MY MAKINGMemoirsof a London DollCHAPTER IMY MAKING
MY MAKING
Memoirsof a London Doll
Ina large, dusky room, at the top of a dusky house in one of the dusky streets of High Holborn, there lived a poor doll-maker, whose name was Sprat. He was an extremely small man for his age, and not altogether unlike a sprat in the face. He was always dressed in a sort of tightpinafore and trousers, all in one, that fitted close to his body; and this dress was nearly covered with dabs of paint, especially white paint, of which he used most in his work. His family consisted of his wife and three children—two boys and a girl.
This poor family had but one room, which was at the top of the house. It had no ceiling, but only beams and tiles. It was the workshop by day, and the bedroom at night. In the morning, as the children lay in bed, looking up, they could see the light through the chinks in the tiles; and when they went to bed in the evening, they could often feel the wind come down, and breathe its cool breath under their night-caps. Along the wall on one side of the room, farthest from the windows, the beds were laid upon the floor; the largest was for the poor, sprat-faced doll-maker and his wife; the next largest was for the two boys, and the smallest, up in the corner,was for the little girl. There were two windows opposite; and a wooden bench, like a long kitchen dresser, extended from one side of the room to the other, close to these windows. Here all the work was done.
This bench was covered with all manner of things—such as little wooden legs and arms, and wooden heads without hair, and small bodies, and half legs and half arms, which had not yet been fitted together in the joints, and paint pots and painting brushes, and bits of paper and rags of all colors; and there were tools for cutting and polishing, and very small hammers, and several old pill-boxes full of little wooden pegs, and corners of scouring paper, and small wooden boxes and trays full of little glass eyes, and glue pots and bits of wax and bits of leather, and a small red pipkin for melting wax, and another for melting India rubber, and a broken teacup for varnish, and several tiny, round bladders, and tiny, tinboxes, all full of things very precious to Mr. Sprat in his business.
All the family worked at doll-making, and were very industrious. Mr. Sprat was of course the great manager and doer of most things, and always the finisher, but Mrs. Sprat was also clever in her department, which was entirely that of the eyes. She either painted the eyes, or else, for the superior class of dolls, fitted in the glass ones. She, moreover, always painted the eyebrows, and was so used to it, that she could make exactly the same sort of arch when it was late in the evening and nearly dark, before candles were lighted. The eldest boy painted hair, or fitted and glued hair on to the heads of the best dolls. The second boy fitted half legs and arms together, by pegs at the joints. The little girl did nothing but paint rosy cheeks and lips, which she always did very nicely, though sometimes she made them rather too red, and looking as if very hot, or blushing extremely.
Now Mr. Sprat was very ingenious and clever in his business as a doll-maker. He was able to make dolls of various kinds, even of wax, or of a sort of composition; and sometimes he did make a few of such materials; but his usual business was to make jointed dolls—dolls that could move their legs and arms in many positions—and these were of course made of wood. Of this latter material I was manufactured.
The first thing I recollect of myself was a kind of a pegging, and pushing, and scraping, and twisting, and tapping down at both sides of me, above and below. These latter operations were the fitting on of my legs and arms. Then I passed into the hands of the most gentle of all the Sprat family, and felt something delightfully warm laid upon my cheeks and mouth. It was the little girl, who was painting me a pair of rosy cheeks and lips; and her face, as she bent over me, was the first object of life that my eyes distinctlysaw. The face was a smiling one, and as I looked up at it I tried to smile too, but I felt some hard material over the outside of my face, which my smile did not seem able to get through, so I do not think the little girl perceived it.
I Was So Frightened!I Was So Frightened! I Thought He Would Break Something Off Me!
I Was So Frightened! I Thought He Would Break Something Off Me!
I Was So Frightened! I Thought He Would Break Something Off Me!
But the last thing done to me was by Mr. Sprat himself, whose funny, white face and round eyes I could now see. He turned me about and about in his hands, examining and trying my legs and arms, which he moved backwards and forwards, and up and down, to my great terror, and fixed my limbs in various attitudes. I was so frightened! I thought he would break something off me. However, nothing happened, and when he was satisfied that I was a complete doll in all parts, he hung me up on a line that ran along the room overhead, extending from one wall to the other, and near to the two beams that also extended from wall to wall. I hung upon the line to dry, in company with many other dolls, both boys and girls, but mostly girls. The tops of the beams were also covered with dolls, all of whom, like those on the lines, were waiting there till their paint or varnish had properly dried and hardened. I passed the time in observing what was going on in the room under my line, and also the contents of the room, not forgetting my numerous little companions, who were smiling and staring, or sleeping, round about me.
Mr. Sprat was a doll-maker only; he never made doll’s clothes. He said that was not work for an artist like him. So in about a week, when I was properly dry, and the varnish of my complexion thoroughly hardened and like enamel, Mr. Sprat took me down—examined me all over for the last time—and then, nodding his head to himself several times, with a face of seriousness and satisfaction, as much as to say, ‘You are a doll fit in all respects for the most polished society,’—he handed me to his wife, who wrapped me up in silver paper, all but the head,and laying me in a basket among nine others, papered up in the same way, she carried me off to a large doll-shop not far from the corner of New Turnstile in High Holborn.