Life's Minor Collisions

by Frances Lester Warner; Gertrude Chandler Warner

Now, one would think that a moment like this would be jolly even for the cause of laughter in others. But it was not. Kate knew that they had been laughing before the note reached her, and she was hurt. If they loved her as she loved them, they would not want to laugh. She set her jaw like iron, and looked straight ahead. This started them all off again. With the instinct of a well-trained elder sister, she knew that if she wanted any peace she ought to turn and smile and nod cordially all down the row, as at a reception. But it was too late for that. She had taken the proud line, and she would follow it.

As her expression grew more austere, the boys grew more convulsed. Aloof now, cut off from her kin entirely, she sat seething. Floods of scarlet anger drowned the sermon's end. The closing hymn was given out, but she declined the offered half of her brother's hymnal. “Tell Kate she can open it now,” telegraphed one of the boys as the congregation began to sing. Here was Kate's chance to unbend and join the group and nod and smile again, but she was too far gone. She received the message with lifted eyebrows, and stood with cold pure profile averted until after the benediction. Then she turned away from her reeling family, and walked off in a white heat. Her anger was not at her father whose note caused the stir. She had no resentment toward him at all. If one's mouth is open, one would wish to be advised of the fact. Her feeling was the mighty wrath of the person who has been laughed at before being told the joke. Unwilling to face her family, she went up to take dinner at her grandmother's house, that refuge for all broken hearts.

After dinner, Kate looked out of the window and saw her family coming up the drive. They filed into the house and gathered in a group. “I think,” said one of the boys, “that in the cause of friendship we owe Kate an apology.”

The grand manner of formal apology from one's relatives is the most disarming thing in the world. Friendly conversation flowed back into the normal at once. But it was years before it was quite safe for Kate to rest her chin on her hand in church.

Very often our most genuine irritations appear unreasonable to our friends. For instance, why should people object to being called by each other's names? Two brilliant young lawyers once developed animosity against each other because their names Stacey and Stanton were constantly interchanged. Children suffer from this sort of thing continually; grown people tend to confuse brothers and to call them by one another's names promiscuously. We may love our brother tenderly, and yet not like to be confounded with him. Even parents sometimes make slips. The smallest boy in a lively family had a mother who used to call the roll of all her children's names, absent-mindedly, before she hit upon the right one. Consequently, the smallest boy learned to respond to the names George, Alice, Christine, and Amos. But the thing had happened to him once too often. One morning he came down to breakfast with a large square of cardboard pinned to his bosom; and on the placard in large letters was printed the word “Henry.” Rather go through life with a tag around his neck than be called Alice any more.

All these capricious facts about irritability rather explode the old adage that it takes two to make a quarrel. If we are really on the rampage, the other person may be a perfect pacifist and still call down our ire. We can make the hot-foot excursion to the heights of madness, for instance, when a friend with whom we are arguing whistles softly away to himself while we talk. Even worse is the person who sings a gay little aria after we are through. In the presence of such people, we feel like the college girl who became annoyed with her room-mate, and, reflecting prudently upon the inconveniences of open war, rushed out of the room and down the stairs to relieve her feelings by slamming the front door. She tore open the great door with violent hands, braced it wide, and flung it together with all her might. But there was no crash. It was the kind of door that shuts with an air-valve, and it closed gradually, tranquilly, like velvet; a perfect lady of a door. People who sing and hum and whistle softly to themselves while we rage, are like that door.

Knowing that human beings are occasionally irritable, that they can recover from their irritation, and that we can also recover from ours, why is it that we ever hold resentment long? Some people, like soap-stones, hold their heat longer than others; but the mildest of us, even after we have quite cooled off, sometimes find ourselves warming up intermittently at the mere memory of the fray. We are like the old lady who said that she could forgive and forget, but she couldn't help thinking about it. We love our friend as much as ever, but one or two of the things he said to us do stay in mind. The dumb animals have an immense advantage over us in this regard. They may be able to communicate, but their language has presumably fewer descriptive adjectives than ours. Words spoken in the height of irritation are easily memorized. They have an epigrammatic swing, and a racy Anglo-Saxon flavor all their own. Unless we are ready to discount them entirely, they come into our minds in our pleasantest moods, checking our impulses of affection, and stiffening our cordial ways.

On this account, the very proud and the very young sometimes let a passing rancor estrange a friend. When we are young, and fresh from much novel-reading, we are likely to think of love as a frail and perishable treasure—something like a rare vase, delicate, and perfect as it stands. One crash destroys it forever. But love that involves the years is not a frail and finished crystal. It is a growing thing. It is not even a simple growing thing, like a tree. A really durable friendship is a varied homelike country full of growing things. We cannot destroy it and throw it away. We can even have a crackling bonfire there without burning up the world. Fire is dangerous, but not final.

Of course, it is in our power to let a single conflagration spoil all our love, if we burn the field all over and sow it with salt, and refuse to go there ever again. But after the fires have gone down on the waste tract, the stars wheel over and the quiet moon comes out—and forever afterwards we have to skirt hastily around that territory in our thought. It is still there, the place that once was home.

Perhaps it is trifling and perverse to be harking back to nature and to childhood for parables. But sometimes there is reassurance in the simplest things. The real war-god in our own family was Geoffrey, and Barbara was his prophet. Many a doughty battle they waged when they both happened to be in the mood. Whenever Barbara wanted a little peace, she used to take her dolls to the attic, saying to our mother as she went, “K. G.” This meant, “Keep Geoffrey.” But one time Barbara was very ill. Geoffrey was afraid that she was going to die, and showered her with attentions assiduously. He even gathered flowers for her every day. The trained nurse was much impressed. One afternoon, when the crisis was passed, the nurse told Geoffrey that she thought that he was very sweet, indeed, to his little sick sister. Geoffrey was squatting on the arm of the sofa, watching Barbara with speculative eye. He considered this new light on his character for a moment, and then remarked, “Well, you just wait until she gets her strength.”