Fat babies, white dogs running, nursemaids with the wind pulling at
their snuff-coloured veils, and at least six sharp intervals of sun
strong enough to paint three shadows on the grass. That was how
Kensington Gardens looked the other day, that delicious annexe to a
thousand nurseries, that lovely land of young things insulated from
our common world by a row of spiked railings.
I went up the Broad Walk revelling in this untroubled side of life,
joyfully appreciating other people's babies, patting other people's
dogs, admiring a smart turnout that lacked only a crest on the
dove-grey perambulator, noting with pleasure the tall, neat young
Kensington mothers with their lamp-post figures in well-cut tweed.
When the sun came through it was like a game of musical chairs. The
nursemaids stopped perambulating. Wind-blown walkers came to a
standstill. They sat down on green seats.
So did I.
Next to me was a maiden of about three, a little unopened rose-bud of
a girl, whose crisp gold hair escaped from a woollen cap with a
yellow woollen tuft on top like a tangerine. Her short legs, in grey
woollen trousers, stuck out in space so that she, sitting on a
grown-up's seat, was in exactly the same position she would have
assumed had she been sitting on a floor! Her brother was perhaps
five. He wore a peaked cap of corduroy, leggings, and a little fawn
coat with an absurd belt at the back.
These two were holding hands, a difficult feat, I imagine, when hands
are so small and woollen gloves so bulky and fluffy. They were
discussing railway travel. He said that the carriage wheels say
"lickety-lick, lickety-lick," which I thought was very true, but she,
womanlike, contradicted him, saying that they go "tell-at-a-train,
tell-at-a-train," which I thought also was very true. Then suddenly
he said loudly three times, because his nurse was reading a novel:
"Nannie," he said, "I'm going to marry Madge!"
She looked shocked, put down the novel, and said:
"No, Master John, little boys don't marry their sisters, ever."
"I know," said Master John. "Not now, of course, but when I grow up
and get big. Some day when I'm----"
Here he opened his arms to denote size and maturity.
"Yes; but then you'll marry some other boy's sister," said the nurse.
"I won't--not never!" cried John furiously. "I'll marry Madge!
Other boys' sisters are silly asses. They play with dolls!"
The sun went in and they went away, nurse telling him that "nice
boys" don't say "silly asses"--ever! I smiled. Little minds in
fairy-land grappling for the first time with this incomprehensible
world! Poor John, dear Madge!
Ten minutes in the Broad Walk make you think a lot about small
children. How much character they show at an age when they seem
hardly to exist as reasonable beings! See how some lag behind, how
others are unhappy unless they are in front, exploring, climbing,
meeting great dogs on which, at the last moment, they turn their
backs in fear. Watch how some just endure a walk placidly, while
others shine with the adventure of it, seeing every detail,
wondering, questioning. Look how some collect things busily: sticks
by the armful, stones by the pocketful! Restless, acquisitive little
creatures. All instinct with motives planted in them before birth.
How amusing it is to watch it all. Such tiny, instinctive people!
* * *
The Round Pond flecked by wind. White gulls. Ducks with green
velvet heads. Not one ship slanting across this ocean; not one.
Only a boy prodding the water with a stick:
"Too cold to sail a ship!" I said.
"It isn't," he replied, scowling. "But mother thinks it is."
"And she's right!" I said, wishing to rebuke him.
"She isn't!" (Slap, slap on the water.)
"She is!"
"She isn't!"
I felt that this conversation had all the elements of eternity, so,
after delivering a last word in defence of the mothers of Kensington
who release the navies of the Round Pond at exactly the right
temperature, I left this scowling die-hard admiral to his melancholy.
* * *
Then, on a path under bare trees, I saw a fat, round fairy in salmon
pink. Just standing, she was. I sat down to look at her. She
advanced slowly. Among the bare trees someone called, "Joan, Joan!"
She reminded me of a faun I saw once on the Rock of the Loreli on the
Rhine. It advanced in just this same doubtful, solemn manner; one
movement on my part would have sent it with beating heart into the
thicket. So she advanced. I smiled; she smiled. Then she touched
my coat with one finger, laughed, and--ran unsteadily away over the
path under bare trees. Flirt!
I left Wonderland, and caught an omnibus to Piccadilly in a
remarkably good temper....