If she noticed none of us was really excited by
that grand dollhouse, she didn't comment. With
laughter, and gay charm, she knelt on the floor and sat
back on her heels, and told us of how very much she
used to love this dollhouse.
"It is very valuable, too," she gushed. "On the
right market, a dollhouse like this would bring a
fabulous fortune. Just the miniature porcelain dolls
with the moveable joints alone are priceless, their
faces all hand-painted. The dolls are made in scale to
the house, as is the furniture, the paintings--
everything, in fact. The house was handcrafted by an
artist who lived in England. Each chair, table, bed,
lamp, chandelier--all are genuine reproductions of
antiques. I understand it took the craftsman twelve
years to complete this.
"Look at how the little doors open and close, perfectly hung--which is more than you can say for the house you're living in," she went on. "And all the drawers slide in and out. There's a tiny little key to lock the desk, and look how some of the doors slide into the walls--pocket doors, they are called. I wish this house had doors like that; I don't know why they went out of fashion. And see the hand-carved moldings near the ceiling, and the wainscoting in the dining room and library--and the teensy books on the shelves. Believe it or not, if you have a microscope,
you can read the text!"
She demonstrated with knowing, careful fingers
all the fascinations of a dollhouse only children of the
extremely wealthy could ever hope to own.
Chris, of course, had to pull out a tiny book and
hold it close to his squinting eyes, to see for himself
print so small you needed a microscope. (There was a
very special type of micro- scope he hoped to own
someday. . . and I hoped to be the one to give it to
him.)
I couldn't help but admire the skill and patience it
would take to make such small furniture. There was a
grand piano in the front parlor of the Elizabethan