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Ceres’ Runaway & Other Essays

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<h2>THE CHILD OF TUMULT</h2> A poppy bud, packed into tight bundles by so hard and resolute a hand that the petals of the flower never afterwards lose the creases, is a type of the child.  Nothing but the unfolding, which is as yet in the non-existing future, can explain the manner of the close folding of character.  In both flower and child it looks much as though the process had been the reverse of what it was—as though a finished and open thing had been folded up into the bud—so plainly and certainly is the future implied, and the intention of compressing and folding-close made manifest. With the other incidents of childish character, the crowd of impulses called “naughtiness” is perfectly perceptible—it would seem heartless to say how soon.  The naughty child (who is often an angel of tenderness and charm, affectionate beyond the capacity of his fellows, and a very ascetic of penitence when the time comes) opens early his brief campaigns and raises the standard of revolt as soon as he is capable of the desperate joys of disobedience. But even the naughty child is an individual, and must not be treated in the mass.  He is numerous indeed, but not general, and to describe him you must take the unit, with all his incidents and his organic qualities as they are.  Take then, for instance, one naughty child in the reality of his life.  He is but six years old, slender and masculine, and not wronged by long hair, curls, or effeminate dress.  His face is delicate and too often haggard with tears of penitence that Justice herself would be glad to spare him.  Some beauty he has, and his mouth especially is so lovely as to seem not only angelic but itself an angel.  He has absolutely no self-control and his passions find him without defence.  They come upon him in the midst of his usual brilliant gaiety and cut short the frolic comedy of his fine spirits. Then for a wild hour he is the enemy of the laws.  If you imprison him, you may hear his resounding voice as he takes a running kick at the door, shouting his justification in unconquerable rage.  “I’m good now!” is made as emphatic as a shot by the blow of his heel upon the panel.  But if the moment of forgiveness is deferred, in the hope of a more promising repentance, it is only too likely that he will betake himself to a hostile silence and use all the revenge yet known to his imagination.  “Darling mother, open the door!” cries his touching voice at last; but if the answer should be “I must leave you for a short time, for punishment,” the storm suddenly thunders again.  “There (crash!) I have broken a plate, and I’m glad it is broken into such little pieces that you can’t mend it.  I’m going to break the ’lectric light.”  When things are at this pass there is one way, and only one, to bring the child to an overwhelming change of mind; but it is a way that would be cruel, used more than twice or thrice in his whole career of tempest and defiance.  This is to let him see that his mother is troubled.  “Oh, don’t cry!  Oh, don’t be sad!” he roars, unable still to deal with his own passionate anger, which is still dealing with him.  With his kicks of rage he suddenly mingles a dance of apprehension lest his mother should have tears in her eyes.  Even while he is still explicitly impenitent and defiant he tries to pull her round to the light that he may see her face.  It is but a moment before the other passion of remorse comes to make havoc of the helpless child, and the first passion of anger is quelled outright. Only to a trivial eye is there nothing tragic in the sight of these great passions within the small frame, the small will, and, in a word, the small nature.  When a large and sombre fate befalls a little nature, and the stage is too narrow for the action of a tragedy, the disproportion has sometimes made a mute and unexpressed history of actual life or sometimes a famous book; it is the manifest core of George Eliot’s story of Adam Bede, where the suffering of Hetty is, as it were, the eye of the storm.  All is expressive around her, but she is hardly articulate; the book is full of words—preachings, speeches, daily talk, aphorisms, but a space of silence remains about her in the midst of the story.  And the disproportion of passion—the inner disproportion—is at least as tragic as that disproportion of fate and action; it is less intelligible, and leads into the intricacies of nature which are more difficult than the turn of events. It seems, then, that this passionate play is acted within the narrow limits of a child’s nature far oftener than in those of an adult and finally formed nature.  And this, evidently, because there is unequal force at work within a child, unequal growth and a jostling of powers and energies that are hurrying to their development and pressing for exercise and life.  It is this helpless inequality—this untimeliness—that makes the guileless comedy mingling with the tragedies of a poor child’s day.  He knows thus much—that life is troubled around him and that the fates are strong.  He implicitly confesses “the strong hours” of antique song.  This same boy—the tempestuous child of passion and revolt—went out with quiet cheerfulness for a walk lately, saying as his cap was put on, “Now, mother, you are going to have a little peace.”  This way of accepting his own conditions is shared by a sister, a very little older, who, being of an equal and gentle temper, indisposed to violence of every kind and tender to all without disquiet, observes the boy’s brief frenzies as a citizen observes the climate.  