Almost a hundred years ago, at half past eight on the evening of
December 27, 1904, the curtain went up at the Duke of York’s
Theatre, in London, to reveal, among other things, a man dressed
as a dog. The man was an actor named Arthur Lupino, suffering
for his art in a shaggy costume, and the dog was called Nana.
Most plays enjoy a fitful life, at best, but we can be fairly
sure that this winter grown men will once again drop on all
fours and work up a canine sweat, while grown women will crop
their hair, pull on green tights, and turn into temporary boys.
The play is “Peter Pan,” and, like its eponymous hero, it gives
freakishly little sign of growing old.  The author was J. M.
Barrie: Jimmy to some of his friends, and, in his later pomp,
Sir James. He was short and slight, with bags under his eyes and
a pale, protuberant brow, like a clever schoolboy who has stayed
up late reading books under the bedclothes. He had a heavy
mustache and a pipe smoker’s percussive cough. Of humble
origins, he grew rich, yet h