second husband just as I ran away from my first, it feels quite like old times.’ On the first night a man in the pit foundIbsen’s Ghost so diverting that he had to be removed in hysterics. After that no one seems to have thought of it at all. But what a man to carry about with one! How odd, too, that these trifles should adhere to the mind that cannot remember the long job of writing Peter. It does seem almost suspicious, especially as I have not the original MS. of Peter Pan (except a few stray pages) with which to support my claim. I have indeed another MS., lately made, but that ‘proves nothing.’ I know not whether I lost that original MS. or destroyed it or happily gave it away. I talk of dedicating the play to you,but how can I prove it is mine? How ought I to act if someother hand, who could also have made a copy, thinks it worthwhile to contest the cold rights? Cold they are to me now as that laughter of yours in which Peter came into being long before he was caught and written down. There is Peter still, but to me he lies sunk in the gay Black Lake.

  Any one of you five brothers has a better claim to the authorship than most, and I would not fight you for it, but you should have launched your case long ago in the days when you most admired me, which were in the first year of the play, owing to a rumour’s reaching you that my spoils were one-and-sixpence a night. This was untrue, but it did give me a standing among you. You watched for my next play with peeled eyes, not for entertainment but lest it contained some chance witticism of yours that could be challenged as collaboration; indeed I believe there still exists a legal document, full of the Aforesaid and Henceforward to be called Part-Author, in which for some such snatching I was tied down to pay No. 2 one halfpenny daily throughout the run of the piece.

  During the rehearsals of Peter (and it is evidence in my favour that I was admitted to them) a depressed man in overalls, carrying a mug of tea or a paint-pot, used often to appear by my side in the shadowy stalls and say to me, ‘The gallery boys won’t stand it.’ He then mysteriously faded away as if he were the theatre ghost. This hopelessness of his is what all dramatists are said to feel at such times, so perhaps he was the author. Again, a large number of children whom I have seen playing Peter in their homes with careless mastership, constantly putting in better words, could have thrown it off with ease. It was for such as they that after the first production I had to add something to the play at the request of parents (who thus showed that they thought me the responsible person) about no one being able to fly until the fairy dust had been blown on him; so many children having gone home and tried it from their beds and needed surgical attention.

  Notwithstanding other possibilities, I think I wrote Peter,and if so it must have been in the usual inky way. Some of it, I like to think, was done in that native place which is the dearest spot on earth to me, though my last heart-beats shall be with my beloved solitary London that was so hard to reach. I must have sat at a table with that great dog waiting for me to stop, not complaining, for he knew it was thus we made our living,but giving me a look when he found he was to be in the play, with his sex changed. In after years when the actor who was Nana had to go to the wars he first taught his wife how to take his place as the dog till he came back, and I am glad that I see nothing funny in this; it seems to me to belong to the play. I offer this obtuseness on my part as my first proof that I am the author.

  Some say that we are different people at different periods of our lives, changing not through effort of will, which is a brave affair, but in the easy course of nature every ten years or so. I suppose this theory might explain my present trouble, but I don’t hold with it; I think one remains the same person throughout, merely passing, as it were, in these lapses of time from one room to another, but all in the same house. If we unlock the rooms of the far past we can peer in and see ourselves, busily occupied in beginning to become you and me. Thus, if I am the author in question the way he is to go should already be showing in the occupant of my first compartment, at whom I now take the liberty to peep. Here he is at the age of seven or so with his fellow-conspirator Robb, both in glengarry bonnets. They are giving an entertainment in a tiny old washing-house that still stands. The charge for admission is preens, a bool, or a peerie (I taught you a good deal of Scotch, so possibly you can follow that), and apparently the culminating Act consists in our trying to put each other into the boiler, though some say that I also addressed the spell-bound audience. This washing-house is not only the theatre of my first play, but has a still closer connection with Peter. It is the original of the little house the Lost Boys built in the NeverLand for We
ndy, the chief difference being that it neverwore John’s tall hat as a chimney. If Robb had owned a lumhat I have no doubt that it would have been placed on the washing-house.

  Here is that boy again some four years older, and the reading he is munching feverishly is about desert islands; he calls them wrecked islands. He buys his sanguinary tales surreptitiously in penny numbers. I see a change coming over him; he is blanching as he reads in the high-class magazine, Chatterbox, a fulmination against such literature, and sees that unless his greed for islands is quenched he is for ever lost. With gloaming he steals out of the house, his library bulging beneath his palpitating waistcoat. I follow like his shadow, as indeed I am, and watch him dig a hole in a field at Pathhead farm and bury his islands in it; it was ages ago, but I could walk straight to that hole in the field now and delve for the remains. I peep into the next compartment. There he is again, ten years older,an undergraduate now and craving to be a real explorer, one of those who do things instead of prating of them, but otherwise unaltered; he might be painted at twenty on top of a mast, in his hand a spy-glass through which he rakes the horizon for an elusive strand. I go from room to room, and he is now a man, real exploration abandoned (though only because no one would have him). Soon he is even concocting other plays, and quaking a little lest some low person counts how many islands there are in them. I note that with the years the islands grow more sinister, but it is only because he has now to write with the left hand, the right having given out; evidently one thinks more darkly down the left arm. Go to the keyhole of the compartment where he and I join up, and you may see us wondering whether they would stand one more island. This journey through the house may not convince any one that I wrote Peter, but it does suggest me as a likely person. I pauseto ask myself whether I read Chatterbox again, suffered the old agony, and buried that MS. of the play in a hole in a field.