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XIV




Peter Pan




If you ask your mother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she


was a little girl she will say, "Why, of course, I did, child,"


and if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days she


will say, "What a foolish question to ask; certainly he did."


Then if you ask your grandmother whether she knew about Peter Pan


when she was a girl, she also says, "Why, of course, I did,


child," but if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in those


days, she says she never heard of his having a goat. Perhaps she


has forgotten, just as she sometimes forgets your name and calls


you Mildred, which is your mother's name. Still, she could


hardly forget such an important thing as the goat. Therefore


there was no goat when your grandmother was a little girl. This


shows that, in telling the story of Peter Pan, to begin with the


goat (as most people do) is as silly as to put on your jacket


before your vest.




Of course, it also shows that Peter is ever so old, but he is


really always the same age, so that does not matter in the least.


His age is one week, and though he was born so long ago he has


never had a birthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his


ever having one. The reason is that he escaped from being a


human when he was seven days' old; he escaped by the window and


flew back to the Kensington Gardens.




If you think he was the only baby who ever wanted to escape, it


shows how completely you have forgotten your own young days.


When David heard this story first he was quite certain that he


had never tried to escape, but I told him to think back hard,


pressing his hands to his temples, and when he had done this


hard, and even harder, he distinctly remembered a youthful desire


to return to the tree-tops, and with that memory came others, as


that he had lain in bed planning to escape as soon as his mother


was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-way up the


chimney. All children could have such recollections if they


would press their hands hard to their temples, for, having been


birds before they were human, they are naturally a little wild


during the first few weeks, and very itchy at the shoulders,


where their wings used to be. So David tells me.




I ought to mention here that the following is our way with a


story: First, I tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, the


understanding being that it is quite a different story; and then


I retell it with his additions, and so we go on until no one


could say whether it is more his story or mine. In this story of


Peter Pan, for instance, the bald narrative and most of the moral


reflections are mine, though not all, for this boy can be a stern


moralist, but the interesting bits about the ways and customs of


babies in the bird-stage are mostly reminiscences of David's,


recalled by pressing his hands to his temples and thinking hard.




Well, Peter Pan got out by the window, which had no bars.


Standing on the ledge he could see trees far away, which were


doubtless the Kensington Gardens, and the moment he saw them he


entirely forgot that he was now a little boy in a nightgown, and


away he flew, right over the houses to the Gardens. It is


wonderful that he could fly without wings, but the place itched


tremendously, and, perhaps we could all fly if we were as dead-


confident-sure of our capacity to do it as was bold Peter Pan


that evening.




He alighted gaily on the open sward, between the Baby's Palace


and the Serpentine, and the first thing he did was to lie on his


back and kick. He was quite unaware already that he had ever


been human, and thought he was a bird, even in appearance, just


the same as in his early days, and when he tried to catch a fly


he did not understand that the reason he missed it was because he


had attempted to seize it with his hand, which, of course, a bird


never does. He saw, however, that it must be past Lock-out Time,


for there were a good many fairies about, all too busy to notice


him; they were getting breakfast ready, milking their cows,


drawing water, and so on, and the sight of the water-pails made


him thirsty, so he flew over to the Round Pond to have a drink.


He stooped, and dipped his beak in the pond; he thought it was


his beak, but, of course, it was only his nose, and, therefore,


very little water came up, and that not so refreshing as usual,


so next he tried a puddle, and he fell flop into it. When a real


bird falls in flop, he spreads out his feathers and pecks them


dry, but Peter could not remember what was the thing to do, and


he decided, rather sulkily, to go to sleep on the weeping beech


in the Baby Walk.




At first he found some difficulty in balancing himself on a


branch, but presently he remembered the way, and fell asleep. He


awoke long before morning, shivering, and saying to himself, "I


never was out in such a cold night;" he had really been out in


colder nights when he was a bird, but, of course, as everybody


knows, what seems a warm night to a bird is a cold night to a boy


in a nightgown. Peter also felt strangely uncomfortable, as if


his head was stuffy, he heard loud noises that made him look


round sharply, though they were really himself sneezing. There


was something he wanted very much, but, though he knew he wanted


it, he could not think what it was. What he wanted so much was


his mother to blow his nose, but that never struck him, so he


decided to appeal to the fairies for enlightenment. They are


reputed to know a good deal.




There were two of them strolling along the Baby Walk, with their


arms round each other's waists, and he hopped down to address


them. The fairies have their tiffs with the birds, but they


usually give a civil answer to a civil question, and he was quite


angry when these two ran away the moment they saw him. Another


was lolling on a garden-chair, reading a postage-stamp which some


human had let fall, and when he heard Peter's voice he popped in


alarm behind a tulip.




