Chapter 36: Professor Montgomerie
There were a number of things for which James was not prepared when he awoke that Thursday morning. In fact, had he been asked later by a third party who was the least bit curious about his life, James would have insisted that this particular day had been the worst practical joke he had ever fallen for (and there had been many). Had he given any thought at all to the matter, it would have been clear to James that this day had been set up to wrong foot him as he did his best to maintain the delicate balance that was his life.
As it was, James had no reason to suspect that this day would be anything but ordinary. Oddly enough, his routine changed slightly, but James had no time to ponder the circumstances that caused this change. And so, the sequence of events for this particular Thursday, which turned out to be rather important, went something like this:
James awoke earlier and more suddenly than usual to the sound of Porthos whining and scratching at the door. After becoming aware of just what he was hearing, James got up, let Porthos out into the hall, turned back to the bed and noticed Charlotte, who was still asleep. A series of realizations hit him so violently that he had to sit down quickly to keep his head from spinning.
Charlotte's birthday was two days away. He had no gift for her, and he had not told Emma and the boys.
If today was Thursday, that meant that Charles expected the revisions on his desk no later than Saturday night. Of course, James had to finish them at least a day early, since Saturday was Charlotte's birthday.
Tonight was the opera, and James had to call on Professor Montgomerie at some point during the afternoon. Consequently, James would likely be forced to spend all of Friday working, and whatever time was left would be spent with Charles.
He sighed and squinted at the small crystal clock next to the bed. Six o'clock in the morning. The sun had barely risen, but thin slices of white light were beginning to cut through the shadows in the room. Why did it have to be so early? Nothing could possibly be done at this hour of the morning, but it would be a waste of time simply to sit on the bed and stare at the wall.
"This room is closing in on me," James muttered to himself. He got up and went to the door. "Why is it getting so small?"
A moment later, he found himself in the parlor. For the two millionth time since he had moved into that house, he walked the perimeter of the room, inspecting the portraits of Mrs. du Maurier's family.
There were the familiar hazy photographs of Sylvia, which, James noticed for the first time, appeared to be more numerous than the images of any other family members. Sylvia with the boys at the cottage, Sylvia at Peter's fifth birthday, Sylvia and Michael in the garden, Sylvia and her mother at tea, Sylvia and the children at the beach. James teaching Michael to play cricket while Sylvia looked on, James and Sylvia in front of the house, James with Sylvia and the boys at the theater.
There were several pictures of the boys at play, and almost every one of their birthdays was documented and immortalized on the walls of the parlor. Arthur Llewellyn-Davies lurked somewhere in the background of most of the photographs until the months before his death, when his absence was almost painfully obvious.
There was Sylvia and Arthur's wedding portrait. Sylvia was looking up at her husband, smiling as though she could barely contain her happiness. She wore the same dress that Charlotte had at her own wedding. Arthur clearly had one thing on his mind. James quickly turned away.
There were Gerald and Muriel, who would probably be coming for Christmas. James hoped that he would see Gerald before then, however. He would need Gerald's help if the new play was to be a success.
And there, above the mantle, and on most of the adjoining wall, was George du Maurier. James stopped. He had always felt a deep connection to George, though he had no idea why. According to Gerald, the man had been half-crazy, though not in a bad way. Perhaps that was why James identified with George to the extent that he did. He often wished that they could have met, though of course George had been long gone by the time James became acquainted with the du Mauriers. James was saddened that the only way he would ever come close to knowing George would be through his family, and through his art.
Interspersed throughout the room were more recent photographs, most of which depicted James with the children. Mrs. du Maurier was in a few of them as well, including a family portrait that had been done soon after Sylvia's funeral. James searched the parlor and soon confirmed his fear. There was no evidence anywhere of Charlotte's existence. She had lived there for over six months, and Sylvia had been dead for nearly three years. Why, after all this time, were there still no photographs of Charlotte in the house? James closed his eyes. Something more to fret over.
On an end table near the window was a scrapbook meant for guests to peruse while they were waiting for Mrs. du Maurier (or James, on the rare occasion that anyone wanted to speak with him) to come downstairs. James flipped through it idly, pausing every few pages to examine their contents. There were birth announcements for each of Mrs. du Maurier's grandchildren, including Gerald and Muriel's daughter, Angela. There was an obituary in such tiny print that James had to hold it within an inch of his eyes to see what it said. It was Arthur Llewellyn-Davies' death announcement. On the next page was a large photograph and newspaper clipping, slightly yellowed, still leaving no doubt as to the identity of the deceased. George's death announcement was full of praise for his work and devotion to his family. It seemed that no one could say a bad word about him. I should be so lucky, James thought, turning the page.
