Complete Works of Frank Norris

by Frank Norris

  “There wa’n’t a piece that was so much as scratched,” Maria was saying. “Every piece was just like a mirror, smooth and bright; oh, bright as a little sun. Such a service as that was — platters and soup tureens and an immense big punchbowl. Five thousand dollars, what does that amount to? Why, that punch-bowl alone was worth a fortune.”

  “What a wonderful story!” exclaimed Old Grannis, never for an instant doubting its truth. “And it’s all lost now, you say?”

  “Lost, lost,” repeated Maria.

  “Tut, tut! What a pity! What a pity!”

  Suddenly the agent rose and broke out with:

  “Well, I must be going, if I’m to get any car.”

  He shook hands with everybody, offered a parting cigar to Marcus, congratulated McTeague and Trina a last time, and bowed himself out.

  “What an elegant gentleman,” commented Miss Baker.

  “Ah,” said Marcus, nodding his head, “there’s a man of the world for you. Right on to himself, by damn!”

  The company broke up.

  “Come along, Mac,” cried Marcus; “we’re to sleep with the dogs to-night, you know.”

  The two friends said “Good-night” all around and departed for the little dog hospital.

  Old Grannis hurried to his room furtively, terrified lest he should again be brought face to face with Miss Baker. He bolted himself in and listened until he heard her foot in the hall and the soft closing of her door. She was there close beside him; as one might say, in the same room; for he, too, had made the discovery as to the similarity of the wallpaper. At long intervals he could hear a faint rustling as she moved about. What an evening that had been for him! He had met her, had spoken to her, had touched her hand; he was in a tremor of excitement. In a like manner the little old dressmaker listened and quivered. HE was there in that same room which they shared in common, separated only by the thinnest board partition. He was thinking of her, she was almost sure of it. They were strangers no longer; they were acquaintances, friends. What an event that evening had been in their lives!

  Late as it was, Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea and sat down in her rocking chair close to the partition; she rocked gently, sipping her tea, calming herself after the emotions of that wonderful evening.

  Old Grannis heard the clinking of the tea things and smelt the faint odor of the tea. It seemed to him a signal, an invitation. He drew his chair close to his side of the partition, before his work-table. A pile of half-bound “Nations” was in the little binding apparatus; he threaded his huge upholsterer’s needle with stout twine and set to work.

  It was their tete-a-tete. Instinctively they felt each other’s presence, felt each other’s thought coming to them through the thin partition. It was charming; they were perfectly happy. There in the stillness that settled over the flat in the half hour after midnight the two old people “kept company,” enjoying after their fashion their little romance that had come so late into the lives of each.

  On the way to her room in the garret Maria Macapa paused under the single gas-jet that burned at the top of the well of the staircase; she assured herself that she was alone, and then drew from her pocket one of McTeague’s “tapes” of non-cohesive gold. It was the most valuable steal she had ever yet made in the dentist’s “Parlors.” She told herself that it was worth at least a couple of dollars. Suddenly an idea occurred to her, and she went hastily to a window at the end of the hall, and, shading her face with both hands, looked down into the little alley just back of the flat. On some nights Zerkow, the red-headed Polish Jew, sat up late, taking account of the week’s ragpicking. There was a dim light in his window now.

  Maria went to her room, threw a shawl around her head, and descended into the little back yard of the flat by the back stairs. As she let herself out of the back gate into the alley, Alexander, Marcus’s Irish setter, woke suddenly with a gruff bark. The collie who lived on the other side of the fence, in the back yard of the branch post-office, answered with a snarl. Then in an instant the endless feud between the two dogs was resumed. They dragged their respective kennels to the fence, and through the cracks raged at each other in a frenzy of hate; their teeth snapped and gleamed; the hackles on their backs rose and stiffened. Their hideous clamor could have been heard for blocks around. What a massacre should the two ever meet!

  Meanwhile, Maria was knocking at Zerkow’s miserable hovel.

  “Who is it? Who is it?” cried the rag-picker from within, in his hoarse voice, that was half whisper, starting nervously, and sweeping a handful of silver into his drawer.

  “It’s me, Maria Macapa;” then in a lower voice, and as if speaking to herself, “had a flying squirrel an’ let him go.”

  “Ah, Maria,” cried Zerkow, obsequiously opening the door. “Come in, come in, my girl; you’re always welcome, even as late as this. No junk, hey? But you’re welcome for all that. You’ll have a drink, won’t you?” He led her into his back room and got down the whiskey bottle and the broken red tumbler.

  After the two had drunk together Maria produced the gold “tape.” Zerkow’s eyes glittered on the instant. The sight of gold invariably sent a qualm all through him; try as he would, he could not repress it. His fingers trembled and clawed at his mouth; his breath grew short.

  “Ah, ah, ah!” he exclaimed, “give it here, give it here; give it to me, Maria. That’s a good girl, come give it to me.”

  They haggled as usual over the price, but to-night Maria was too excited over other matters to spend much time in bickering over a few cents.

  “Look here, Zerkow,” she said as soon as the transfer was made, “I got something to tell you. A little while ago I sold a lottery ticket to a girl at the flat; the drawing was in this evening’s papers. How much do you suppose that girl has won?”

  “I don’t know. How much? How much?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  It was as though a knife had been run through the Jew; a spasm of an almost physical pain twisted his face — his entire body. He raised his clenched fists into the air, his eyes shut, his teeth gnawing his lip.

