Every once in a while on this blog, I like to write about Edmund Pevensie (here is an example) because he is one of my favorite fictional characters, even though he spends most of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe as a selfish brat. (Selfish brats are easy to identify with, at least for me.) In one post, I paired him with Percy Weasley because they both suffer from the same condition: both are middle children who feel they’ll never live up to their older siblings’ perfection and who need to assert their superiority to their younger siblings, so they end up betraying their family (in Edmund’s case) or at least betraying their values (in Percy’s case). And both are, prodigal son-like, restored to their families, but not before suffering humiliation and loss.
Just the other day, I realized there’s another character in British fantasy literature who fits in with these two. I’m teaching Peter Pan in children’s lit this week, so I’ve been immersing myself in the story and its context for the past few days: watching the Disney cartoon and Finding Neverland, reading a biography of J. M. Barrie and the Llewellyn Davies boys called The Real Peter Pan, and even bringing my flying Peter Funko Pop to my office, where he’s currently about to take off from a stack of books (including a volume of Barrie’s representative plays) on my desk. And now I have just one question for you: Can we give a little love to poor overlooked John Darling?
John is, unlike Edmund and Percy, an exact middle child, the second of three. And though he seems, unlike them, to have a good relationship with his siblings, I always sense a subtle bitterness toward Wendy for her obsession with Peter Pan (John’s natural rival in age and leadership ability—notice how annoyed John gets when Wendy won’t let him sit in Peter’s chair) and a bit of jealousy of Michael for being everybody’s cute little favorite. And there is that moment where John comes perilously close to signing up for a life of crime with Captain Hook; it’s only when he finds out he’d have to forswear loyalty to the King that he refuses. Note that he doesn’t seem, in that moment, to care about abandoning his family—just about being a bad British citizen. Doesn’t that sound like Percy? John has that same self-importance—and, related to that, desperation to be seen as grown up—that we see in our other two examples. The detail Barrie includes of John “seizing his Sunday hat” before flying out the nursery window is brilliant—it confirms our impression of him as a stolid, middle-aged, middle-class banker in a ten-year-old’s body. (The Disney movie really plays this up, giving John a fussy little umbrella and a prodigious vocabulary.) And that’s why my heart melts when I’m reminded that he is still a boy, a tired and homesick boy who is ultimately very glad to go home.
One reason I love all these characters is that everyone else seems to either forget about them or hate them. I’ve never been a middle child or anyone’s brother, but I know what it’s like to wish to be taken seriously, so I feel for these boys, selfish and self-important as they may be. Can you think of anyone else who might fit into this category?