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Ch. 1: How My Mother Got Her Soft Face


On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in
our little house it was an event, the first great victory in a
woman's long campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-
note and the thirty threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there
was about the purchase, the show they made in possession of the
west room, my father's unnatural coolness when he brought them in
(but his face was white) - I so often heard the tale afterwards,
and shared as boy and man in so many similar triumphs, that the
coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember, as if I had
jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how they
looked. I am sure my mother's feet were ettling to be ben long
before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was
left alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room,
doctoring a scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of
the chairs, or sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-
opening the door suddenly to take the six by surprise. And then, I
think, a shawl was flung over her (it is strange to me to think it
was not I who ran after her with the shawl), and she was escorted
sternly back to bed and reminded that she had promised not to
budge, to which her reply was probably that she had been gone but
an instant, and the implication that therefore she had not been
gone at all. Thus was one little bit of her revealed to me at
once: I wonder if I took note of it. Neighbours came in to see the
boy and the chairs. I wonder if she deceived me when she affected
to think that there were others like us, or whether I saw through
her from the first, she was so easily seen through. When she
seemed to agree with them that it would be impossible to give me a
college education, was I so easily taken in, or did I know already
what ambitions burned behind that dear face? when they spoke of the
chairs as the goal quickly reached, was I such a newcomer that her
timid lips must say 'They are but a beginning' before I heard the
words? And when we were left together, did I laugh at the great
things that were in her mind, or had she to whisper them to me
first, and then did I put my arm round her and tell her that I
would help? Thus it was for such a long time: it is strange to me
to feel that it was not so from the beginning.

It is all guess-work for six years, and she whom I see in them is
the woman who came suddenly into view when they were at an end.
Her timid lips I have said, but they were not timid then, and when
I knew her the timid lips had come. The soft face - they say the
face was not so soft then. The shawl that was flung over her - we
had not begun to hunt her with a shawl, nor to make our bodies a
screen between her and the draughts, nor to creep into her room a
score of times in the night to stand looking at her as she slept.
We did not see her becoming little then, nor sharply turn our heads
when she said wonderingly how small her arms had grown. In her
happiest moments - and never was a happier woman - her mouth did
not of a sudden begin to twitch, and tears to lie on the mute blue
eyes in which I have read all I know and would ever care to write.
For when you looked into my mother's eyes you knew, as if He had
told you, why God sent her into the world - it was to open the
minds of all who looked to beautiful thoughts. And that is the
beginning and end of literature. Those eyes that I cannot see
until I was six years old have guided me through life, and I pray
God they may remain my only earthly judge to the last. They were
never more my guide than when I helped to put her to earth, not
whimpering because my mother had been taken away after seventy-six
glorious years of life, but exulting in her even at the grave.


She had a son who was far away at school. I remember very little
about him, only that he was a merry-faced boy who ran like a
squirrel up a tree and shook the cherries into my lap. When he was
thirteen and I was half his age the terrible news came, and I have
been told the face of my mother was awful in its calmness as she
set off to get between Death and her boy. We trooped with her down
the brae to the wooden station, and I think I was envying her the
journey in the mysterious wagons; I know we played around her,
proud of our right to be there, but I do not recall it, I only
speak from hearsay. Her ticket was taken, she had bidden us
goodbye with that fighting face which I cannot see, and then my
father came out of the telegraph-office and said huskily, 'He's
gone!' Then we turned very quietly and went home again up the
little brae. But I speak from hearsay no longer; I knew my mother
for ever now.

That is how she got her soft face and her pathetic ways and her
large charity, and why other mothers ran to her when they had lost
a child. 'Dinna greet, poor Janet,' she would say to them; and
they would answer, 'Ah, Margaret, but you're greeting yoursel.'
Margaret Ogilvy had been her maiden name, and after the Scotch
custom she was still Margaret Ogilvy to her old friends. Margaret
Ogilvy I loved to name her. Often when I was a boy, 'Margaret
Ogilvy, are you there?' I would call up the stair.

