There is probably some way by which a young female child can be led
through easy stages of Socratic dialogue to the idea of ultimate truth
in morals as well as art. There is probably some way of talking to
such a child without being badly scored off. But I do not seem to
have the gift. This is the more unfortunate because the thing usually
happens before I have finished my breakfast, and nothing is quite so
damaging to my self-esteem as to be soundly snubbed in my own house
before the day's work has begun.
Mind you I do not honestly believe that my logic is at fault. I
believe that there is usually a flaw in the reasoning of the child.
But you cannot very well say to an infant of three, "You are now being
guilty of an undistributed middle or a _petitio elenchi_ or whatever
it is." She would do what I have heard even older women do in like
circumstances. She would change the subject at once. Perhaps the
MONTESSORI system ... But let us take a typical case.
I found her sitting at a large table by the dining-room window, in a
high chair that left her red shoes eighteen inches from the ground, a
complete doll's tea service in front of her and a small stuffed lamb
on her right-hand side. The tea-pot appeared to contain real water
and the sugar-basin real sugar, and although she was supremely busy
watering and sugaring and rearranging her cups and jugs and spoons
she greeted me with the composure of an experienced _chatelaine_. Our
conversation went something like this:--
_She._ Will you have any cup of tea?
_I_ (_having drunk a small cup of water with a very little real sugar
and a large quantity of real grit in it_.) Thank you. How delicious!
But I must go and have my breakfast now.
_She_ (_taking no notice at all and offering me a small fragment of
moist toast_). Will you have any piece of cake?
_I._ Thank you. What lovely plum-cake!
_She_ (_with infinite scorn_). Ho! that isn't _plum_-cake. There isn't
any plums in it. It's _choclat_ cake.
_I_ (_humiliated_). Oh, well, I don't think I will have any more tea,
thank you.
_She_ (_coldly_). I'm going to give my lamb tea now.
[_The method of giving tea to a lamb, in case it is not generally
known, is to plaster the lamb's nose with spoonfuls of sugar and
then lick off the sugar with one's tongue. At least that is the way
Priscilla does it._]
_I_ (_reprovingly from the breakfast-table_.) What a funny way to give
your lamb tea, Priscilla.
_She._ My lamb says he likes having his tea like this. (_A longish
pause._) Please will you draw me a picsher?
_I._ What kind of a picture?
_She._ A picsher of a house.
_I._ What kind of a house?
_She_ (_in one long breath_). A purple house with a yellow roof and
blue curtains and a green door and rose-trees with red roses and
hollyhocks and a dear little pussy-cat and a motor-car coming up the
drive.
[_This is executed in coloured crayons with a rapidity born of
hunger and long practice, and passed to the Hanging Committee for
inspection._]
_She_ (_examining it critically_). Ho! that isn't a _door_.
_I._ Yes, it is, Priscilla. It's a very nice _door_.
_She._ It isn't a door. It hasn't any knocker.
[_After all, when_ is _a door not a door? I finish the joinery job and
carry on with my bacon._]
_She_ (_suddenly_). There isn't any sun.
[_I sketch in the regulation pattern of circular sun, with eyes, a
nose and a smile complete._]
_She._ That isn't a sun. It hasn't any hair.
_I._ The sun doesn't have any hair, Priscilla.
_She_ (_decisively_). Nurse has hair.
[_This really seems unanswerable. Having amended Phoebus Apollo
I start in with my marmalade. After a lapse of a few minutes a low
hammering is heard from somewhere on the floor at the far side of the
table._]
_I._ Whatever are you doing, Priscilla?
_She._ Sooing my horse.
[_She is discovered beating the wheels of a grey wooden flat-backed
animal on a stand with a hammer procured from heaven alone knows
where._]
_I._ Well, don't hit him on the wheels, anyhow. (_A pause, subdued
noises and a sigh._) What are you doing now, Priscilla?
_She._ Sooing him on his back.
_I._ Doesn't that hurt him?
_She._ It hurts him very much, but he doesn't _say_ anything.
[_I come round to give veterinary advice._]
_I._ Don't you love your horse, Priscilla?
_She._ Yes, he's my friendly horse.
_I._ Well, don't bang him about like that; all the paint's coming off
him.
[_The carpet is in fact bestrewn with small flakes of grey paint from
the unhappy creature's flanks._]
_She_ (_derisively_). Ho! that isn't paint. That's snorts.
_I_ (_helplessly_). Whatever do you mean?
_She._ That's snorts. Snorts from his mouf. White snorts.
_I._ But why is your horse snorting from his mouth, Priscilla?
_She._ He's snorting from his mouf because I'm sooing him on his back.
Well, there you are, you know; what is one going to do about it? There
is a sort of specious plausibility about these replies after all; I
am no farrier, but I should think it quite likely that if you shoed
a cart-horse long enough on the back with a large enough hammer he
_would_ snort white snorts from his mouth; and it's no use telling the
girl that she can't jump from realism to romance in that disingenuous
manner. Besides she might start hammering the wheels again. Or else
she would say that her horse _said_ he was snorting, and who am I to
contradict a British horse? I used to consider myself pretty good at
what are called back-answers and I still believe that with a little
practice I could hold my own in Whitechapel or the House of Commons,
but there are subtle transitions about Priscilla's method of argument
with which only a Prime Minister could cope. It carries too many guns
for me. It cramps my style.