THEY were deep and wide and tall, and filled as to the lower shelves with
a number of objects which no child of spirit could find interesting any
longer. Here were the battered fragments of the presents of bygone
birthdays, of which the true ownership was dubious, because we none of us
would confess that we had ever been young enough to receive such childish
gifts. Here also were foolish trifles from forgotten Christmas-trees,
useless objects employed by the fraudulent to give their trees a
deceitful appearance of wealth. Then there were the presents that were
too useful: the elevating gifts of aunts and the improving offerings of
god-parents, things that either trespassed on the arid land of lessons or
presumed some grown-up virtue which the recipient neither had nor
coveted. The Olympians would refer to these dull possessions in the
aggregate as “the children’s toys”; but we knew better. Our true
treasures, the things we loved, never saw the inside of that unromantic
depository save through the thoughtless tidying of our rulers. The works
of watches and mechanical toys, our soldiers and cannon of brass, our
fleet of walnut boats and empty cartridge-cases—these things and their
brothers slept under our pillows or in the very private cardboard
boot-box under the bed. By day those that were being employed were
spread about the floor or strained our pockets to bursting-point. The
people who were too old to know any better referred to them
contemptuously as “rubbish,” a word we privately reserved for their
aggravating presents. And though the long interval that separated dinner
and tea on wet days might weary us of our immediate jewels, it was not in
the cupboard that we sought relief from Boredom. It is true that now and
again some Gentleman Adventurer would climb on a chair and investigate
the shelves that were supposed to be beyond our reach, to return with
piratical spoil of matches and cotton and citrate of magnesia, a cate
that tingles pleasantly on the tongue of youth. But even from this point
of view it could not compare with the rich cupboards of the kitchen and
the dining-room, those Meccas of piracy that filled our dreams with
monstrous raisins and pickled onions, a successful pilgrimage to which
would assure a man the admiring homage of his comrades for days to come.
In short, we were content to regard the toy-cupboard as a harmless hobby
of the grown-up people, and we were not far wrong. It was not for them
to understand that one general cupboard could not hold the real treasures
of four children, whose sense of possession was keen even to the point of
battle. It was a dustbin for toys that had been found out, and we would
have scorned to display its sordid contents to our friends. To them, if
they were worthy, were revealed the true mysteries, the things that we
fought for and made into dreams, the sun and moon and stars of our
imaginative heaven. Sentimental elders might greet it with tears for
their lost youth if they wished; we received their congratulations
calmly, and kept our pity for their insanity to ourselves.
In truth, the thing was a symbol for all our relations with grown-up
people. They always seemed so sensible and yet they could not
understand. If we fell off the banisters on to our heads they would
overwhelm us with sympathy, when every one knows that a big lump on the
head is a thing to be proud of. But if a well-meaning aunt insisted on
reading to us for a whole afternoon in the horse-chestnut season we were
expected, and even commanded, to be grateful for this undesired favour.
And so it was in the matter of toys. Sometimes, by accident as it were,
they gave us sensible things that we really wanted. But as a rule their
presents were concrete things that gave our imaginations no chance. We
only wanted something to make a “think” about, but few of the official
presents were suitable for this purpose. One of the gifts that delighted
me most as a child was a blue glass dish, large and shallow. Filled with
water it became a real blue sea, very proper for the navigation of
smaller craft. Empty and subverted it became the dome of an azure city.
And holding it before my eyes I would see a blue world, a place the
existence of which I had previously only suspected. An ocean, a city,
and a world combine to make a better present than a commonplace toy.
Once in a blue moon I have seen strange sights, and something of the
glamour of that dish is with me even now.
Naturally, in course of time an uncommon significance became attached to
such things as this, and I should have no more thought of keeping my blue
sea in the same cupboard as my brother’s maxim gun than he would have
allowed that excellent weapon to be the bedfellow of my sister’s famous
one-legged nigger doll. We realised far better than our elders the
meaning of their favourite shibboleth, “a place for everything”; we knew
that the sea air would rust a cannon, and that poor Dorothy could swim
but poorly with her one dusky leg. So we tacitly left the cupboard as a
place wherein the grown-ups could keep the toys they gave us to please
themselves, and found exclusive and more sympathetic hiding-places for
our treasures. Now and again a toy might pass through both stages of
existence. Mechanical toys did not amuse us at all, until the donors
were tired of playing with them, and we might pull them to pieces and
make them our very own. And the costly gifts of uncles were useless
until the authorities had ceased to see that we took care of them. But
these doubtful cases apart, we would divide our presents into their
respective groups as soon as we had removed the wrappings. “This and
this can go into the cupboard, but this shall go to bed with me
to-night!” It was not the person who “understands” children who was most
fortunate in the choice of gifts.
For the rest, with unconscious satire, we constituted the toy-cupboard
the state prison of the nursery. Refractory dolls and kittens, and
soldiers awaiting court-martial, repented their crimes in its depressing
gloom, and this was really the only share it had in our amusements.
Beyond that it stood merely for official “play,” a melancholy traffic in
which we never indulged. Its shelves were crowded with the illusions of
grown-up people, and, if we considered it at all, it was in the same
aspect in which we were wont to regard them. They were obviously
well-meaning, but somehow or other they lacked understanding, and the
nursery cupboard was full in consequence.