She was always delicate from that hour, and for many months she was
very ill. I have heard that the first thing she expressed a wish
to see was the christening robe, and she looked long at it and then
turned her face to the wall. That was what made me as a boy think
of it always as the robe in which he was christened, but I knew
later that we had all been christened in it, from the oldest of the
family to the youngest, between whom stood twenty years. Hundreds
of other children were christened in it also, such robes being then
a rare possession, and the lending of ours among my mother's
glories. It was carried carefully from house to house, as if it
were itself a child; my mother made much of it, smoothed it out,
petted it, smiled to it before putting it into the arms of those to
whom it was being lent; she was in our pew to see it borne
magnificently (something inside it now) down the aisle to the
pulpit-side, when a stir of expectancy went through the church and
we kicked each other's feet beneath the book-board but were
reverent in the face; and however the child might behave, laughing
brazenly or skirling to its mother's shame, and whatever the father
as he held it up might do, look doited probably and bow at the
wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped them
through. And when it was brought back to her she took it in her
arms as softly as if it might be asleep, and unconsciously pressed
it to her breast: there was never anything in the house that spoke
to her quite so eloquently as that little white robe; it was the
one of her children that always remained a baby. And she had not
made it herself, which was the most wonderful thing about it to me,
for she seemed to have made all other things. All the clothes in
the house were of her making, and you don't know her in the least
if you think they were out of the fashion; she turned them and made
them new again, she beat them and made them new again, and then she
coaxed them into being new again just for the last time, she let
them out and took them in and put on new braid, and added a piece
up the back, and thus they passed from one member of the family to
another until they reached the youngest, and even when we were done
with them they reappeared as something else. In the fashion! I
must come back to this. Never was a woman with such an eye for it.
She had no fashion-plates; she did not need them. The minister's
wife (a cloak), the banker's daughters (the new sleeve) - they had
but to pass our window once, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my
mother's hands. Observe her rushing, scissors in hand, thread in
mouth, to the drawers where her daughters' Sabbath clothes were
kept. Or go to church next Sunday, and watch a certain family
filing in, the boy lifting his legs high to show off his new boots,
but all the others demure, especially the timid, unobservant-
looking little woman in the rear of them. If you were the
minister's wife that day or the banker's daughters you would have
got a shock. But she bought the christening robe, and when I used
to ask why, she would beam and look conscious, and say she wanted
to be extravagant once. And she told me, still smiling, that the
more a woman was given to stitching and making things for herself,
the greater was her passionate desire now and again to rush to the
shops and 'be foolish.' The christening robe with its pathetic
frills is over half a century old now, and has begun to droop a
little, like a daisy whose time is past; but it is as fondly kept
together as ever: I saw it in use again only the other day.

My mother lay in bed with the christening robe beside her, and I
peeped in many times at the door and then went to the stair and sat
on it and sobbed. I know not if it was that first day, or many
days afterwards, that there came to me, my sister, the daughter my
mother loved the best; yes, more I am sure even than she loved me,
whose great glory she has been since I was six years old. This
sister, who was then passing out of her 'teens, came to me with a
very anxious face and wringing her hands, and she told me to go ben
to my mother and say to her that she still had another boy. I went
ben excitedly, but the room was dark, and when I heard the door
shut and no sound come from the bed I was afraid, and I stood
still. I suppose I was breathing hard, or perhaps I was crying,
for after a time I heard a listless voice that had never been
listless before say, 'Is that you?' I think the tone hurt me, for
I made no answer, and then the voice said more anxiously 'Is that
you?' again. I thought it was the dead boy she was speaking to,
and I said in a little lonely voice, 'No, it's no him, it's just
me.' Then I heard a cry, and my mother turned in bed, and though
it was dark I knew that she was holding out her arms.

