CHAPTER III.
HOW THEY ARE BROKEN.
n all friendships which ultimately cease to exist there comes the point of departure as in the capital letter Y; the point where the two before united friends separate and continue their lives in different directions.
At first the division between them is a very narrow one, but it widens and stretches out till the two wholly lose sight of each other. Of this I have already spoken as the drifting apart of friends; the gradual cooling of once warm friendship.
But it has another kind of conclusion as abrupt and final as the termination of the capital letter I, of which no continuance is possible.
It was difficult in the first instance to say just where the separation between the friends began, but here there can be no mistake, and very often not only the girls themselves but their relations and acquaintances know that there has been a quarrel.
The letters and meetings do not become shorter and fewer, they cease; or if circumstances do not allow of this—for their respective families do not necessarily quarrel too—they become noticeably forced and frigid, and, if possible, avoided. There is a sore feeling on both sides which those who tranquilly drifted apart never experienced. The friendship has broken off short, as it were, there has been no period of preparation for this sudden issue, and both girls are wounded; though whether it be in their affection, dignity, or self-love, the cause of estrangement and character of each must determine.
It is impossible to sever all at once the many links which bind friend and friend; and the consciousness that it is so, and that for many a day after their quarrel they must stand connected, often adds to the pain and bitterness they feel.
Now, what are the causes of these complete separations, or, to put it more correctly, complete alienations?
Death is, of course, a final interruption to friendship, but does not mean alienation. Our dear dead friend is ours still, in a sense. We know that the dead in Christ have a conscious existence, and feel convinced they do not forget, but continue to love us; and looking forward to a reunion some day, we cannot feel that our friendship is broken. A friendship interrupted by death seems to me to be only purified and elevated, and when the thought arises, as it often will: “What would she say to this? how would she advise on that?” the certainty that her opinions must now be always ranged on the side of what conscience tells us is right must tend to draw us upward and onward.
Yes, the severance of death is not complete, but what are we to say of the severance of pride or jealousy?
It is, unfortunately, true that many a girl, as well as her elders, cannot bear to feel herself second, and because her friend is prettier, cleverer, or it may be more fortunate, then she manages to quarrel with her.
She does not acknowledge that such is the reason, of course; even if she be conscious that it is so, she does not give it the true name, but, “I am not always going to dance attendance on Louisa”—“Louisa comes to me when she can get no one else, and I won’t put up with it”—“I don’t see why Louisa should expect me always to go to her, and never come to me,” and so on, until an irritated feeling against Louisa is produced; and the two come to an open rupture.
If Louisa is indeed the superior of the two she has probably taken the first place unconsciously, and a slight to her friend is the last thing she dreams of. She feels the reproaches are unmerited, replies hotly, or contemptuously, and the breach is made.
The friendship was, of course, a very imperfect one, or it could not have been so easily broken. I don’t think the girl who felt herself slighted and aggrieved could have given her friend much help or sympathy for some time before the quarrel began.
“Ah, but,” someone exclaims, “perhaps she could not help and sympathise with such a superior creature as Louisa.”
“Then,” I reply, “the friendship was too unequal to last long.” Not that I mean for a moment to insist that two friends ought to be on a level in every particular, but each should be superior in turn. It won’t do for one always to be able to look down. If the other is meek and submissive it creates a one-sided friendship; if she happens to be high-spirited or mean-spirited, a quarrel. So that if your friend either is, or considers herself, your superior in everything, or if you will not allow that she is superior to you in anything, look out for the breach that is sure to come.
And these breaches are not such as can be healed. The one most in fault is sure to be the one who thinks herself injured, so that the necessary first step is never taken. The friendship may indeed be patched up for awhile, but it is never reliable again, for the simple reason that girls who can quarrel once for such causes are quite certain to do so again.
Friends are alienated, too, by a misunderstanding, and the beginnings of these are often so far in the past that it is almost impossible to find them. What very slight things occasion a misunderstanding which in course of time may kill a friendship! A trifling neglect, an explanation given too late, a carelessly worded speech or letter, and, above all, perhaps, conversation incorrectly repeated.
Probably the remarks made are not of sufficient importance to deserve that we ask an explanation of them, and in nine cases out of ten we don’t stop to inquire whether it is not likely they have been inaccurately reported—often by mistake—or, even if the words be right, what a difference do look and tone make!
