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VI

GROWING-PAINS 

DAVIE DID not think it fair. He was the only boy in the family, and he was never ill. Every now and again Stella or Nancy, Essie or Joan, would develop trouble of some kind and would be straightway ordered to bed. There they would be indulged with savoury broths and toothsome custards, whilst friends and relatives would make affectionate inquiries, incidentally leaving highly coloured jellies, bags of oranges, and glorious bunches of delicious grapes. But Providence seemed to have forgotten Davie. He was never ill. No friends called to inquire with anxious solicitude concerning him. And, which was more to the point, no beautifully moulded jellies, no eggs or oranges, no tempting clusters of luscious grapes, were left with tender messages for him. Davie’s faith staggered beneath such a strain. So obvious an inequity in the eternal scheme of things shocked his inborn sense of justice. He detected a flaw in the universe. Clearly it was not fair. 

But, as so often happens when we bring an indictment against Providence, it was only Davie’s patience that was at fault. His turn came at length. He appeared one morning with a glum face and a decided limp. He could recollect no fall that would account for such discomfort ; no hockey-stick or cricket-ball had struck him. The trouble had evidently arisen from within. Father and mother exchanged anxious looks. Did I not say that Davie was the only boy? He was packed oft to bed. The doctor was sent for. Pending his arrival, the medical books were consulted on such cheerful themes as rheumatic fever and hip disease. The doctor came, said little, but remarked that he would call again next day. Davie would probably have enjoyed the chicken broth but for the fact that it suddenly occurred to him that the school sports were to be held the day after to-morrow. That tantalizing circumstance considerably discounted the value of the avalanche of oranges and grapes with which kind callers had accompanied their inquiries. 

‘I thought as much,’ observed the doctor, when he called next morning; ‘they were just growing-pains. Davie, you may get up and be off about your business!’ Davie was cheering himself hoarse at the school sports next day, and has ever since submitted to the disabilities of perfect health with heroic resignation. 

I wish that all the optimists and pessimists that ever were born could have been made to consider Davie’s growing-pains. A philosophy of growing-pains is the very thing they both need. It would put them both right. Here is our friend the optimist, striding off along the path of progress with flowers in his hand, laughter on his lips, and a heart as light as a feather. A philosophy of growing-pains will sober him. It will remind him that progress only comes by pain. The cost must be counted. Growth is frequently attended by suffering. Then, for the comfort and stimulus of the pessimist, a philosophy of growing-pains puts the case the other way round. It comes upon him as he sits — his elbows on his knees and his head buried in his hands — bemoaning the anguish of the world. To him it is like a balm and a tonic. Suffering, it explains, is the natural corollary of growth. Was it not so with Davie? An ancient Highland proverb declares that where there is pain, there is life. It is only through the travail of one age that a better can be born. To the optimist a philosophy of growing-pains will impart a new seriousness and a manlier gravity; to the pessimist it will come like the song of a lark after a crash of thunder, like sunshine after storm. Progress and pain are inseparable. 

Davie’s proud parents may consider themselves very fortunate if Davie is troubled by no growing-pains but those of the kind that sent him so abruptly to bed the other day. If he follows the normal line of development, he will certainly have others. Does not the mind grow as well as the body ? And are growing-pains unknown in that sphere of things? Is not the process of intellectual enlightenment frequently attended by the unsightly and distressing malady generally known as swelled head? The growth of knowledge leads to the temporary assumption of omniscience; and that assumption takes rank as one of the young student’s growing-pains. Davie will probably suffer in that way sooner or later. Like the aching in the arms and legs, it is merely a passing phase, but it is troublesome while it lasts. The parents who have reared a family without having been perplexed by the peculiar development usually denominated ‘the awkward age’ are to be warmly felicitated on their good fortune. Davie’s father and mother must not expect such preferential treatment. As a rule, there comes a time when growth proceeds at express speed. Everybody concerned is embarrassed by the rapid transformation. It will be a troublesome time, both for Davie himself and for his friends and relatives. The limbs lengthen by fits and starts ; clothes will never fit ; life in all its aspects becomes ungainly and uncomfortable. The youth, unaccustomed to his own dimensions, is preternaturally awkward; he is continually bumping his head and knocking things over. ‘A rapidly developing boy,’ says Dr. Sperry, ‘hardly knows what to do with himself. New emotions, ambitions, and impulses come over him faster than he can master them. He becomes restive under restraint, resents the efforts of parents and teachers to direct him, refuses to be disciplined. He wishes to be independent, and sighs for adventure and conquest,’ Davie and his parents will alike deserve our congratulations when this delicate passage has been safely negotiated. Until then, let them be very patient with one another. 