After that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to make her forget
him, which was my crafty way of playing physician, and if I saw any
one out of doors do something that made the others laugh I
immediately hastened to that dark room and did it before her. I
suppose I was an odd little figure; I have been told that my
anxiety to brighten her gave my face a strained look and put a
tremor into the joke (I would stand on my head in the bed, my feet
against the wall, and then cry excitedly, 'Are you laughing,
mother?') - and perhaps what made her laugh was something I was
unconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly now and then, whereupon
I screamed exultantly to that dear sister, who was ever in waiting,
to come and see the sight, but by the time she came the soft face
was wet again. Thus I was deprived of some of my glory, and I
remember once only making her laugh before witnesses. I kept a
record of her laughs on a piece of paper, a stroke for each, and it
was my custom to show this proudly to the doctor every morning.
There were five strokes the first time I slipped it into his hand,
and when their meaning was explained to him he laughed so
boisterously, that I cried, 'I wish that was one of hers!' Then he
was sympathetic, and asked me if my mother had seen the paper yet,
and when I shook my head he said that if I showed it to her now and
told her that these were her five laughs he thought I might win
another. I had less confidence, but he was the mysterious man whom
you ran for in the dead of night (you flung sand at his window to
waken him, and if it was only toothache he extracted the tooth
through the open window, but when it was something sterner he was
with you in the dark square at once, like a man who slept in his
topcoat), so I did as he bade me, and not only did she laugh then
but again when I put the laugh down, so that though it was really
one laugh with a tear in the middle I counted it as two.

It was doubtless that same sister who told me not to sulk when my
mother lay thinking of him, but to try instead to get her to talk
about him. I did not see how this could make her the merry mother
she used to be, but I was told that if I could not do it nobody
could, and this made me eager to begin. At first, they say, I was
often jealous, stopping her fond memories with the cry, 'Do you
mind nothing about me?' but that did not last; its place was taken
by an intense desire (again, I think, my sister must have breathed
it into life) to become so like him that even my mother should not
see the difference, and many and artful were the questions I put to
that end. Then I practised in secret, but after a whole week had
passed I was still rather like myself. He had such a cheery way of
whistling, she had told me, it had always brightened her at her
work to hear him whistling, and when he whistled he stood with his
legs apart, and his hands in the pockets of his knickerbockers. I
decided to trust to this, so one day after I had learned his
whistle (every boy of enterprise invents a whistle of his own) from
boys who had been his comrades, I secretly put on a suit of his
clothes, dark grey they were, with little spots, and they fitted me
many years afterwards, and thus disguised I slipped, unknown to the
others, into my mother's room. Quaking, I doubt not, yet so
pleased, I stood still until she saw me, and then - how it must
have hurt her! 'Listen!' I cried in a glow of triumph, and I
stretched my legs wide apart and plunged my hands into the pockets
of my knickerbockers, and began to whistle.

She lived twenty-nine years after his death, such active years
until toward the end, that you never knew where she was unless you
took hold of her, and though she was frail henceforth and ever
growing frailer, her housekeeping again became famous, so that
brides called as a matter of course to watch her ca'ming and
sanding and stitching: there are old people still, one or two, to
tell with wonder in their eyes how she could bake twenty-four
bannocks in the hour, and not a chip in one of them. And how many
she gave away, how much she gave away of all she had, and what
pretty ways she had of giving it! Her face beamed and rippled with
mirth as before, and her laugh that I had tried so hard to force
came running home again. I have heard no such laugh as hers save
from merry children; the laughter of most of us ages, and wears out
with the body, but hers remained gleeful to the last, as if it were
born afresh every morning. There was always something of the child
in her, and her laugh was its voice, as eloquent of the past to me
as was the christening robe to her. But I had not made her forget
the bit of her that was dead; in those nine-and-twenty years he was
not removed one day farther from her. Many a time she fell asleep
speaking to him, and even while she slept her lips moved and she
smiled as if he had come back to her, and when she woke he might
vanish so suddenly that she started up bewildered and looked about
her, and then said slowly, 'My David's dead!' or perhaps he
remained long enough to whisper why he must leave her now, and then
she lay silent with filmy eyes. When I became a man and he was
still a boy of thirteen, I wrote a little paper called 'Dead this
Twenty Years,' which was about a similar tragedy in another woman's
life, and it is the only thing I have written that she never spoke
about, not even to that daughter she loved the best. No one ever
spoke of it to her, or asked her if she had read it: one does not
ask a mother if she knows that there is a little coffin in the
house. She read many times the book in which it is printed, but
when she came to that chapter she would put her hands to her heart
or even over her ears.

James M. Barrie

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