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Ceres’ Runaway & Other Essays

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<h2>THE CHILD OF SUBSIDING TUMULT</h2> There is a certain year that is winged, as it were, against the flight of time; it does so move, and yet withstands time’s movement.  It is full of pauses that are due to the energy of change, has bounds and rebounds, and when it is most active then it is longest.  It is not long with languor.  It has room for remoteness, and leisure for oblivion.  It takes great excursions against time, and travels so as to enlarge its hours.  This certain year is any one of the early years of fully conscious life, and therefore it is of all the dates.  The child of Tumult has been living amply and changefully through such a year—his eighth.  It is difficult to believe that his is a year of the self-same date as that of the adult, the men who do not breast their days. For them is the inelastic, or but slightly elastic, movement of things.  Month matched with month shows a fairly equal length.  Men and women never travel far from yesterday; nor is their morrow in a distant light.  There is recognition and familiarity between their seasons.  But the Child of Tumult has infinite prospects in his year.  Forgetfulness and surprise set his east and his west at immeasurable distance.  His Lethe runs in the cheerful sun.  You look on your own little adult year, and in imagination enlarge it, because you know it to be the contemporary of his.  Even she who is quite old, if she have a vital fancy, may face a strange and great extent of a few years of her life still to come—his years, the years she is to live at his side. Reason seems to be making good her rule in this little boy’s life, not so much by slow degrees as by sudden and fitful accessions.  His speech is yet so childish that he chooses, for a toy, with blushes of pleasure, “a little duck what can walk”; but with a beautifully clear accent he greets his mother with the colloquial question, “Well, darling, do you know the latest?”  “The what?”  “The latest: do you know the latest?”  And then he tells his news, generally, it must be owned, with some reference to his own wrongs.  On another occasion the unexpected little phrase was varied; the news of the war then raging distressed him; a thousand of the side he favoured had fallen.  The child then came to his mother’s room with the question: “Have you heard the saddest?”  Moreover the “saddest” caused him several fits of perfectly silent tears, which seized him during the day, on his walks or at other moments of recollection.  From such great causes arise such little things!  Some of his grief was for the nation he admired, and some was for the triumph of his brother, whose sympathies were on the other side, and who perhaps did not spare his sensibilities. The tumults of a little child’s passions of anger and grief, growing fewer as he grows older, rather increase than lessen in their painfulness.  There is a fuller consciousness of complete capitulation of all the childish powers to the overwhelming compulsion of anger.  This is not temptation; the word is too weak for the assault of a child’s passion upon his will.  That little will is taken captive entirely, and before the child was seven he knew that it was so.  Such a consciousness leaves all babyhood behind and condemns the child to suffer.  For a certain passage of his life he is neither unconscious of evil, as he was, nor strong enough to resist it, as he will be.  The time of the subsiding of the tumult is by no means the least pitiable of the phases of human life.  Happily the recovery from each trouble is ready and sure; so that the child who had been abandoned to naughtiness with all his will in an entire consent to the gloomy possession of his anger, and who had later undergone a haggard repentance, has his captivity suddenly turned again, “like rivers in the south.”  “Forget it,” he had wept, in a kind of extremity of remorse; “forget it, darling, and don’t, don’t be sad;” and it is he, happily, who forgets.  The wasted look of his pale face is effaced by the touch of a single cheerful thought, and five short minutes can restore the ruin, as though a broken little German town should in the twinkling of an eye be restored as no architect could restore it—should be made fresh, strong, and tight again, looking like a full box of toys, as a town was wont to look in the new days of old. When his ruthless angers are not in possession the child shows the growth of this tardy reason that—quickened—is hereafter to do so much for his peace and dignity, by the sweetest consideration.  Denied a second handful of strawberries, and seeing quite clearly that the denial was enforced reluctantly, he makes haste to reply, “It doesn’t matter, darling.”  At any sudden noise in the house his beautiful voice, with all its little difficulties of pronunciation, is heard with the sedulous reassurance: “It’s all right, mother, nobody hurted ourselves!”  He is not surprised so as to forget this gentle little duty, which was never required of him, but is of his own devising. According to the opinion of his dear and admired American friend, he says all these things, good and evil, with an English accent; and at the American play his English accent was irrepressible.  “It’s too comic; no, it’s too comic,” he called in his enjoyment; being the only perfectly fearless child in the world, he will not consent to the conventional shyness in public, whether he be the member of an audience or of a congregation, but makes himself perceptible.  And even when he has a desperate thing to say, in the moment of absolute revolt—such a thing as “I can’t like you, mother,” which anon he will recant with convulsions of distress—he has to “speak the thing he will,” and when he recants it is not for fear. If such a child could be ruled (or approximately ruled, for inquisitorial government could hardly be so much as attempted) by some small means adapted to his size and to his physical aspect, it would be well for his health, but that seems at times impossible.  By no effort can his elders altogether succeed in keeping tragedy out of the life that is so unready for it.  Against great emotions no one can defend him by any forethought.  He is their subject; and to see him thus devoted and thus wrung, thus wrecked by tempests inwardly, so that you feel grief has him actually by the heart, recalls the reluctance—the question—wherewith you perceive the interior grief of poetry or of a devout life.  Cannot the Muse, cannot the Saint, you ask, live with something less than this?  If this is the truer life, it seems hardly supportable.  In like manner it should be possible for a child of seven to come through his childhood with griefs that should not so closely involve him, but should deal with the easier sentiments. Despite all his simplicity, the child has (by way of inheritance, for he has never heard them) the self-excusing fictions of our race.  Accused of certain acts of violence, and unable to rebut the charge with any effect, he flies to the old convention: “I didn’t know what I was doing,” he avers, using a great deal of gesticulation to express the temporary distraction of his mind.  “Darling, after nurse slapped me as hard as she could, I didn’t know what I was doing, so I suppose I pushed her with my foot.”  His mother knows as well as does Tolstoi that men and children know what they are doing, and are the more intently aware as the stress of feeling makes the moments more tense; and she will not admit a plea which her child might have learned from the undramatic authors he has never read. Far from repenting of her old system of rewards, and far from taking fright at the name of a bribe, the mother of the Child of Tumult has only to wish she had at command rewards ample and varied enough to give the shock of hope and promise to the heart of the little boy, and change his passion at its height. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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