The Butcher Shop

by Jean Devanny

“Oh, Margaret, I individually have nothing to do with it. It is the wife in general. You are Barry’s slave.”

  Margaret was dumb. She looked on the common little creature who was lecturing her with a vast astonishment. Her thoughts raced tumultuously. Why, the conclusions her own experience had caused her to arrive at were being promulgated by this tawdry soul as scientific truths. Not so tawdry, then. A teacher, more like. She suddenly felt remorseful. This poor Miette, whom her regal self had despised, was of more use in the world than she. Miette might be vulgar and coarse, but if she did her “bit” as Margaret saw she tried to do, by promulgating essential knowledge, which alone can drive mankind along, she was of more use in the world than the finest product of culture and refinement. The idea came to Margaret that the relation borne by the Miettes to society was that of medicine to the human body, very disagreeable to swallow, but beneficial to the system.

  “Miette,” she asked suddenly, “what would you do if you fell in love with a man who was not your husband?”

  “I should leave my husband and live with him,” was the prompt reply.

  “But supposing you could not? Supposing you had children?”

  “Children! What about them? That wouldn’t make any difference.”

  Margaret was disappointed again. For an instant she had thought that Miette, who had uttered what experience had taught her, Margaret, was a great truth, might elucidate in some miraculous way the problem of her love. But now she saw that Miette’s vision and understanding were very limited; that she was prosy, really, and her useful field of activity very narrow. She knew what had been dinned into her, and she was useful in so far as she could, and courageously would, repeat it, but she lacked intelligence and imagination. Children presented no problem to her. She went on: “I detest children. (She had her dog cuddled up in her arms.) So does Ian. He told me that he would leave me if I had a child.”

  “What! How dreadful! Surely Ian couldn’t say such a thing like that?”

  “Couldn’t he? You ask him.”

  “I think it is horrible. I thought Ian was—was gentle and kind. Though of course he is very selfish with you.”

  When Margaret talked like that Miette would sit stupidly silent. Sometimes she would appear perplexed.

  Ian was selfish. With the selfishness of the child that thinks the world belongs to him. He was a most extraordinary man, if one so young in his mind could be called a man. His behaviour at his dinner-table showed the sort of man he was, and also threw a sidelight on his wife’s character.

  He would stand beside the table looking it over. If the comestibles displayed pleased him he would rub his hands together with a “Ha, ha!” and then, sitting down on the chair which Miette had surely placed ready for him, would poke about among the dishes with his fork and a relish. He was somewhat of a gourmet. He would say, “Be quick, missis. I must have it hot on my plate.” And Miette, trotting round him like a hen round her chick, would reply: “All right, Hub. (“Hub” or “Hubby” was her name for him. It sounded very pretty the way she said it, too.) Do you think you’ll like your dinner?”

  He would probably say: “First rate, first rate,” and fall to with a gusto, while she got her own chair and poured his tea. If the dinner did not suit him, he would be very disagreeable and push the offending food away with an order not to put it on again. Miette’s likes and dislikes received no sort of consideration. The choice bits of every dish were loaded on to his plate, and she ate the left-over bits. She waited on him hand and foot, while he ordered her about summarily. She was his servant, a most efficient one.

  She must have liked it—liked to be ordered about and trodden upon and treated like a servant. If she had been asked why, she would have replied, in the vernacular of the streets or her own quaint manner of expression: “Search me!” and a shrug, as she invariably did to puzzling questions. Certain it is that Miette could have stopped it if she had wished to. Margaret found that out very early. Miette coddled Ian’s selfishness. She nursed it. He was a babe really. Born and bred in that great city which is the hub of the universe, travelled as he was (he had spent two years travelling in the States before his marriage), he was still as simple and “unbaked” as a child. He might have lived all his days in solitude for all he had learned of life—and of woman. His nose had been glued to his studies, both professional and leisured; he had dabbled in drawing, in painting, in writing—in anything but Life, in fact. He was innocent and selfish like all innocents.