The entire progress of humanity is punctuated by growing-pains. At the outset we were hampered by no restrictions. The savage can do as he likes, he can go where he pleases, and he can have what he wants, if he have but the strength of limb to acquire and keep it. Might is right ; and he knows no restraint but the restraint imposed upon him by his own limitations. Then civilization sets in. Falling under its influence, the savage begins to feel like the mustang from the prairie that, having careered about the vastness for years, is suddenly lassooed and imprisoned and broken in and harnessed. He feels the rein being more and more tightly drawn. And the more refined and cultured he becomes, the more arbitrary are his restraints. At last he revolts. Like Davie limping to the breakfast-table, he is conscious, not of his growth, but of his suffering. But let him take courage. His pains are growing-pains. Like the fees that our fathers paid at the turnpike-gates, those sacrifices of primitive liberty are the penalty the savage pays for getting on. 

I have often regretted that Schopenhauer did not apply himself to this matter of growing-pains. It represents the missing link in his scheme of thought. Schopenhauer was a miserable man with a miserable creed. He held that we can never really attain to happiness, for the simple reason that as soon as we gain the height of our ambitions we set our affections on something higher still. We pluck the fruit towards which we have struggled so long, but because of more tempting clusters farther on it affords but meagre satisfaction. But does this prove that happiness is impossible ? Is it not rather the way in which we are lured, bit by bit, to our felicity ? 

I know a young fellow who thought he would be perfectly happy if he matriculated. He passed that examination, and it seemed quite a paltry affair. He resolved to work for his B.A. If only he were a B.A.! In due course he gained his degree ; but at the capping ceremony the superior honours of the Masters of Arts seemed to shame his poor attainments. He resolved to study for his M.A. If only he were an M.A.! Before very long he wrote those letters after his name; and to-day he holds a high position in the educational world. Now, looking back, does he regard his repeated dissatisfactions as the ruin of his happiness? Not at all! They were the stages by which he attained happiness. Had his matriculation certificate satisfied him, as it originally promised to do, he could never have become the man he is to-day. His discontent at that stage, and his aspiration towards something still higher, proved the making of him. His mortifications were incidental to his wider wisdom. His repeated dissatisfactions with his various successes were his growing-pains. If only Schopenhauer could have seen that side of the matter, from being one of the most morose and repugnant figures in the history of philosophy, it might have made him one of the cheeriest. 

Does not the history of the Church furnish further evidence of the operations of the same law ? What are we to say of the ages of bitter antagonism and cruel persecution? That story of rack and stake and thumbscrew makes sorry reading now. We admire the dauntless courage of the martyrs, but we find it hard to understand the pitiless intolerance that sent them to their doom. And yet, is it not vastly significant that we find it so difficult to project the imagination into the iron temper of that age? We look back upon that phase of the world’s religious experience much as a man in middle life looks back upon the growing-pains of his boyhood. 

The analogy is very close. An age of persecution was always an age of rapid religious development. The faith was forging ahead by leaps and bounds. And just as, when a boy is growing fast, his bones and muscles do not always keep pace with each other, so, in days of swift transition, head and heart do not always work in perfect harmony. Zeal sometimes outstrips judgement. Valour is more noticeable than discretion. Under such conditions a crisis is easily precipitated. The sufferings of the martyrs were the growing-pains of the Church. 

Harry Seldon is a great friend of mine ; but, quite recently, he was terribly worried about one feature of his deeper experience. He is not as radiantly happy as he used to be. Years ago his faith was a perfect ecstasy to him. He could scarcely cease from song. But now those rapturous and tumultuous emotions never visit him. Those of us who know him have marked with admiration his development in other respects. In all his dealings he is more scrupulously conscientious; in all his utterances he is more considerate of the susceptibilities of others; in all his ways he is more chivalrous, more unselfish, more gentlemanly, and more winsome; in all his judgements he is more charitable and more kind. But, for all that, he often deplores the loss of his earlier rapture. We catch him singing Cowper’s hymn: 

Where is the blessedness I knew
When first I saw the Lord?
Where is the soul-refreshing view
Of Jesus and His Word ? 

But one day, not long ago, we went for a holiday together. We motored away through miles and miles of bush, and passed some of our great Australian orchards. After the quiet green of the bush, the orchards, which were in full bloom, broke upon us like a dazzling riot of colour. As far as we could see, it was a glorious pageant of pink petals. Then we plunged into the bush once more, and soon reached the lonely beach by which we camped and fished, sauntered and shot. A fortnight later we motored back again, but when we came to the great orchard country our eyes were not again dazzled. The blossom had all fallen and blown away. I asked Harry if he thought the trees had fallen from grace. Were they not nearer to fruition than they were before ? And is not the fruit the thing that matters ? And he saw then that the shedding of the blossom was the growing-pain of the fruit-tree.