She knows the signs quite well and can at any time give the explanation of some particular outburst, but without any attempt to go in search of further or more original causes.  Still less is she moved by the virtuous indignation that is the least charming of the ways of some little girls.  Elle ne fait que constater.  Her equanimity has never been overset by the wildest of his moments, and she has witnessed them all.  It is needless to say that she is not frightened by his drama, for Nature takes care that her young creatures shall not be injured by sympathies.  Nature encloses them in the innocent indifference that preserves their brains from the more harassing kinds of distress. Even the very frenzy of rage does not long dim or depress the boy.  It is his repentance that makes him pale, and Nature here has been rather forced, perhaps—with no very good result.  Often must a mother wish that she might for a few years govern her child (as far as he is governable) by the lowest motives—trivial punishments and paltry rewards—rather than by any kind of appeal to his sensibilities.  She would wish to keep the words “right” and “wrong” away from his childish ears, but in this she is not seconded by her lieutenants.  The child himself is quite willing to close with her plans, in so far as he is able, and is reasonably interested in the results of her experiments.  He wishes her attempts in his regard to have a fair chance.  “Let’s hope I’ll be good all to-morrow,” he says with the peculiar cheerfulness of his ordinary voice.  “I do hope so, old man.”  “Then I’ll get my penny.  Mother, I was only naughty once yesterday; if I have only one naughtiness to-morrow, will you give me a halfpenny?”  “No reward except for real goodness all day long.”  “All right.” It is only too probable that this system (adopted only after the failure of other ways of reform) will be greatly disapproved as one of bribery.  It may, however, be curiously inquired whether all kinds of reward might not equally be burlesqued by that word, and whether any government, spiritual or civil, has ever even professed to deny rewards.  Moreover, those who would not give a child a penny for being good will not hesitate to fine him a penny for being naughty, and rewards and punishments must stand or fall together.  The more logical objection will be that goodness is ideally the normal condition, and that it should have, therefore, no explicit extraordinary result, whereas naughtiness, being abnormal, should have a visible and unusual sequel.  To this the rewarding mother may reply that it is not reasonable to take “goodness” in a little child of strong passions as the normal condition.  The natural thing for him is to give full sway to impulses that are so violent as to overbear his powers. But, after all, the controversy returns to the point of practice.  What is the thought, or threat, or promise that will stimulate the weak will of the child, in the moment of rage and anger, to make a sufficient resistance?  If the will were naturally as well developed as the passions, the stand would be soon made and soon successful; but as it is there must needs be a bracing by the suggestion of joy or fear.  Let, then, the stimulus be of a mild and strong kind at once, and mingled with the thought of distant pleasure.  To meet the suffering of rage and frenzy by the suffering of fear is assuredly to make of the little unquiet mind a battle-place of feelings too hurtfully tragic.  The penny is mild and strong at once, with its still distant but certain joys of purchase; the promise and hope break the mood of misery, and the will takes heart to resist and conquer. It is only in the lesser naughtiness that he is master of himself.  The lesser the evil fit the more deliberate.  So that his mother, knowing herself to be not greatly feared, once tried to mimic the father’s voice with a menacing, “What’s that noise?”  The child was persistently crying and roaring on an upper floor, in contumacy against his French nurse, when the baritone and threatening question was sent pealing up the stairs.  The child was heard to pause and listen and then to say to his nurse, “Ce n’est pas Monsieur; c’est Madame,” and then, without further loss of time, to resume the interrupted clamours. Obviously, with a little creature of six years, there are two things mainly to be done—to keep the delicate brain from the evil of the present excitement, especially the excitement of painful feeling, and to break the habit of passion.  Now that we know how certainly the special cells of the brain which are locally affected by pain and anger become hypertrophied by so much use, and all too ready for use in the future at the slightest stimulus, we can no longer slight the importance of habit.  Any means, then, that can succeed in separating a little child from the habit of anger does fruitful work for him in the helpless time of his childhood.  The work is not easy, but a little thought should make it easy for the elders to avoid the provocation which they—who should ward off provocations—are apt to bring about by sheer carelessness.  It is only in childhood that our race knows such physical abandonment to sorrow and tears, as a child’s despair; and the theatre with us must needs copy childhood if it would catch the note and action of a creature without hope. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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