From Denis Mackail’s The Story of JMB (Peter Davies Ltd, 1941):


At the end of July the entire Llewelyn Davies family - six of them - came down into the very near neighbourhood [of Black Lake Cottage], to a farmhouse at Tilford, where they stayed for about six weeks. So near (which was of course the whole point of it) that they and the Barries could meet daily, and all the games and stories from Kensington Gardens were immediately resumed in the pinewoods and on the shores of the Black Lake. Michael - the one who would always look most like his mother - was still in a perambulator, and Peter was still snatched away for his midday rest, but Barrie and at least two little Davieses were inseparable, wet or fine. There were frequent if short expeditions in the steam-car, but for the most part they were in the woods, or the house, or the garden, and more than ever now, with fewer interruptions, the serial adventures weren't only described, but were lived. Fairies, pirates, and Red Indians surrounded them. The Black Lake was a South-Sea lagoon. Porthos, who accompanied them everywhere, was obliging enough to represent a number of far more ferocious animals. They were explorers. They were being wrecked. They had been wrecked, and were building themselves a hut. They were in deadly peril, and there wasn't one of them who didn't believe it at the moment, but then - of course, and by one ingenious method or another - they were all saved. Tomorrow they would all be at it again, with Barrie as ring leader and the children so bewitched and bewildered that they would accept him as three different characters, if necessary, in ten minutes. A pause while Peter is removed. Sudden, irresistible impulse on the part of the ring-leader to give his old imitation of Irving in The Bells. Back into the woods again, and into something as near fairyland as most children have ever met. Games in the garden. Games at the farmhouse. Arthur Davies a little worried by some of them, but quite incapable of removing the spell. Sylvia smiling, accepting it all, amused by it all, but under no real form of enchantment herself. Mrs. Barrie looking remarkably pretty, fond of the whole family, standing for a certain steadiness and efficiency - for after all there must be meals and other arrangements whether Peter Pan is in the woods or not-but never for a moment trying to spoil the fun. A happy, crowded, care-free summer holiday-the best, perhaps, of them all; for if Barrie is besotted with these boys and his games, if sometimes his single-minded concentration on them is really a little excessive and alarming, no one again can stop him, and he is obviously so gloriously happy, too. And so kind. So funny. And only juggling with his own age. Never, as even the boys' father must realise, attempting to hold them back from growing into men. Fairies or no fairies the ethics of courage and sportsmanship are an inseparable part of every story and escapade.

 He still had his camera with him this summer, and used it a great deal. As he studied the prints, when the holiday was all over, another idea was seized; and just as, seven years ago, he had made that little book with the photographs of Bevil Quiller-Couch, now he was going to do the same thing, but far more thoroughly, in honour of the Davies boys. Once more W. B. Blaikie of Constable's was called in for printing and binding, and two copies of The Boy Castaways o f Black Lake Island were prepared by the end of the year. Peter is again the alleged author, but this time Barrie allows himself to be the publisher. The cover exactly resembles the kind of work that was also being burlesqued; there is a frontispiece, a dedication “To Our Mother, In Cordial Recognition of her Efforts to Elevate Us above the Brutes,” a preface in in mock-imitation of other adventure-stories, and then follow the sixteen chapter headings. But no chapters. Just thirty-five more photographs - of little boys in berets, linen breeches, and long stockings, or of the same little boys bathing, and of Porthos, alone or beside them - each with an apparent fragment of the missing text, in the same style as the preface. So that it is a tantalising as well as an elaborate sort of joke.

 As the volume is described at some length in the dedicatory introduction, seventeen years later, to the published version of Peter Pan, there is no need for any further account of it here; except perhaps to add that for all its foreshadowings of the Never, Never, Never Land (a name which was gradually reduced until only one Never remained), there is no mention of Peter Pan himself. His spirit is somewhere in every picture and between every line, but his story, it seems, was still being reserved for The Little White Bird. Lucky little Davieses again, whether they were beginning to realise that their playfellow was a famous figure or not. They pored over this tribute to their importance; they still weren’t quite sure whether the pirates and all the rest of it had been real or not; but here they were in a real book, and what could be more exciting or flattering than that?

 Nothing. And of course this was the actual author’s intention, quite as much as to amuse himself and their parents, and at the same time to feel a secret triumph over all the faithful readers and playgoers, not to mention the newspapers, who would never catch so much as a glimpse of the work at all. However, one doesn’t absolutely know about that, for almost the first thing that happened was that Arthur Davies left one of the two copies in a train, and no word has been heard of it from that day to this. Did the finder take it away, keep it, sell it, or what was its fate? It just vanished. Only the remaining copy is known to have survived, and now the photographs have begun fading, or shadows seem to be creeping over them from the sides. The little boys look so happy, and intent, and absorbed in the magic which they only partly understood; and somehow, also, so very, very far away.

“Chapter XVI. Concluding Remarks - Advice to Parents about the bringing up of their Children.” The last joke in that table of non-existent contents. But the advice, whatever it might have been, could hardly have bettered the fascinating experiences of George, Jack, and Peter Davies in the summer of 1901.

So again they all returned to London. The Davieses to their new house, across the street from the old one, at 23 Kensington Park Gardens; George to his daily toil at Wilkinson's; and the Barries, once more, to Gloucester Road. Once more, also, Porthos - who was nearly seven and a half now - watched from the sofa in the study over the front door, as his master made more and more notes for the play about the island, and smoked his way through-the fairy chapters of The Little White Bird. ...


From Denis Mackail’s The Story of JMB (Peter Davies Ltd, 1941), pp. 315-317. Quoted with the kind permission of the author’s grandson, Charles Yorke, and Peter Davies Ltd.   

More about Denis Mackail
Barrie’s Dedication to Peter Pan 
Roger Lancelyn Green’s account
Andrew Birkin’s version

 

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