From Memory's Shrine: The Reminscences of Carmen SylvaSylva, Carmen
History
From Memory's Shrine: The Reminscences of Carmen Sylva
Sylva, Carmen
Queens -- Romania -- Biography; Sylva, Carmen, 1843-1916
I observed and learned a great deal more than anyone at that time
suspected! It was my first stay in a great city, and the first lesson it
brought home to me was that of complete acquiescence in my own
limitations, or rather in those imposed on me by circumstances, my very
modest supply of pocket-money making quite unattainable all the
splendours I saw exhibited in the shop windows. There was one lovely
doll-shop, with the most exquisite dolls, as big as real babies, and
directly I had a small sum to spend, I made my way thither, quite happy
to have a close view of all these treasures, even if I should be unable
to purchase any of them. And in truth, it was just the tiniest wax-doll
of all that the contents of my small purse could buy--but such a lovely
one, in a dear little tiny bed with curtains of rose-coloured silk,
through which the rosy light streamed over the delicate little wax face.
How I loved that doll! It looked just like a little princess in a fairy
tale, or a fairy itself, sleeping there in the beautiful rose-coloured
light. None of the bigger, grander dolls could have appealed to my
imagination as did this little one. After all it is on _that_--on the
part played by their own imagination, that chiefly depends the amount of
pleasure children get out of their toys, and those that are in
proportion to their own diminutive scale and on a level with their
simple requirements, appeal to them far more than others, chiefly
remarkable for their magnitude and costliness. Lively as I was, I took
the very greatest care of all my toys, treating them as if they were
animate, sentient objects, so that I was in despair if any of them got
broken or hurt. Demonstrations of affection never being encouraged, in
fact being rather sternly repressed in our family, all my pent up
tenderness poured itself out on my dolls and also on my little
horse-hair pillow which I used to hug and kiss in gratitude every night
before going to sleep. It was all the dearer to me, because it was not
taken with us on our journeys, and as I was not allowed to sleep on a
down pillow, I generally, when we were away from home, had to do without
altogether, which was by no means pleasant. Notwithstanding--or perhaps
in consequence of this severe training,--having always been accustomed
in my youth to sleep on a rather hard thin mattress stretched on a very
narrow camp bedstead, I have grown somewhat more luxurious in that
respect in my later years, and can hardly now be too softly pillowed in
order to rest at ease. It is as if there were a sort of reaction,--a
revolt of human nature against unnecessary and useless hardships
imposed,--a lassitude of the whole frame to which some slight measure of
indulgence must be accorded. Not in the matter of the palate though!
Naturally abstemious, the habits of my youth still prevail with me there
to such an extent, that to this day I prefer a slice of good wholesome
black bread to all the daintiest, most skilfully prepared dishes in the
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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