“You wretch,” is quite a term of endearment from some people, for example; and “how mean of her to tell you,” does not sound very severe from laughing lips.
“Clara said it was very mean of you to say anything to Maria about the way she spoilt that dress of hers,” says the tale-bearer (and tale-bearers do not generally understand a joke, but take all they hear au grand sérieux). Harriet is vexed, for she thought Clara considered the spoilt dress quite a laughing matter, and would not betray her friend’s confidence for the world; still, it is not worth while to make a fuss about it, but she can’t forget it, and the next time she and Clara have a “difference” it comes out.
“You told Maria that I was mean and didn’t keep your secrets,” says Harriet.
“I did not do any such thing,” cries Clara, who has forgotten all about her careless speech, and to whom the spoilt dress had never seemed a secret.
“Well, somebody heard you.”
“Nobody could have heard what I did not say.”
“You must have said it, or it would not have been heard,” etc., etc.
And even if the two make it up now there remains a feeling of distrust of each other which is almost sure to ripen into alienation.
Misunderstandings may also be occasioned by a letter so heedlessly worded that it makes a misrepresentation.
If such a statement as that the body of the late Prince Leopold was to be “burned” at Frogmore can pass the proof-readers and appear, as it did, in a public paper, it is not much wonder if girls, in their hasty, thoughtless letters to one another, often say things quite as untrue without the smallest intention of misleading. Girls do not always write their meaning very clearly (nor other people either, for that matter), and even the omission of a comma, to say nothing of a “not” or a “sometimes,” may make all the difference in the world to a sentence.
Separations caused by misunderstandings are hard to bridge, because it is so impossible to trace them to their beginnings. We have forgotten ourselves what it was that first aroused the feeling of distrust, and because we cannot give a reason for the feeling it is probably the stronger. “I feel because I feel” is, after all, a position of great strength. But we have lost each other as in a maze whose complications are too numerous to permit of return or even exit, and here there is no man in the middle to point out the way backwards or forwards.
Interference from without, tale-bearing, and meddling generally are such obvious modes of dividing friends that I need hardly allude to them except to say that outsiders rather overlook the fact that the “third body” is nearly as much in the way between friends as between lovers. Both resent having their quarrels made up from without; the would-be healing hand is in most cases changed into that thumb about which we so often hear, and which makes a small breach a large one.
I will only now speak of one more way in which friends part utterly, and that is the parting of determined purpose for some clearly-defined reason. This is not to be done lightly, and will only—can only—be done by girls of decided character.
The reasons for such partings must lie deep, and in light, unthinking characters there is no depth to contain them. Earnest differences will often spring up on religious questions, and if their convictions or fanaticism lead them to believe such differences vital, girls will sometimes mutually agree, either tacitly or in words, to bring their friendship to a close and be in future mere acquaintances.
When two friends disagree in matters of religion, the subject is generally altogether dropped between them; and can there be a true friendship, do you think, when what is of vital interest and importance to both is entirely left out of conversation?
Minor religious differences are of no consequence; but let there be agreement in what an old woman aptly called “the fundamentals,” and this Christians of different sects can certainly manage to do.
Again, if one of the two friends pursues a line of conduct of which the other strongly disapproves, either on religious or moral grounds (not upon some strained question of ceremonial or class etiquette, remember), a total estrangement is likely to take place. I have a case of this sort in my mind at the present moment, the cause of disagreement being certain books, the reading of which one considered would injure her moral purity. A hot dispute ensued, and the girls parted. It was best they should part; they could never have been lasting friends.
Let me add but one word to this chapter of broken friendships.
Girls must remember that even a dead friendship is a sacred thing, and that its death does not loose them from the responsibility laid on them by that friendship while still alive. The secrets your friend confided in you while your friend are secrets still. You have no right to make them common property because she is no longer your friend. All she told you must be as if it were under the seal of confession. There is nothing I think more contemptible than a girl who makes use of the knowledge she acquired of another while they were friends to show her up to ridicule or scorn. It somehow reminds me of a decoy-duck. It is some satisfaction, however, to feel that such a creature gets more than all the contempt and disgust she intended for her sometime friend.
I am afraid girls lose sight of these responsibilities of friendship, and think when the last handclasp is loosened they are freed from the burden of the other’s confidence. But this is emphatically not the case. A dead friendship is a sacred thing.
(To be concluded.)