To Peter's bewilderment he discovered that every fairy he met


fled from him. A band of workmen, who were sawing down a


toadstool, rushed away, leaving their tools behind them. A


milkmaid turned her pail upside down and hid in it. Soon the


Gardens were in an uproar. Crowds of fairies were running this


away and that, asking each other stoutly, who was afraid, lights


were extinguished, doors barricaded, and from the grounds of


Queen Mab's palace came the rubadub of drums, showing that the


royal guard had been called out. A regiment of Lancers came


charging down the Broad Walk, armed with holly-leaves, with which


they jog the enemy horribly in passing. Peter heard the little


people crying everywhere that there was a human in the Gardens


after Lock-out Time, but he never thought for a moment that he


was the human. He was feeling stuffier and stuffier, and more


and more wistful to learn what he wanted done to his nose, but he


pursued them with the vital question in vain; the timid creatures


ran from him, and even the Lancers, when he approached them up


the Hump, turned swiftly into a side-walk, on the pretence that


they saw him there.




Despairing of the fairies, he resolved to consult the birds, but


now he remembered, as an odd thing, that all the birds on the


weeping beech had flown away when he alighted on it, and though


that had not troubled him at the time, he saw its meaning now.


Every living thing was shunning him. Poor little Peter Pan, he


sat down and cried, and even then he did not know that, for a


bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. It is a blessing that he


did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faith in his power


to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease


forever to be able to do it. The reason birds can fly and we


can't is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith


is to have wings.




Now, except by flying, no one can reach the island in the


Serpentine, for the boats of humans are forbidden to land there,


and there are stakes round it, standing up in the water, on each


of which a bird-sentinel sits by day and night. It was to the


island that Peter now flew to put his strange case before old


Solomon Caw, and he alighted on it with relief, much heartened to


find himself at last at home, as the birds call the island. All


of them were asleep, including the sentinels, except Solomon, who


was wide awake on one side, and he listened quietly to Peter's


adventures, and then told him their true meaning.




"Look at your night-gown, if you don't believe me," Solomon said,


and with staring eyes Peter looked at his night-gown, and then at


the sleeping birds. Not one of them wore anything.




"How many of your toes are thumbs?" said Solomon a little


cruelly, and Peter saw to his consternation, that all his toes


were fingers. The shock was so great that it drove away his


cold.




"Ruffle your feathers," said that grim old Solomon, and Peter


tried most desperately hard to ruffle his feathers, but he had


none. Then he rose up, quaking, and for the first time since he


stood on the window-ledge, he remembered a lady who had been very


fond of him.




"I think I shall go back to mother," he said timidly.




"Good-bye," replied Solomon Caw with a queer look.




But Peter hesitated. "Why don't you go?" the old one asked


politely.




"I suppose," said Peter huskily, "I suppose I can still fly?"




You see, he had lost faith.




"Poor little half-and-half," said Solomon, who was not really


hard-hearted, "you will never be able to fly again, not even on


windy days. You must live here on the island always."




"And never even go to the Kensington Gardens?" Peter asked


tragically.




"How could you get across?" said Solomon. He promised very


kindly, however, to teach Peter as many of the bird ways as could


be learned by one of such an awkward shape.




"Then I sha'n't be exactly a human?" Peter asked.




"No."




"Nor exactly a bird?"




"No."




"What shall I be?"




"You will be a Betwixt-and-Between," Solomon said, and certainly


he was a wise old fellow, for that is exactly how it turned out.




The birds on the island never got used to him. His oddities


tickled them every day, as if they were quite new, though it was


really the birds that were new. They came out of the eggs daily,


and laughed at him at once, then off they soon flew to be humans,


and other birds came out of other eggs, and so it went on


forever. The crafty mother-birds, when they tired of sitting on


their eggs, used to get the young one to break their shells a day


before the right time by whispering to them that now was their


chance to see Peter washing or drinking or eating. Thousands


gathered round him daily to watch him do these things, just as


you watch the peacocks, and they screamed with delight when he


lifted the crusts they flung him with his hands instead of in the


usual way with the mouth. All his food was brought to him from


the Gardens at Solomon's orders by the birds. He would not eat


worms or insects (which they thought very silly of him), so they


brought him bread in their beaks. Thus, when you cry out,


"Greedy! Greedy!" to the bird that flies away with the big crust,


you know now that you ought not to do this, for he is very likely


taking it to Peter Pan.




