MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON I DO not know whether there be any truth in the ancient theory . that there exists some difference between memory and recol- lection. Aristotle argued that memory was a dull and effortless gift which we shared with the brute beasts: people with very good memories, he suggested, were afflicted with slow minds. Recollec- tion, however, was a bright and vivid thing, requiring some intellectual effort for its exercise and operating through a chain of associations. Animals, in his opinion, did not indulge in recol- lection, since they lacked all reasoning pOwers. Old people were not good at recollection, since the channels of their brains had become clogged with decay and the associations were unable to dash merrily from one part of the brain to another. Children were only potential recollectionists, since the surface of their brain was so spongy that no channels had as yet been formed. Yet if children are incapable of recollection, but only capable of memory, then why on earth is it that we recall so vividly some of our childhood feelings and experiences, whereas in regard to others we can only imagine what we felt ? We are all of us familiar with that curious, almost transcendental, emotion which moves within us when some sound or tune or smell brings us back to half a century ago. Once or twice in my life this sudden vague relapse into childhood sensations has been occasioned by tactile associations, by the feel of a baize door upon the nursery landing, or by handling two diabolo-sticks discovered in some forgotten play-box. Such vivid reincarnations are assuredly, whatever the sage may say, associative memories. Yet, although we can often recall with the utmost clarity the emotions and sensations of childhood, we find it difficult to remember what we thought. It will be said, of course, that the reason for this is that children do not think (in the sense of experiencing events in the mind) but that they only pass through. a series of impressions. I disbelieve this theory.
I am quite sure that I thought very hard when I was a child. I certainly told myself a great number of stories, which assumed a serial form and which would keep me good and speechless while I walked round and round the park with my nurse. Many of these stories, I remember, were about snakes: I was a young and adven- turous snake among a lot of other more lethargic animals. This long reptilian epic was a secret, almost a magic, saga to me ; I never mentioned it to my parents or my nurse. I have no idea why I should, at the age of six, have been so enamoured of reptiles, whereas in later life I have not manifested any special attraction for these animals. I trust that no psychiatrist will think it neces- sary to explain to me the presumably horrid reason for this predilection. Yet although I certainly spent many hours of imaginative delight in inwardly recounting these endless snake stories, I do not recall that I ever pondered at all deeply upon the relations between myself and my environment, between myself and the universe. At times, of course, I would be conscious of my own identity, of being myself. Those were unpleasant and disturbing intimations, and the anxiety which I then experienced must have been similar to the awe with which the infant Tennyson would repeat " Alfred " again and again to himself while toddling over the Lincolnshire wolds. But a child is more concerned with the similarities between things than with their differences, and possesses but slight powers of comparison. I do not believe, for instance, that I ever reasoned what it was that made some people seem " nice " and others "nasty." All I knew was that I was pleased when told that Mr. X was coming to luncheon and displeased when it was Mrs. Y.
If we could, in fact, recall these successive states of feeling, if at the time we had worked out any rational explanation of why we preferred Mr. X to Mrs. Y, it would surely be of great help to us in our older age when we ourselves have to converse with
children. I do not flatter myself that I have ever mastered this delicate technique. Did one possess, as Charles Lutwidge Dodgson possessed, the patience to tell children long and entrancing stories, they would doubtless dance with delight when informed that one was coming to tea. Did one possess, as Lear or du Maurier possessed, the gift for scribbling rapid little pictures, then again no embarrassment would arise. I have discovered that even an inexpert draftsman such as I am can hold the attention of children for as much as ten minutes by scribbling pictures for them on a pad. These pictures, incidentally, should always depict as the central characters either the children themselves or their immediate relations ; and the adventures which they illustrate must always be of the most lurid character (ending generally with two little feet protruding from the jaws of a crocodile), thereby ministering to the sado-masochist tendencies which, we are now assured. lurk in the subconscious of even the nicest little girls and boys. Of one thing I am certain, namely that no adult should ever treat a child as an inferior, but should always assume that the infant is, in
• wisdom and power, equal to and contemporary with himself. Nor should he ask direct questions of the child, enquiring as to its name or age, since such questions are impertinent and dull. Little boys, if questioned at all, must be questioned about their prowess ; whether they have ever tried throwing their ball at the greenhouse. Little girls, if questioned at all, must be questioned about their maternal instincts ; whether their doll minds the cold.
When considering this problem, I have occasionally had recourse to the experts and listened to those who, in "Children's Hour," talk to the little ones over the wireless. Some of these technicians are truly admirable ; but others do not seem to have learnt the first principle of their art, namely that in talking to children one should never put on the tone of genial patronage, or prim spontaneity, which amateurs are apt to adopt. Too many of the B.B.C. aunts and uncles infuse into their discourse a note of brisk merriment which any decent child must find repulsive. I was listening last week to Auntie Lilian telling the children about her hobbies. She was evidently a trained practitioner and her manner, with its succes- sion of apt pauses and stresses, was one of confiding glee. It was the matter, rather than the manner, of Auntie Lilian's address which shocked me so profoundly. She was urging the little ones to acquire autograph albums and to pursue the eminent with requests for their signatures. She described how, when a little girl, she had hung around the green rooms and theatre lobbies and pestered actors, actresses, musicians and conductors to insert their auto- graphs in her horrid little book. She spoke without shame of this dastardly practice and, in fact, she exhorted the urchins to adopt it themselves. Before reaching the loathsome valedictory words "Goodnight children, goodnight! "Auntie Lilian had the audacity to crib one of Field-Marshal Montgomery's less admirable apophthegms. "Good hunting " she cried happily to listening millions.
The Governors and the Director-General of the B.B.C. should not permit their monopoly to be abused in order to incite the children of this country to indulge in practices which are wholly meaningless in themselves, which encourage predatory instincts, and which expose busy men and women to a truly horrible form of inconvenience and delay. The hunting of autographs is not a harmless hobby ; it is both senseless and evil ; it promotes acquisi- tiveness, futile competitive vanity, and disrespect for the privacy, the dignity and the eminence of famous and over-worked actors, actresses and footballers. Did either my memory or my recol- lection bring back to me any occasion in which I have waylaid a fellow citizen and asked him for his autograph, I should blush with shame. But Auntie Lilian, as I said, was not ashamed.
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