Regret
There is a face I shall never forget and a sadness with it which will never leave me. The face that haunts my mind belongs to my youth, to a time of boyish games and carelessness. I attended a small country school and my friends were the ring leaders of a small group of ignorant boys.
I had been there two years when Harold came into our class. Harold was a hunchback with a small, pale, sensitive face and a reserved manner. He talked very little and smiled even less, but when he did, his eyes lit up. It was obvious from the beginning that he cut the typical figure of an outsider in our midst. And when I think of it, how quickly did we outcast him.
Being of too frail a constitution to run, Harold could not climb trees or steal apples from neighborhood orchards with us, and little did we care about what he might be doing alone when we were at play. Harold was a good student and liked to talk with our teacher, which further alienated us. He sat for hours writing and polishing compositions, his brow burrowed as he sought to express himself.
How I would enjoy, today, hearing his opinions on ethical and moral matters that seemed of such importance to him at a young age. I had so little understanding of the value of such a friend and was so concerned with my group’s disdain for Harold, that I did not dare show him any civility. My friends were bold and irresponsible, careless and carefree; they despised Harold’s seriousness and integrity, which they thought were only the result of timorousness. The day came, however, when we would learn that he had in his frail body more courage than the rest of us.
On a dim January day, we left school early to go in search of an adventure by the local lake, and that is when I saw on Harold’s face an expression that I have remembered ever since. His eyes seemed to leave no room for his other features: they were so big and lost and desolate. They were full of immaterial hunger and uncertainty. They were the eyes of a lonely child. Suddenly, I felt a pang of remorse for the way we treated him and I wanted to show him that I had read the message in his eyes, but I was a coward in the presence of my friends and walked away without saying a word.
Usually, Harold did not follow us, but this time, he did. He had had enough of solitude and was, after all, a young boy like us and eager to play. From the corner of my eye I watched his movements as he sat down alone at a little distance. None of my friends even cast a glance in his direction. We often played risky games requiring agility and strength, and that day, we climbed up on the branches of an old tree that arched over the icy water. The winter was at its coldest and stiffened our limbs, but we climbed the slightly slimy tree with confidence and all had a shock when Larry suddenly slipped from the highest branch. Knocking his head on a lower branch, he crashed on the thin sheet of ice that covered the lake and disappeared into the water.
We were all petrified and helplessly staring in Larry’s wake when suddenly, we saw Harold diving into the lake. By the time he had, in a supreme effort, pulled Larry onto the shore with our help, two of our teachers arrived fetched by one of my friends. The teachers ordered us to go home while they looked after Harold and Larry.
The following day, we sat in our classroom quiet and subdued when our homeroom teacher arrived. In answer to our questions about Harold and Larry, he told us that Larry had minor contusions and a cold, and would soon return to school but that Harold would not be coming back. He had asked his parents to transfer him to a boarding school where he might be happier. Admiration had taken the place of contempt for Harold, but it was too late for him to know.
I never saw Harold again. Since then, I have often thought about how easy it is for those who have made someone suffer to regret what they have done, but how hard it is for someone who has suffered to believe that indifference and disdain can give way to regret.
(Written in October 1982)