Peter wore no night-gown now. You see, the birds were always


begging him for bits of it to line their nests with, and, being


very good-natured, he could not refuse, so by Solomon's advice he


had hidden what was left of it. But, though he was now quite


naked, you must not think that he was cold or unhappy. He was


usually very happy and gay, and the reason was that Solomon had


kept his promise and taught him many of the bird ways. To be


easily pleased, for instance, and always to be really doing


something, and to think that whatever he was doing was a thing of


vast importance. Peter became very clever at helping the birds


to build their nests; soon he could build better than a


wood-pigeon, and nearly as well as a blackbird, though never did


he satisfy the finches, and he made nice little water-troughs


near the nests and dug up worms for the young ones with his


fingers. He also became very learned in bird-lore, and knew an


east-wind from a west-wind by its smell, and he could see the


grass growing and hear the insects walking about inside the


tree-trunks. But the best thing Solomon had done was to teach


him to have a glad heart. All birds have glad hearts unless you


rob their nests, and so as they were the only kind of heart


Solomon knew about, it was easy to him to teach Peter how to have


one.




Peter's heart was so glad that he felt he must sing all day long,


just as the birds sing for joy, but, being partly human, he


needed an instrument, so he made a pipe of reeds, and he used to


sit by the shore of the island of an evening, practising the


sough of the wind and the ripple of the water, and catching


handfuls of the shine of the moon, and he put them all in his


pipe and played them so beautifully that even the birds were


deceived, and they would say to each other, "Was that a fish


leaping in the water or was it Peter playing leaping fish on his


pipe?" and sometimes he played the birth of birds, and then the


mothers would turn round in their nests to see whether they had


laid an egg. If you are a child of the Gardens you must know the


chestnut-tree near the bridge, which comes out in flower first of


all the chestnuts, but perhaps you have not heard why this tree


leads the way. It is because Peter wearies for summer and plays


that it has come, and the chestnut being so near, hears him and


is cheated.




But as Peter sat by the shore tootling divinely on his pipe he


sometimes fell into sad thoughts and then the music became sad


also, and the reason of all this sadness was that he could not


reach the Gardens, though he could see them through the arch of


the bridge. He knew he could never be a real human again, and


scarcely wanted to be one, but oh, how he longed to play as other


children play, and of course there is no such lovely place to


play in as the Gardens. The birds brought him news of how boys


and girls play, and wistful tears started in Peter's eyes.




Perhaps you wonder why he did not swim across. The reason was


that he could not swim. He wanted to know how to swim, but no


one on the island knew the way except the ducks, and they are so


stupid. They were quite willing to teach him, but all they could


say about it was, "You sit down on the top of the water in this


way, and then you kick out like that." Peter tried it often, but


always before he could kick out he sank. What he really needed


to know was how you sit on the water without sinking, and they


said it was quite impossible to explain such an easy thing as


that. Occasionally swans touched on the island, and he would give


them all his day's food and then ask them how they sat on the


water, but as soon as he had no more to give them the hateful


things hissed at him and sailed away.




Once he really thought he had discovered a way of reaching the


Gardens. A wonderful white thing, like a runaway newspaper,


floated high over the island and then tumbled, rolling over and


over after the manner of a bird that has broken its wing. Peter


was so frightened that he hid, but the birds told him it was only


a kite, and what a kite is, and that it must have tugged its


string out of a boy's hand, and soared away. After that they


laughed at Peter for being so fond of the kite, he loved it so


much that he even slept with one hand on it, and I think this was


pathetic and pretty, for the reason he loved it was because it


had belonged to a real boy.




To the birds this was a very poor reason, but the older ones felt


grateful to him at this time because he had nursed a number of


fledglings through the German measles, and they offered to show


him how birds fly a kite. So six of them took the end of the


string in their beaks and flew away with it; and to his amazement


it flew after them and went even higher than they.




Peter screamed out, "Do it again!" and with great good-nature


they did it several times, and always instead of thanking them he


cried, "Do it again!" which shows that even now he had not quite


forgotten what it was to be a boy.




At last, with a grand design burning within his brave heart, he


begged them to do it once more with him clinging to the tail, and


now a hundred flew off with the string, and Peter clung to the


tail, meaning to drop off when he was over the Gardens. But the


kite broke to pieces in the air, and he would have drowned in the


Serpentine had he not caught hold of two indignant swans and made


them carry him to the island. After this the birds said that


they would help him no more in his mad enterprise.




Nevertheless, Peter did reach the Gardens at last by the help of


Shelley's boat, as I am now to tell you.