  But he was extremely sensitive and conscientious. He abhorred nastiness. He had also an exalted opinion of women and advanced views on the rights of their sex. The knowledge that woman was slave to man hurt him. He was utterly ignorant of the fact that he treated his wife as a servant. If Miette had said to him: “You are selfish. You are making a servant of me,” in a tone that showed she meant it, Longstair would have abandoned his selfish attitude at once. But Miette never by any chance led him to see his conduct in its true light. She believed that woman was man’s slave, but the belief did not at all disturb her or hurt her. She experienced no sense of outrage about it. The very suggestion of such a condition made Margaret’s blood boil with rage and sense of injustice, but Miette was—well, “philosophical” about it.

  Margaret had at first been very much annoyed by Longstair’s manner to his wife. But as time went on she could not help seeing that the niche in which the man placed Miette was exactly that which she selected for herself.

  Her stupidity irritated him also. Sometimes to the extent that his sharp words, often profane, would move her to tears. Margaret, unbeknown to him, heard him on one occasion swear most atrociously at his wife, and heard also her sobs. She was filled with rage against him, and was only prevented from bursting in on them and scolding him by a sense of delicacy regarding Miette. It was not long, however, before she became aware that Miette could, if anything, outswear her husband. She had a filthy tongue, but some time was to elapse and many events occur before Margaret knew this much. She soon learned, however, as any woman would have, that Miette hid her real self from her husband. And most skilfully she did it. She was the most natural liar and dissimulator imaginable.

  Longstair, despite his unconscious selfishness, was fond of her. He depended on her muddling servitude. He was too effeminate to be capable of a real man’s love, but until such time as he transferred his mild affections to Margaret, he was as fond of Miette as his nature permitted him to be of any woman.

  Margaret grew fond of her at first, too. Had she been a little less coarse the beautiful woman could have loved her. And Miette was undoubtedly fond of Ian. Was she not fond of all likeable men? Habit and the most intimate association had developed in her a feeling for Ian which was more than fondness. Soft and feminine as she was physically, her sensuality was that of the male, and as this was her predominant characteristic, it found Ian’s effeminacy very attractive. A day or two after meeting Margaret she told her that she, Miette, was much too passionate for Ian, he was not strong enough for her. This embarrassed Margaret very much. She was to suffer much embarrassment before she got used to Miette’s confidences.

  The latter was quite incapable of understanding the fibre of a woman like Margaret. She did not in the least imagine that her confidences were unwelcome and embarrassing to her. The subject of sex was absorbingly interesting to Miette. Margaret scarcely gave it a thought. Her mind was too normal in that respect, too healthy to do so; she was not at all afflicted with any indecent notions of the subject’s “immorality.” Miette talked about sex whenever possible, especially with men, and at such times her sensuality would manifest itself unmistakably. She would look as though she wanted to grab the man nearest to her. Longstair, himself as clean-minded as a child, laughed at Miette’s propensity for talking “sex.” He had rather weird notions on the subject himself. He had no idea whatever of his wife’s real life, so skilfully did she manage him.

  A comrade in London had once asked another if he could guess the reason why Mi
ette was in the socialist movement at all, and had been answered thus: “No need to guess, I know it. She is in the movement because of its freedom. In ordinary society she would be considered a bad egg; in ours she is simply laughed at and tolerated. She thinks she is a rebel against society; she is really only a rebel against the conventions. She doesn’t want economic freedom; she only wants promiscuity in a respectable manner.”

  The other had replied: “I believe you are right. How did she manage to get hold of Longstair?”

  “She could only ‘put it over’ a youngster like him. He was twenty-one and a babe where women were concerned. She was twenty-six and an experienced woman of the world. She was cooking in hotels; you know what that sort of life is. She is not a bad sort. I like her, and she is courageous.”

  Messenger, of all the intimates of our story, was least affected by the cousins’ intrusion into the big house. He gave their personalities very little thought at all. He was wrapped up in the station work and in his wife and children and friends. Their philosophy and the light they could throw on world politics was their interest for him.