There was another death announcement. Again, the large photograph accompanied by a reasonably complimentary article. The only slight blemish on her reputation was her relationship with James, and the bitter feud it had caused, whether she meant that to happen or not. The ridiculous irony of this problem was that James' presence at her funeral was the only reason Sylvia's death had been given an entire page in the newspaper.
As James reached the end of the scrapbook, he began to go through it page by page, becoming more and more dismayed over what he was not finding. Finally, he closed the book, which ended with an invitation to Gerald and Muriel's wedding. How could this be? James was sure he had been more attentive, and yet here was the proof, once again, that he had made no concerted effort to change anything. Somewhere in this book, had James done what he ought to, should be a clipping from the newspaper, which constituted the announcement of his marriage to Charlotte. Perhaps someone, for some reason, had saved that particular edition of the paper. He had to get his hands on it, and cared very little about the consequences at this point. All he knew was that, if he continued to allow details like this to escape him, the consequences would be far more disastrous.
The clock struck seven, startling James out of his trance. Porthos came wandering out of the kitchen. He gazed dolefully at James out of his huge, brown eyes, as though to convey his deepest sympathies for James' inability to find an immediate solution to his dilemma.
"What would you do, Porthos? I've got to fix all of this before I leave." As James reached to pat his head, Porthos snorted and walked back into the kitchen.
A moment later, Michael appeared in the doorway. He hesitated until James noticed him.
"Good morning, Michael. You're up early. Would you like some breakfast?"
Michael nodded. They went into the kitchen.
As Michael climbed into a chair at the table, he asked, "Uncle Jim, is Aunt Charlotte all right?"
James abruptly stopped rummaging for a bowl and looked at Michael. "Of course she's all right. Why do you ask?"
Michael fidgeted. "She sleeps a lot now, and she doesn't like to go outside so much."
James came back around the counter and knelt in front of Michael's chair. "You have nothing to worry about, Michael. Aunt Charlotte is going to be fine. She's just tired now. Don't worry about her, all right?"
Michael nodded.
"Good lad. Now, how does porridge sound?"
As James put a pot of water on the stove, George, Jack, and Peter entered the kitchen.
"Morning, Uncle Jim," they chorused, taking seats at the table.
"Good morning, boys. Would anyone care for some porridge this morning?"
They all nodded. Jack yawned loudly.
James looked back over his shoulder. "Perhaps someone should have stayed in bed a bit longer. What's so special about today that we would all get up so early?"
"There's something special about every day." Charlotte had come in. She saw James at the stove and rushed over. After peering into the pot, she gasped.
"James, here, let me do it. James! You're going to burn it!" She snatched the wooden spoon from him and began to stir the porridge.
"Thank you for the confidence," James muttered.
"I don't need to hear this. Make yourself useful and get me some bowls. Honestly." She turned to look at him. "Stop sulking. It's not my fault you can't be trusted with our food."
He shook his head. "Just because I burned porridge once, I'm now considered incompetent?"
"Don't worry. I'll teach you how to do it properly."
"Oh, well, I'm so thankful," James replied sarcastically. "Now everything will be all right."
Charlotte grinned at him. She ladled the porridge into each bowl in turn and gave them to James, who passed them out among the boys.
"Aren't you going to have some?" James asked Charlotte.
"I can't eat now. Perhaps I'll have something later."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Go on."
The boys ate hungrily. Mrs. du Maurier came into the kitchen.
"Good morning, everyone."
They all acknowledged her with a wave or a nod.
"Would you like some porridge, Emma?" Charlotte asked.
"Yes, thank you, dear."
As they all ate their breakfast, James watched Charlotte closely. Finally, the boys scampered off to play, and Mrs. du Maurier went to water the garden. Charlotte began to clear the dishes.
"Perhaps you should rest today, darling," James said. "It's going to be a long night tonight. You should get some sleep before the opera."
"Perhaps. I suppose it's a good thing I've taken up sewing, then?" She smiled slightly. "Emma may teach me to knit as well."
"Yes, perhaps it is a good thing."
"What will you do all day?"
"Well, I'll be working mostly, of course. I'm going to see Professor Montgomerie this afternoon about my trip, and I've got a bit of shopping to do."
"But we were just shopping yesterday. Did you forget something?"
"Er—yes."
"What does that mean?"
"Yes, I did forget something. I'll be out for a while today."
"All right. Just make sure you're back in time for the opera. Remember, Arthur and Jean will be here at seven."
"Right. I'll be back long before that."
"All right. I'm just going to finish tidying up here."
