Mrs. Makely’s nerves seemed to lie in the direction
of a prolongation of this subject, and I asked my
next question a little away from it. “I
wish you would tell me, Mrs. Makely, something about
your way of provisioning your household. You
said that the grocer’s and butcher’s man
came up to the kitchen with your supplies—”
“Yes, and the milkman and the iceman; the iceman
always puts the ice into the refrigerator; it’s
very convenient, and quite like your own house.”
“But you go out and select the things yourself
the day before, or in the morning?”
“Oh, not at all! The men come and the cook
gives the order; she knows pretty well what we want
on the different days, and I never meddle with it
from one week’s end to the other, unless we have
friends. The tradespeople send in their bills
at the end of the month, and that’s all there
is of it.” Her husband gave me one of his
queer looks, and she went on: “When we
were younger, and just beginning housekeeping, I used
to go out and order the things myself; I used even
to go to the big markets, and half kill myself trying
to get things a little cheaper at one place and another,
and waste more car-fare and lay up more doctor’s
bills than it would all come to, ten times over.
I used to fret my life out, remembering the prices;
but now, thank goodness, that’s all over.
I don’t know any more what beef is a pound than
my husband does; if a thing isn’t good, I send
it straight back, and that puts them on their honor,
you know, and they have to give me the best of everything.
The bills average about the same, from month to month;
a little more if we have company but if they’re
too outrageous, I make a fuss with the cook, and she
scolds the men, and then it goes better for a while.
Still, it’s a great bother.”
I confess that I did not see what the bother was,
but I had not the courage to ask, for I had already
conceived a wholesome dread of the mystery of an American
lady’s nerves. So I merely suggested, “And
that is the way that people usually manage?”
“Why,” she said, “I suppose that
some old-fashioned people still do their marketing,
and people that have to look to their outgoes, and
know what every mouthful costs them. But their
lives are not worth having. Eveleth Strange does
it—or she did do it when she was in the
country; I dare say she won’t when she gets
back—just from a sense of duty, and because
she says that a housekeeper ought to know about her
expenses. But I ask her who will care whether
she knows or not; and as for giving the money to the
poor that she saves by spending economically, I tell
her that the butchers and the grocers have to live,
too, as well as the poor, and so it’s as broad
as it’s long.”
I could not make out whether Mr. Makely approved of
his wife’s philosophy or not; I do not believe
he thought much about it. The money probably
came easily with him, and he let it go easily, as an
American likes to do. There is nothing penurious
or sordid about this curious people, so fierce in
the pursuit of riches. When these are once gained,
they seem to have no value to the man who has won
them, and he has generally no object in life but to
see his womankind spend them.
