The Melodrama of Childhood

— When I hear my elders referring to the frank enthusiasm and happy unconsciousness of childhood, I find myself doubting the tenacity of their memories, else I suspect them of carelessly adopting one of the many fallacies which have obtained currency rather by common consent than as a deduction from common experience. When I say “ my elders ” I speak advisedly ; for though I am perhaps reckoned by some as among the oldsters, I know that in many respects I stand nearer to childhood than to mature life, and that I still retain much of the child in mental and spiritual phases. Yet it is true that I should not be cited distinctively as a “ lover of children.” I have no particular aptitude nor decided inclination for drawing out their views. Indeed, in this respect I stand in so great apprehension of their dangerous subtlety as casuists and cross-questioners, especially if the inquiry takes a theological turn, that I am inclined to avoid rather than to encourage polemics in jackets and pinafores. Although, as I have said, I still retain much of the child, I am conscious that from my seventh or eighth year I have been steadily weakening in that quality of astuteness and that gift of dissembling which, I hold, specially distinguish the juvenile mind. Aware of the deterioration, which would put me to a disadvantage, I am always cautious how I enter into discussion with any child of the age specified, still less with one of younger and more formidable years.

It is easy to overrate the happy way in which affairs were carried on in the Golden Age, and the refugees from Eden quite likely exaggerated the perfections of the abandoned garden. So it is with older people descanting upon the joyous simplicity and openness of childhood. They forget that childhood, so frequently and so ruthlessly encroached upon by inquisitive seniors, must needs devise tactics of defense to cover its own small, tender, private opinions and fancies. Besides, we commonly make no account of childhood’s love of melodrama, its graspings at life and experience, shown in its plays and impersonations of all kinds. A fondness for making-believe is seen even in babies, who feign fright, anger, extravagant joy, for no other purpose, it may be, than to relieve the tedium of an existence which has not yet obtained full use either of talking or walking members. Young creatures of the brute creation also are not without a somewhat similar mimetic instinct. Birds have their coy feints and startings, based upon some cunning rôle of their own devising. An intelligent and goodnatured puppy will carry out very creditably the part assigned him by his human playfellows.

Lonely children particularly develop the dramatizing faculty, creating companions, as, lacking toys, they are ingenious at inventing playthings. A brotherless and sisterless four-year-old of my acquaintance, taken upon a journey, gave her fond mother some sensation, the little one being overheard reciting to a friendly stranger the outrageous pranks, including theft, assault and battery, and incendiarism, to which her “ big brother Peter ” was addicted. As an offset to the disgrace of this relationship, she dwelt with sweet enthusiasm upon the winning traits of her “ little sister, Sally Pinker.”On being questioned by her mother, it appeared that this hypothetical brother and sister were very distinct realities to the solitary child, nor for a long time would she drop them from the lists of kinship.

As a child, my record for truth-telling and ingenuousness of behavior was never impeached ; yet I recall instances of mental chicanery, which, had they been made patent, would have sufficed to raise grave doubts in the minds of my natural protectors whether I should not become a perjurer of the blackest stamp. Well do I recall that dull, rainy afternoon, when, open-air sports being out of the question, I cast about for some novel entertainment in-doors. I had heard of the extraordinary delusions which had seized upon a relative of mine while in the delirium of a fever. I, too, would be delirious, see visions, and talk wildly. I succeeded so well at this kind of feigning that not only was my tender mother alarmed, but I myself became genuinely ill, unnerved by the vividness of my own figments and the blood-chilling character of my own incoherent utterances. Also, I well remember being taken to the photographer’s, and the lugubrious result attending the united efforts of the “ artist,” my parents — and myself. However exhorted to smile, the record of each experiment showed a uniform grimness of pursed lips, saucer eyes, and slightly corrugated brows. The “ infant sphinx,” as this photograph was afterwards known in the family, was often clandestinely inspected by me with extreme delight. Before and during the operation I had resolved that if I were to have my picture taken I would look noble (synonymous in my mind with severe). That I had succeeded in my design was the fond impression retained for several years.

Beside this witness to the theatrical impulse in children might be placed another portrait which was lately shown me, — that of a laughing-eyed, dimpling, coquettish Lalage face. The lady whose child-self is thus daintily memorialized tells me that the motive of the sitter was to “ look as though my sweetheart had just kissed me ”! It was this same elf who, having been corrected by her mother, conceived a plan for lacerating the heart of the injurious parent. Her eyes being at the height of their showery fit, she caught up a precious crimson-bound picture-book, and, bending over it, let fall upon its admired cover two great tear-drops, with infinite satisfaction watching the spreading circles of stain which in future years should so poignantly reproach the maternal despot. The little red book is still extant, and I have seen it, with its twin hieroglyphs expressive of so much naïveté and finesse.