  Margaret, moved by her spirit of hospitality and sense of relationship, gave them the run of her home. At first they stayed in their own quarters a lot, but gradually they took advantage of Margaret’s cordiality until they were sitting upon the hearth of her home, so to say. They began to come into the big dining-room each night as a matter of course, and it was from that time that the trouble started.

  First there was the annoyance of the little dog. Miette brought it into the dining-room. Margaret did not like it; no one liked it. Wee Heather was terrified of it, because of its long hair, to which she was unaccustomed in dogs, and because of its viciousness. She would scream at its approach. It really was not safe near the children, and Miette knew it, but she would not keep it away. She did not like the children, and from the first they disliked her. Margaret began to dislike her over the dog. She would parade the cur continually before the company; put it down on the couches and chairs and even the table and invite all and sundry to admire it. Out of politeness they would do so. No matter how interesting the conversation, Miette would interrupt with her eternal: “Oh, Hub, isn’t she a darling! Look, Hub, at mother’s pet!” and so on in her soft, babyish way until everyone’s nerves would be on edge.

  The children—if it was before their bedtime—would cling round their mother in fear. And this foolish mother, learning utterly to detest the stupid creature who could “mother” a dog, sat quietly and tried to be polite to her guests. Longstair, used to his wife, would not notice her. He would go on talking as though she had not spoken. Barry also would ignore her. Then she would appeal to Glengarry, Tutaki, and when they failed her, as they invariably did, she would turn to Margaret and compel her, through her courtesy, to leave the interesting conversation, in which Longstair would always be chief figure, and listen to her rubbishy claptrap about the dog. She even allowed the beast to leave its messes about the house, and when Margaret or the servants would draw her attention to this she would rush to clean it up, and in doing so leave filth smeared about. She was dirty in her habits. She upset the whole house over the dog. Margaret got complaints from all concerned. Mrs. Glengarry found it sleeping on her bed when she inadvertently left her door open. The station dogs were never allowed near the house because of fleas, but the Pomeranian shed them everywhere, and Margaret had to bear the brunt of everything.

  Simply because of her goodness of heart she put up with it. She had brought these people across the world; they were strangers in a far country, and the man was disabled. Also they were her relatives. Longstair’s injury got worse, too, if anything, and both she and Barry were anxious about him.

  Miette was anxious about him too. Sometimes she would go crying to Margaret about him, and the latter would instantly forget everything but the other’s trouble. She had to learn, too, that Miette’s tears meant just little more than nothing.

  Margaret had a boyish feeling in regard to tears. She could not resist their appeal. A woman’s or a child’s tears disarmed her utterly. At such times she would fill with sympathy and sisterly love for Miette.

  Then one evening Longstair summarily settled the matter of the dog. He had never liked it, but had put up with it because it relieved him somewhat of Miette’s “sloppiness.” She simply had to slop over something. His fondness for her did not carry him far. It could not stand the strain of her continual demands upon him any more than his weak body and comparative continence could. So he was very forbearing about the dog. Perhaps also there rankled at the back of his mind the words of an elderly woman comrade who had advised him: “Take your wife to the country and put her on a farm where she can milk cows and hoe turnips and have a dozen children. You can’t stay a child for ever. You will catch up on Miette some day.”

  He had not in the least grasped her meaning; he was far too single-minded regarding his wife to have done so, but his intelligence had to see the fact of her sheer animality. He knew well enough that she lacked the brain power to offset her sensuality; that no part of her touched a high level; that she was a sensualist of a low type. He knew the general laws appertaining to low types. He knew that the predominant instinct in such type was the reproductive instinct, and this knowledge should have led him to the further conclusion that his wife needed children.

  Perhaps he did not allow himself to arrive at any conclusion on the matter. His selfishness easily closed his mind to subjects likely to prove disturbing. He had a way of declaring that he would allow no one under any circumstances to hamper his life or hold him down; that the individualistic idea in its entirety was his own particular brand of philosophy. Though he knew perfectly well that he was hampered by dead people, let alone living ones.

