Nobody has any innate ideas. Children and savages and idiots haven't any,
so grown-up people can't have, Mr. Locke says.
But how did he know? You might have them and forget about them, and only
remember again after you were grown up.
She sat up in the drawing-room till nine o'clock now, because she was
eleven years old. She had taken the doll's clothes out of the old wooden
box and filled it with books: the Bible, Milton, and Pope's Homer, the
Greek Accidence, and _Plutarch's Lives_, and the Comedies from Papa's
illustrated Shakespeare in seven volumes, which he never read, and two
volumes of _Pepys' Diary_, and Locke _On the Human Understanding_. She
wished the Bible had been bound in pink calf like Pepys instead of the
shiny black leather that made you think of wet goloshes. Then it would
have looked new and exciting like the other books.
She sat on a footstool with her box beside her in the corner behind
Mamma's chair. She had to hide there because Mamma didn't believe you
really liked reading. She thought you were only shamming and showing off.
Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Farmer would come in, and Mr. Farmer would play
chess with Papa while Mrs. Farmer talked to Mamma about how troublesome
and independent the tradespeople were, and how hard it was to get
servants and to keep them. Mamma listened to Mrs. Farmer as if she were
saying something wonderful and exciting. Sometimes it would be the
Proparts; or Mr. Batty would come in alone. And sometimes they would all
come together with the aunts and uncles, and there would be a party.
Mary always hoped that Uncle Victor would notice her and say, "Mary is
reading Locke _On the Human Understanding_," or that Mr. Propart would
come and turn over the books and make some interesting remark. But they
never did.
At half-past eight Catty would bring in the tea-tray; the white and grey
and gold tea-cups would be set out round the bulging silver tea-pot that
lifted up its spout with a foolish, pompous expression, like a hen. Mamma
would move about the table in her mauve silk gown, and there would be a
scent of cream and strong tea. Every now and then the shimmering silk and
the rich scent would come between her and the grey, tight-pressed,
difficult page.
"'The senses at first let in particular ideas and furnish the yet empty
cabinet: and the mind growing by degrees familiar with some of them, they
are lodged in the memory and names got to them.'
"Then how--Then how?--"
The thought she thought was coming wouldn't come, and Mamma was telling
her to get up and hand round the bread and butter.