There was once a woman named Sarah who paid a visit to her old friend, Jane. Jane had recently married again, after a first marriage burdened with sadness and disappointment. Her first husband was a drunk, unbearable in many ways, eventually leaving for another woman. A bitter tale. Through it all, Sarah stood by Jane, offering sympathy and support, just as friends ought to do, dont they?
Ten years passed, and fate smiled at last on Jane. She met another man, a gentleman of education and good standing, a man thoroughly unlike her first. Sarah was truly glad for her friend, and when Jane invited her over to see the newly purchased flat she shared with her husband, Sarah brought along a cake and some cheerful gifts. She marvelled at the tasteful décorit was all so lovely! Then, the three of them sat around the table having tea with cake. Janes new husband, Mr. Howard, was a witty sort. Well-read, full of clever remarks, and his humour never ran dry.
He began joking about Sarah herself, poking fun at her narrow horizons and the odd bits of nonsense that filled her mind, as he put it. He laughed that shed never read Murakami, had no knowledge of Pelevins work. He waxed lyrical about science disproving the old superstitions and silly fancies Sarah sometimes took to be true.
Mr. Howard didnt stop there. He made jibes at Sarahs hair, her figure, and her taste in clothes. Very much the style of the nineties, he said, grinning. Such wit, everyone was meant to believe. Sarah sat painfully silent, unsure how to reply to such an intellect. Jane tittered along, clearly delighted with her husbands wit.
The clever man pressed on, turning on Sarahs cat. Sarah only mentioned her kitten in an attempt to steer the conversation from books. Shed taken in a stray, she explainedhoping Mr. Howard would talk about something ordinary. But he snorted that cats are spreaders of disease and claimed anyone who picks up strays must be mentally unstable or nursing a bruised ego.
Jane laughed louder when Mr. Howard regaled them with tales of spinsters collecting hoards of cats. And suddenly, to Sarahs horror, tears spilled down her cheeksridiculous, childish, and all too unexpected. She apologised, making some excuse about a headache, quickly gathered herself, and left.
Her head did throb, as though shed been struck. More than that, she was ashamedashamed of the tears, her lack of cleverness, the fact she hadnt read the books the clever set raved about, ashamed even of mentioning a foolish dream shed had.
Yet, shame belongs to those who welcome a friend into their home only to let someone insult her. To those who speak of a friend, a beloved book, a cherished film or faith, but stand idly by while others belittle them. To those who post a favourite poem or photo, then allow spiteful words in response. It is all the samea quiet sort of betrayal.
Betrayal is letting your own be handed over for mockery, or even ruin. That is what betrayal really is.
Sarah could not have put those thoughts together; after all, she hadnt read widely or moved in learned circles. She hurried home, longing for her cata creature who cared nothing for books or sparkling repartee. The cat merely curled up beside her on the settee and purred softly.
Sarah never visited Jane again. In truth, there was little point: before long, Jane and her husband were caught in bitter disputes over the flat and landed in court. Mr. Howard, it turned out, was as vigorous and clever in battles as in barbsperhaps too much so for anyones good.
But so it goes. Those for whom betrayal was done will often betray in turnit is a simple chain. All it would have taken was a gentle word to curb the jokes from becoming jabs, and to shield a friend from hurt under ones own roof. Perhaps then Mr. Howard might even have grown to respect his wife, and never dared behave as he did.
Betrayers are never respected. And they are all too easily betrayed in the end.