  Anyhow, an evening came which settled the dog business. The house party were gathered in the dining-room shortly after the tea hour. The evenings of early winter were at hand, and the blazing maire logs on the hearth spread a cheerful and comforting glow over the worn and homely furniture. A little desultory small talk was going on here and there. Little Harry was kneeling upon the hearth building an elaborate structure with a meccano, and his father and Tutaki were watching him, now and again interposing a helpful word. Margaret was sitting on a couch beside Mrs. Glengarry, absorbed in the process of learning to knit. Her brow was puckered in a little frown. She looked singularly pure and child-like. Glengarry, tired after a long day’s extra hard work, lay back in a deep chair opposite her and watched her.

  “Make one, slip one, and then knit two,” she murmured, looked back over what she had done, and then dropped her work in her lap despairingly. “Well, I can’t understand it. I did just that, Mrs. Glengarry, I did really, and yet it has come wrong again.” She caught the gleam of Glengarry’s eyes from the depths of the deep chair and smiled charmingly. “I’m afraid I’m not very clever,” she added, addressing him.

  “No? Perhaps you’re not.” He smiled back at her. “You have forgotten to make one, that’s all.”

  “And what do you know about it?” she asked, relinquishing her work to Mrs. Glengarry.

  “I know a lot about it. See that sock?” He leaned over and pulled up a trouser leg, exposing a heather-coloured sock. “I knitted that.”

  “What! You knitted it?” She looked at him hard, thinking he was joking. Then turned swiftly to his mother. “He didn’t really, Mother?” (She often called the old lady “mother,” pleasing her and making the son’s heart ache.)

  “Indeed he did. He used to knit a lot down south when we were living alone. I don’t know why he has given it up since coming here.”

  The others were listening, highly amused at the idea of the dour Scotsman knitting. Tutaki chuckled aloud, and “jollied” the manager a bit. Jimmy had got over his dislike of Glengarry. Barry’s eyes just rested on the latter amusedly for a minute and then returned to the meccano. Margaret was hardly pleased. “Well, I never!” she ejaculated blankly, and then laughed a little.
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br />   Into this harmonic group came Miette and Longstair, the former carrying the dog.

  Miette looked extremely well. The fresh upland air had benefited her greatly, and brought natural roses to her cheeks. Her mouth was car mined, and the rat-like pearly teeth gleamed showily. She had dressed her hair well and put on a black velvet frock cut low enough to expose her beautiful shoulders and bust. It was sleeveless, too. Altogether she looked brutally healthy and attractive.

  Tutaki neglected Harry’s structure, now nearing completion, to watch her. The kind of woman she was fascinated him despite himself. Her round dimpled arms were made for embraces.

  Jimmy was no paragon where women like her were concerned. What man is? The Barry Messengers are few, and if they were not the world would be a tedious place for the Miettes. The simple ideas of his race in regard to women had persisted in Jimmy. Chastity was the standard by which he measured them; the standard of the savage which lay but a few decades behind him. Of all the women in the world Margaret alone could have held his unswerving loyalty and esteem after an “affair.” He had thought the matter out, had fought it out, and the civilisation in him had granted to the queenly the royal prerogative. Margaret was beyond and above the conventions, but woman in general still sat under the judgment of the savage, and in this he was only at one with most white men.

  The mind controls the sex habits of the individual completely. Jimmy was a sensualist, probably as much so as Miette, but his powerful and active mind kept his sex habits at a high level. Miette was the victim of her incogitancy. It was not virtue which kept the Maori fairly continent, but his habit of mind. But still he was no paragon. There were times when the clay body clogged the fine spirit, and then Jimmy would look around for the means of relief from the turgid flow of his blood.

  When Miette came into the room that night looking so brutally healthy he allowed his mind, for the first time, to play around her obscenely. His liquid black eyes took on a faint glassiness, and his ugly thick jaw sagged. She was to him the lawful prey of any man. He knew that she did not know the meaning of man’s respect for woman. She only knew the meaning of, and wanted, man’s embrace.