Heart/The Quarrel
THE QUARREL
Monday, 26th.
It was not out of envy, because he got the prize and I did not, that I quarrelled with Coretti this morning. No, it was not out of envy. Still I was in the wrong. The teacher had placed him beside me, and I was writing in my copy-book when he jogged my elbow and made me blot and soil the monthly story, Blood of Romagna, which I was to copy for the “little mason”, who is ill. I got angry, and said a rude word to him.
He replied, with a smile, “I did not do it on purpose.”
I should have believed him, because I know him; but it displeased me that he should smile, and I thought: “Oh! now that he has had a prize, he has grown saucy!”; and a little while afterwards, to revenge myself, I gave him a jog which made him spoil his page.
Then, all crimson with wrath, “You did that on purpose,” he said to me, and raised his hand. The teacher saw it; he drew it back. But he added: “I shall wait for you outside!”
I felt ill at ease; my wrath had simmered away; I repented. No; Coretti could not have done it intentionally. He is good, I thought. I recalled how I had seen him in his own home; how he had worked and helped his sick mother; and then how heartily he had been welcomed in my house; and how he had pleased my father. What would I not have given not to have said that word to him; not to have insulted him! And I thought of the advice that my father had given to me: “Have you done wrong?”—“Yes.”—“Then beg his pardon.” But this I did not dare to do; I was ashamed to humiliate myself. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, and I saw his coat ripped on the shoulder,—perhaps because he had carried too much wood,—and I felt that I loved him. I said to myself, “Courage!” But the words, “pardon me,” stuck in my throat.
He looked at me askance from time to time, but seemed more grieved than angry. And I looked crossly at him, to show him that I was not afraid.
He repeated, “We shall meet outside!” And I said, “We shall meet outside!” But I was thinking of what my father had once said to me, “If you are in the wrong, defend yourself, but do not fight.”
And I said to myself, “I will defend myself, but I will not fight.” But I was discontented, and I no longer listened to the master.
At last the moment of dismissal arrived. When I was alone in the street I perceived that he was following me. I stopped and waited for him, ruler in hand. He came up; I raised my ruler.
“No, Enrico,” he said, with his kindly smile, waving the ruler aside with his hand; “let us be friends again, as before.”
I stood still in amazement, and then I felt what seemed to be a push on my shoulders, and I found myself in his arms.
He kissed me, and said: “We'll have no more quarrels, will we?”
“Never again! never again!” I replied. And we parted content. But when I went home, and told my father all about it, thinking to give him pleasure, his face clouded over, and he said:—
“You should have been the first to offer your hand, since you were in the wrong.” Then he added, “You should not raise your ruler at a comrade who is better than you are—at the son of a soldier!”; and snatching the ruler from my hand, he broke it in two, and hurled it against the wall.