A few minutes later, after informing Emma that they needed to do something for Charlotte's birthday, James went out the front door. He soon found a carriage and gave the driver Professor Montgomerie's address. As the London scenery flashed by, James pondered whether or not it would be right for him to take his trip. He was starting to think that Arthur might have been right in advising him not to go. This greatly irked him, because Arthur seemed to be right about everything. If for no other reason than to continue his sometimes good-natured rivalry with Arthur, James would go to Scotland.
The carriage stopped outside a modest brick house slightly set back from the road. As James stepped out into the sunlight, the driver asked, "Shall I wait for you, Mr. Barrie?"
"No, no, it's quite all right. I think I'll take advantage of the unusually nice weather we're having. A bit of walking won't hurt me."
"Right you are, sir. Good day." The carriage rumbled off down the street.
James went to the front door of the house and knocked. Almost immediately, a beady-eyed, middle-aged woman pulled the door open. "Yes?" she barked.
"I'm sorry to bother you," James began. "I'm here to see Professor Montgomerie."
"And you are?" The woman spoke with a heavy French accented.
"My name is James Barrie. I was a student of Professor Montgomerie's at the University of Edinburgh."
"James Barrie?" the woman repeated suspiciously.
"That's right. Listen—if I could just—"
Suddenly, a man's voice came from somewhere inside the house: "Qui est-il? Quelqu'un pour moi?"
The woman turned to look over her shoulder; presumably the man who was speaking to her was standing in the foyer. "James Barrie est ici. Il dit qu'il etait un étudiant à vous."
There was a brief silence. Then the man spoke again. "Ah, James Barrie! Oui! Laizzes-le dedans, Madame Mallery!"
The woman stood back reluctantly.
"Thank you." James smiled at her and stepped inside the house.
In the foyer, James encountered an elderly, bearded man, complete with slippers, top hat, and walking stick. The man gazed at James for a moment, the stuck out his hand.
"James Barrie! I'm so glad to see you! Come in, please!"
"Hello, Professor Montgomerie." James shook his hand warmly. They went into the parlor.
"Would you like some tea, James?" asked Professor Montgomerie.
"I'd love some, thank you."
"Thé, s'il vous plait, Madame Mallery," Professor Montgomerie called. He turned back to James. "You have seen Arthur Conan Doyle recently. I see he gave you my address. Good lad. He always was an excellent student. So, have you given any thought to my little offer?"
"I have. I've decided to accept."
"Oh, that's excellent. I'm glad you've decided to come. This is going to make the English Department very happy indeed."
"Yes, it's going to be quite enjoyable. Of course, I promised my wife that I'd only be gone for six weeks."
Professor Montgomerie smiled. "Of course. I well remember those days. I should congratulate you on your wife's pregnancy."
"Thank you. We're very happy."
"I have four children of my own, you know. A joyous time, the birth of a child." He sighed. "But the trip! So, you can be gone for no more than six weeks."
"Yes, and three of those weeks will be spent in Kirriemuir."
"I see. Well, they'd like you there as soon as possible. Could you be ready to leave next week? As soon as Tuesday?"
James thought for a moment. "Yes, I think that would give me enough time to set my affairs in order."
"Excellent! I'm so glad this is going to work out."
James stood. "Thank you, Professor Montgomery."
"You're welcome anytime, James. I'll see you in a few days. And James—bring your wife round before we leave. I'd like to meet the woman who can stand to live with you every day." He chuckled.
James smiled. "Of course."
Angela du Maurier was born in 1904. She was the daughter of Gerald and Muriel du Maurier, and the older sister by three years of author Daphne du Maurier. Angela also held quite a special place in James Barrie's heart; the character Wendy in Peter Pan was partly inspired by Angela du Maurier, and one of her middle names was, in fact, Angela.
George du Maurier was Emma's husband. He was a famed artist and illustrator, as well as a celebrated author. His best-known work was his novel Trilby, in which he created the evil Svengali. He married Emma Wightwick in 1863, and they had five children (Sylvia, Gerald, and their three siblings.) In both his art and his writing, George emphasized two worlds: that of the ideal family (for which the inspiration was his own beautiful wife and adoring children), and the terrors of the nightmare. His work has been studied from several psychoanalytical perspectives, and some interesting insights into George's own mental state throughout his life have been suggested. Emma, who was strikingly beautiful by all accounts, was George's inspiration for the image of the ideal woman, which became so prevalent in his work. (If you search Geroge du Maurier, you may get a chance to see some of his pieces, many of which are exquisite and wonderfully unique). George du Maurier died in 1896 of heart failure. He was sixty-two years old.