Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens
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J. M. Barrie >> Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens
"If I chose to go back to mother," he asked at last, "could you give
me that wish?"
Now this question vexed them, for were he to return to his mother they
should lose his music, so the Queen tilted her nose contemptuously and
said, "Pooh, ask for a much bigger wish than that."
"Is that quite a little wish?" he inquired.
"As little as this," the Queen answered, putting her hands near each
other.
"What size is a big wish?" he asked.
She measured it off on her skirt and it was a very handsome length.
Then Peter reflected and said, "Well, then, I think I shall have two
little wishes instead of one big one."
Of course, the fairies had to agree, though his cleverness rather
shocked them, and he said that his first wish was to go to his mother,
but with the right to return to the Gardens if he found her
disappointing. His second wish he would hold in reserve.
They tried to dissuade him, and even put obstacles in the way.
"I can give you the power to fly to her house," the Queen said, "but I
can't open the door for you."
"The window I flew out at will be open," Peter said confidently.
"Mother always keeps it open in the hope that I may fly back.
"How do you know?" they asked, quite surprised, and, really, Peter
could not explain how he knew.
"I just do know," he said.
So as he persisted in his wish, they had to grant it. The way they
gave him power to fly was this: They all tickled him on the shoulder,
and soon he felt a funny itching in that part and then up he rose
higher and higher and flew away out of the Gardens and over the
house-tops.
It was so delicious that instead of flying straight to his old home he
skimmed away over St. Paul's to the Crystal Palace and back by the
river and Regent's Park, and by the time he reached his mother's
window he had quite made up his mind that his second wish should be to
become a bird.
The window was wide open, just as he knew it would be, and in he
fluttered, and there was his mother lying asleep.
Peter alighted softly on the wooden rail at the foot of the bed and
had a good look at her. She lay with her head on her hand, and the
hollow in the pillow was like a nest lined with her brown wavy hair.
He remembered, though he had long forgotten it, that she always gave
her hair a holiday at night.
How sweet the frills of her night-gown were. He was very glad she was
such a pretty mother.
But she looked sad, and he knew why she looked sad. One of her arms
moved as if it wanted to go round something, and he knew what it
wanted to go round.
"Oh, mother," said Peter to himself, "if you just knew who is sitting
on the rail at the foot of the bed."
Very gently he patted the little mound that her feet made, and he
could see by her face that she liked it. He knew he had but to say
"Mother" ever so softly, and she would wake up. They always wake up
at once if it is you that says their name. Then she would give such a
joyous cry and squeeze him tight. How nice that would be to him, but
oh, how exquisitely delicious it would be to her. That I am afraid is
how Peter regarded it. In returning to his mother he never doubted
that he was giving her the greatest treat a woman can have. Nothing
can be more splendid, he thought, than to have a little boy of your
own. How proud of him they are; and very right and proper, too.
But why does Peter sit so long on the rail, why does he not tell his
mother that he has come back?
I quite shrink from the truth, which is that he sat there in two
minds. Sometimes he looked longingly at his mother, and sometimes he
looked longingly at the window. Certainly it would be pleasant to be
her boy again, but, on the other hand, what times those had been in
the Gardens! Was he so sure that he would enjoy wearing clothes
again? He popped off the bed and opened some drawers to have a look
at his old garments. They were still there, but he could not remember
how you put them on. The socks, for instance, were they worn on the
hands or on the feet? He was about to try one of them on his hand,
when he had a great adventure. Perhaps the drawer had creaked; at any
rate, his mother woke up, for he heard her say "Peter," as if it was
the most lovely word in the language. He remained sitting on the
floor and held his breath, wondering how she knew that he had come
back. If she said "Peter" again, he meant to cry "Mother" and run to
her. But she spoke no more, she made little moans only, and when next
he peeped at her she was once more asleep, with tears on her face.
It made Peter very miserable, and what do you think was the first
thing he did? Sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed, he played a
beautiful lullaby to his mother on his pipe. He had made it up
himself out of the way she said "Peter," and he never stopped playing
until she looked happy.
He thought this so clever of him that he could scarcely resist
wakening her to hear her say, "Oh, Peter, how exquisitely you play."
However, as she now seemed comfortable, he again cast looks at the
window. You must not think that he meditated flying away and never
coming back. He had quite decided to be his mother's boy, but
hesitated about beginning to-night. It was the second wish which
troubled him. He no longer meant to make it a wish to be a bird, but
not to ask for a second wish seemed wasteful, and, of course, he could
not ask for it without returning to the fairies. Also, if he put off
asking for his wish too long it might go bad. He asked himself if he
had not been hard-hearted to fly away without saying good-bye to
Solomon. "I should like awfully to sail in my boat just once more,"
he said wistfully to his sleeping mother. He quite argued with her as
if she could hear him. "It would be so splendid to tell the birds of
this adventure," he said coaxingly. "I promise to come back," he said
solemnly and meant it, too.
And in the end, you know, he flew away. Twice he came back from the
window, wanting to kiss his mother, but he feared the delight of it
might waken her, so at last he played her a lovely kiss on his pipe,
and then he flew back to the Gardens.
Many nights and even months passed before he asked the fairies for his
second wish; and I am not sure that I quite know why he delayed so
long. One reason was that he had so many good-byes to say, not only
to his particular friends, but to a hundred favourite spots. Then he
had his last sail, and his very last sail, and his last sail of all,
and so on. Again, a number of farewell feasts were given in his
honour; and another comfortable reason was that, after all, there was
no hurry, for his mother would never weary of waiting for him. This
last reason displeased old Solomon, for it was an encouragement to the
birds to procrastinate. Solomon had several excellent mottoes for
keeping them at their work, such as "Never put off laying to-day,
because you can lay to-morrow," and "In this world there are no second
chances," and yet here was Peter gaily putting off and none the worse
for it. The birds pointed this out to each other, and fell into lazy
habits.
But, mind you, though Peter was so slow in going back to his mother,
he was quite decided to go back. The best proof of this was his
caution with the fairies. They were most anxious that he should
remain in the Gardens to play to them, and to bring this to pass they
tried to trick him into making such a remark as "I wish the grass was
not so wet," and some of them danced out of time in the hope that he
might cry, "I do wish you would keep time!" Then they would have said
that this was his second wish. But he smoked their design, and though
on occasions he began, "I wish--" he always stopped in time. So when
at last he said to them bravely, "I wish now to go back to mother for
ever and always," they had to tickle his shoulder and let him go.
He went in a hurry in the end because he had dreamt that his mother
was crying, and he knew what was the great thing she cried for, and
that a hug from her splendid Peter would quickly make her to smile.
Oh, he felt sure of it, and so eager was he to be nestling in her arms
that this time he flew straight to the window, which was always to be
open for him.
But the window was closed, and there were iron bars on it, and peering
inside he saw his mother sleeping peacefully with her arm round
another little boy.
Peter called, "Mother! mother!" but she heard him not; in vain he beat
his little limbs against the iron bars. He had to fly back, sobbing,
to the Gardens, and he never saw his dear again. What a glorious boy
he had meant to be to her. Ah, Peter, we who have made the great
mistake, how differently we should all act at the second chance. But
Solomon was right; there is no second chance, not for most of us.
When we reach the window it is Lock-out Time. The iron bars are up
for life.