Peter Pan / Питер Пен. Джеймс Мэтью Барри

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      Even Michael, already half asleep, knew that she was perturbed, and he asked, “Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit?”

      “Nothing, precious,” she said; “they are the eyes a mother leaves behind her to guard her children.”

      She went from bed to bed singing enchantments over them, and little Michael flung his arms round her. “Mother,” he cried, “I’m glad of you.” They were the last words she was to hear from him for a long time.

      No. 27 was only a few yards distant, but there had been a slight fall of snow, and Father and Mother Darling picked their way over it deftly not to soil their shoes. They were already the only persons in the street, and all the stars were watching them. Stars are beautiful, but they may not take an active part in anything, they must just look on for ever. It is a punishment put on them for something they did so long ago that no star now knows what it was. So the older ones have become glassy-eyed and seldom speak (winking is the star language), but the little ones still wonder. They are not really friendly to Peter, who had a mischievous way of stealing up behind them and trying to blow them out; but they are so fond of fun that they were on his side to-night, and anxious to get the grown-ups out of the way. So as soon as the door of 27 closed on Mr. and Mrs. Darling there was a commotion in the firmament, and the smallest of all the stars in the Milky Way screamed out:

      “Now, Peter!”

      Chapter III

      Come away, come away!

      For a moment after Mr. and Mrs. Darling left the house the night-lights by the beds of the three children continued to burn clearly. They were awfully nice little night-lights, and one cannot help wishing that they could have kept awake to see Peter; but Wendy’s light blinked and gave such a yawn that the other two yawned also, and before they could close their mouths all the three went out.

      There was another light in the room now, a thousand times brighter than the night-lights, and in the time we have taken to say this, it had been in all the drawers in the nursery, looking for Peter’s shadow, rummaged the wardrobe and turned every pocket inside out. It was not really a light; it made this light by flashing about so quickly, but when it came to rest for a second you saw it was a fairy, no longer than your hand, but still growing. It was a girl called Tinker Bell exquisitely gowned in a skeleton leaf, cut low and square, through which her figure could be seen to the best advantage. She was slightly inclined to embonpoint.

      A moment after the fairy’s entrance the window was blown open by the breathing of the little stars, and Peter dropped in. He had carried Tinker Bell part of the way, and his hand was still messy with the fairy dust.

      “Tinker Bell,” he called softly, after making sure that the children were asleep, “Tink, where are you?” She was in a jug for the moment, and liking it extremely; she had never been in a jug before.

      “Oh, do come out of that jug, and tell me, do you know where they put my shadow?”

      The loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered him. It is the fairy language. You ordinary children can never hear it, but if you were to hear it you would know that you had heard it once before.

      Tink said that the shadow was in the big box. She meant the chest of drawers, and Peter jumped at the drawers, scattering their contents to the floor with both hands, as kings toss ha’pence to the crowd. In a moment he had recovered his shadow, and in his delight he forgot that he had shut Tinker Bell up in the drawer.

      If he thought at all, but I don’t believe he ever thought, it was that he and his shadow, when brought near each other, would join like drops of water, and when they did not he was appalled. He tried to stick it on with soap from the bathroom, but that also failed. A shudder passed through Peter, and he sat on the floor and cried.

      His sobs woke Wendy, and she sat up in bed. She was not alarmed to see a stranger crying on the nursery floor; she was only pleasantly interested.

      “Boy,” she said courteously, “why are you crying?”

      Peter could be exceeding polite also, having learned the grand manner at fairy ceremonies, and he rose and bowed to her beautifully. She was much pleased, and bowed beautifully to him from the bed.

      “What’s your name?” he asked.

      “Wendy Moira Angela Darling,” she replied with some satisfaction. “What is your name?”

      “Peter Pan.”

      She was already sure that he must be Peter, but it did seem a comparatively short name.

      “Is that all?”

      “Yes,” he said rather sharply. He felt for the first time that it was a shortish name.

      “I’m so sorry,” said Wendy Moira Angela.

      “It doesn’t matter,” Peter gulped.

      She asked where he lived.

      “Second to the right,” said Peter, “and then straight on till morning.”

      “What a funny address!”

      Peter had a sinking. For the first time he felt that perhaps it was a funny address.

      “No, it isn’t,” he said.

      “I mean,” Wendy said nicely, remembering that she was hostess, “is that what they put on the letters?”

      He wished she had not mentioned letters.

      “Don’t get any letters,” he said contemptuously.

      “But your mother gets letters?”

      “Don’t have a mother,” he said. Not only had he no mother, but he had not the slightest desire to have one. He thought them very over-rated persons. Wendy, however, felt at once that she was in the presence of a tragedy.

      “O Peter, no wonder you were crying,” she said, and got out of bed and ran to him.

      “I wasn’t crying about mothers,” he said rather indignantly. “I was crying because I can’t get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn’t crying.”

      “It has come off?”

      “Yes.”

      Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was frightfully sorry for Peter. “How awful!” she said, but she could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with soap. How exactly like a boy!

      Fortunately she knew at once what to do. “It must be sewn on,” she said, just a little patronisingly.

      “What’s sewn?” he asked.

      “You’re dreadfully ignorant.”

      “No, I’m not.”

      But she was exulting in his ignorance. “I shall sew it on for you, my little man,” she said, though he was tall as herself, and she СКАЧАТЬ