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Page 70
CHARLES BURR TODD.
THE DRAMA IN THE NURSERY.
A Darwinian might find evidence of the pedigree of our species in the
inherent taste for mimicry which we share, at all events, with the
anthropoid apes. This instinct of mimicry I take to be the humble
beginning from which dramatic art has sprung, and it appears in the
individual at a very early stage. Perhaps it is even expressed in the
first squalls of infancy, though this possibility has been overlooked
or obscured by philosophic pedantry. Now anent these squalls. Hegel
gravely declares that they indicate a revelation of the baby's exalted
nature (oh!), and are meant to inform the public that it feels itself
"permeated with the certitude" that it has a right to exact from the
external world the satisfaction of its needs. Michelet opines that the
squalls reveal the horror felt by the soul at being enslaved to nature.
Another writer regards them as an outburst of wrath on the part of the
baby at finding itself powerless against environing circumstances. Some
early theologians, on the other hand, pronounced squalling to be a proof
of innate wickedness; and this view strikes one as being much nearer the
mark. But none of these accounts are completely satisfactory. Innate
wickedness may supply the conception; it is the dramatic instinct that
suggests the means. Here is the real explanation of those yells which
embitter the life of a young father and drive the veteran into temporary
exile. It happens in this wise. The first aim of a baby--not yours,
madam; yours is well known to be an exception, but of other and common
babies--is to make itself as widely offensive as possible. The end,
indeed, is execrable, but the method is masterly. The baby has an _a
priori_ intuition that the note of the domestic cat is repulsive to the
ear of the human adult. Consequently, what does your baby do but betake
itself to a practical study of the caterwaul! After a few conscientious
rehearsals a creditable degree of perfection is usually reached, and a
series of excruciating performances are forthwith commenced, which last
with unbroken success until the stage arrives when correction becomes
possible. This process may check the child's taste for imitating the
lower animals in some of their less engaging peculiarities, but his
dramatic instincts will be diverted with a refreshing promptness to the
congenial subjects of parent or nurse.
No sooner is your son and heir invested with the full dignity of
knickerbockers than he begins to celebrate this rise in the social
scale by "playing at being papa." The author of "Vice Versa" has drawn
an amusing picture of the discomforts to papa which an exchange of
environment with his school-boy son might involve. But there is another
side to the question; and at Christmas-time, for instance, most papas
would probably be glad enough to exchange the joys and responsibilities
of paternity for the simple taste which can tackle plum-pudding and the
youthful digestion for which this delicacy has no terrors. However,
while it is impossible, or at least inexpedient, for papa to play at
being his own urchin, the latter is restrained by no considerations,
moral or otherwise, from attempting to personate his papa.
It is often said sententiously that the child is the father of the man.
In this case most of us should blush for our parentage. It will be
conceded at once (subject, of course, to special reservations in favor
of individual brats) that the baby is the most detestable of created
beings. But its physical impotence to some extent neutralizes its moral
baseness. In the child the deviltries of the baby are partially curbed,
but this loss is compensated for by superior bodily powers. Now, the
virtuous child--if such a conception can be framed--when representing
papa would delight to dwell on the better side of the paternal
character, the finer feelings, the flashes of genius, the sallies of
wit, the little touches of tenderness and romance, and so forth. Very
likely; but the actual child does just the reverse of this. Is there a
trivial weakness, a venial shortcoming, a microscopic spot of
imperfection anywhere? The ruthless little imp has marked it for his
own, and will infallibly reproduce it, certainly before your servants,
and possibly before your friends.
"Now we'll play at being in church," quoth Master George in lordly wise
to his little sisters. "I'm papa." Whereupon he will twist himself into
an unseemly tangle of legs and arms which is simply a barbarous travesty
of the attitude of studied grace with which you drink in the sermon in
the corner of your family pew.
"Master George, you mustn't," interposes the housemaid, in a tone of
faint rebuke, adding, however, with a thrill of generous appreciation,
"Law, 'ow funny the child is, and as like as like!" Applause is
delicious to every actor, and under its stimulus your first-born essays
a fresh flight. Above the laughter of the nurses and the admiring
shrieks of his sisters there rises a weird sound, as of a sucking pig
_in extremis_. Your son, my unfortunate friend, is attempting, with his
childish treble pipes, to formulate a masculine snore. This is a gross
calumny. You never--stop!--well, on one occasion perhaps--but then there
were extenuating circumstances. Very likely; but the child has grasped
the fact without the circumstances, and has framed his conclusion as a
universal proposition. It is a most improper induction, I admit; but
logic, like some other things, is not to be looked for in children.
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