9 May: Boreham on James Barrie

The Creator of Peter Pan
On this, the anniversary of the birth of Sir James Barrie, it is pleasant to review his life and work in the light of the revealing biographies publicised since his death. In some of these, especially Mr. Denis Mackail's, we catch, as in a mirror, a vivid portrayal of the man. The scintillating gem of Barrie's brilliant personality presents innumerable facets. Dramatist, novelist, humorist, poet, and pioneer of the kailyard school of Scottish literature, he was also a scholar, philosopher, and much besides. But, above all, Barrie was everlastingly Barrie, the most distinctive, most whimsical, most astonishing, and most loveable figure of his time.

"Never in my life," wrote Capt. Scott as, amid polar snows, he seized a pen for the last time, "have I met a man whom I admired and loved as I admire and love you; but I could never show you how much your friendship meant to me for you had much to give, and I had nothing." Everything about Barrie was magnetic, superlative, extraordinary.

Born in a modest little cottage at Kirriemuir, he lived to become the intimate friend of the King and Queen; while the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose were never more excited than when they could coax him into spending an hour with them. His unique quality is revealed in the circumstance that he was able to engage, as his secretary, the Countess Cynthia Asquith, whose father was a peer of the realm, and whose husband was the son of a Prime Minister. Many of the most palatial drawing-rooms in London boast upon their ceilings a postage stamp placed there by Barrie. With his nimble fingers he could place a wet stamp upon a coin and then spin the coin in such a way that it left the stamp adhering to the ceiling. Hundreds of titled hostesses begged him to leave, in this form, a memento of his visit, and to this day they proudly point to it. No tour of an Australian cricket team was complete without a day with Barrie. "You have no slow bowlers nowadays," he told Don Bradman. "Why, when I played cricket I bowled so slowly that, if I did not like the look of a ball as I watched its flight, I ran up the pitch, retrieved it before it reached the batsman, and delivered it again!"

Climbed By Sheer Merit to Fame
In practical matters Barrie was the despair of all who knew him. For years he stubbornly declined to open a bank account. He would post the cheques that he received to a friend, sometimes at the other end of the country, asking him to cash them and send him the money by registered post. It was only when one of his intimates took him practically by the scruff of the neck and marched him off to a bank that this fantastic system was eventually terminated. When, soon after his marriage, his wife insisted on his giving away an enormous stack of old clothes she found in one of the pockets a forgotten cheque for nearly £2,000. And when the Countess Cynthia became his secretary she discovered cheques and bank notes stuffed away in every dusty hole and corner. No literary man ever earned money in such quantities as did he. His royalties were fabulous, but nobody grudged him his good fortune. He is one of the few men who by sheer merit and tireless industry climbed to the dizzy eminence he occupied and adorned.

Barrie has himself told us of his unromantic start. As a young fellow in Scotland his fingers itched to write. He hankered after a journalistic or literary career. At length he pulled himself together, sat down, wrote an article entitled "The Northern Community," and posted it to London. To his unbounded exultation it was accepted. He at once sat down and wrote two more, which, however, came back to him. The editor explained that the first article was only accepted because of its quaint delineation of Scottish character. The youthful aspirant took the hint and, returning to his desk, wrote "An Auld Licht Funeral." This also appeared, and Barrie wrote to the editor saying that he thought that the time had arrived for him to come up to London. The editor, somewhat alarmed, replied by return post urging him for heaven’s sake to do nothing of the kind.

Delightfully Human and Natural
Barrie went to London, however, and on emerging from St. Pancras railway station beheld what he described as "the most beautiful sight in the world." It was simply the placard of the previous night’s "St. James' Gazette." The big black letters read: "The Rooks Begin to Build." It was the title of a manuscript that he had posted to the editor just before leaving Scotland. From that hour he never looked back. At the age of 28 he published "Auld Licht Idylls" and "When a Man's Single." The following year "A Window in Thrums" appeared, securely establishing his fame. He was one of the few fortunates who could do nothing badly and nothing wrong. He had the genius to create a most excellent plot without allowing it, for a single moment, to run away with him. He handles it with such firmness and such daintiness that you scarcely know which to admire the more, his ease or his restraint. He has a fine sense of subtle pathos, and, with unerring instinct, knows when the time has come for a dramatic situation.

But neither the pathos nor the drama is overdone. There is nothing maudlin, nothing gaudy, nothing loud. Everything is delightfully human and delightfully natural. While never scolding, lecturing or preaching, he nevertheless startles us by his searching and penetrating thrusts. He is a master moralist, yet never allows us to suspect that he is moralising. Let a young husband and wife, who are finding it difficult to attune their personalities to each other, see Barrie’s "What Every Woman Knows." They will spend a couple of hours as pleasantly as it is possible to spend them, but on their return to their clouded home they will find themselves nearer to a solution of their complex and delicate problem than any sermon or lecture could have taken them. As a boy he vowed that he would be an explorer. He became one, though not in the sense that then obsessed his fancy. And whether he is exploring the mixed motives of a man or thridding the entangled intricacies of a woman's heart, he swings off along each tortuous track with a confident stride and returns with the most surprising treasure.

F W Boreham

Image: James Barrie