  “Five thousand dollars,” he whispered; “five thousand dollars. For what? For nothing, for simply buying a ticket; and I have worked so hard for it, so hard, so hard. Five thousand dollars, five thousand dollars. Oh, why couldn’t it have come to me?” he cried, his voice choking, the tears starting to his eyes; “why couldn’t it have come to me? To come so close, so close, and yet to miss me — me who have worked for it, fought for it, starved for it, am dying for it every day. Think of it, Maria, five thousand dollars, all bright, heavy pieces — —”

  “Bright as a sunset,” interrupted Maria, her chin propped on her hands. “Such a glory, and heavy. Yes, every piece was heavy, and it was all you could do to lift the punch-bowl. Why, that punch-bowl was worth a fortune alone — —”

  “And it rang when you hit it with your knuckles, didn’t it?” prompted Zerkow, eagerly, his lips trembling, his fingers hooking themselves into claws.

  “Sweeter’n any church bell,” continued Maria.

  “Go on, go on, go on,” cried Zerkow, drawing his chair closer, and shutting his eyes in ecstasy.

  “There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold — —”

  “Ah, every one of them gold.”

  “You should have seen the sight when the leather trunk was opened. There wa’n’t a piece that was so much as scratched; every one was like a mirror, smooth and bright, polished so that it looked black — you know how I mean.”

  “Oh, I know, I know,” cried Zerkow, moistening his lips.

  Then he plied her with questions — questions that covered every detail of that service of plate. It was soft, wasn’t it? You could bite into a plate and leave a dent? The handles of the knives, now, were they gold, too? All the knife was made from one piece of gold, was it? And the forks the same? The interior of the trunk was quilted, of course? Did Maria ever polish the plates herself? When the company ate of
f this service, it must have made a fine noise — these gold knives and forks clinking together upon these gold plates.

  “Now, let’s have it all over again, Maria,” pleaded Zerkow. “Begin now with ‘There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold.’ Go on, begin, begin, begin!”

  The red-headed Pole was in a fever of excitement. Maria’s recital had become a veritable mania with him. As he listened, with closed eyes and trembling lips, he fancied he could see that wonderful plate before him, there on the table, under his eyes, under his hand, ponderous, massive, gleaming. He tormented Maria into a second repetition of the story — into a third. The more his mind dwelt upon it, the sharper grew his desire. Then, with Maria’s refusal to continue the tale, came the reaction. Zerkow awoke as from some ravishing dream. The plate was gone, was irretrievably lost. There was nothing in that miserable room but grimy rags and rust-corroded iron. What torment! what agony! to be so near — so near, to see it in one’s distorted fancy as plain as in a mirror. To know every individual piece as an old friend; to feel its weight; to be dazzled by its glitter; to call it one’s own, own; to have it to oneself, hugged to the breast; and then to start, to wake, to come down to the horrible reality.

  “And you, YOU had it once,” gasped Zerkow, clawing at her arm; “you had it once, all your own. Think of it, and now it’s gone.”

  “Gone for good and all.”

  “Perhaps it’s buried near your old place somewhere.”

  “It’s gone — gone — gone,” chanted Maria in a monotone.

  Zerkow dug his nails into his scalp, tearing at his red hair.

  “Yes, yes, it’s gone, it’s gone — lost forever! Lost forever!”

  Marcus and the dentist walked up the silent street and reached the little dog hospital. They had hardly spoken on the way. McTeague’s brain was in a whirl; speech failed him. He was busy thinking of the great thing that had happened that night, and was trying to realize what its effect would be upon his life — his life and Trina’s. As soon as they had found themselves in the street, Marcus had relapsed at once to a sullen silence, which McTeague was too abstracted to notice.

  They entered the tiny office of the hospital with its red carpet, its gas stove, and its colored prints of famous dogs hanging against the walls. In one corner stood the iron bed which they were to occupy.

  “You go on an’ get to bed, Mac,” observed Marcus. “I’ll take a look at the dogs before I turn in.”

  He went outside and passed along into the yard, that was bounded on three sides by pens where the dogs were kept. A bull terrier dying of gastritis recognized him and began to whimper feebly.

  Marcus paid no attention to the dogs. For the first time that evening he was alone and could give vent to his thoughts. He took a couple of turns up and down the yard, then suddenly in a low voice exclaimed:

  “You fool, you fool, Marcus Schouler! If you’d kept Trina you’d have had that money. You might have had it yourself. You’ve thrown away your chance in life — to give up the girl, yes — but this,” he stamped his foot with rage— “to throw five thousand dollars out of the window — to stuff it into the pockets of someone else, when it might have been yours, when you might have had Trina AND the money — and all for what? Because we were pals. Oh, ‘pals’ is all right — but five thousand dollars — to have played it right into his hands — God DAMN the luck!”

  CHAPTER 8

  The next two months were delightful. Trina and McTeague saw each other regularly, three times a week. The dentist went over to B Street Sunday and Wednesday afternoons as usual; but on Fridays it was Trina who came to the city. She spent the morning between nine and twelve o’clock down town, for the most part in the cheap department stores, doing the weekly shopping for herself and the family. At noon she took an uptown car and met McTeague at the corner of Polk Street. The two lunched together at a small uptown hotel just around the corner on Sutter Street. They were given a little room to themselves. Nothing could have been more delicious. They had but to close the sliding door to shut themselves off from the whole world.

  Trina would arrive breathless from her raids upon the bargain counters, her pale cheeks flushed, her hair blown about her face and into the corners of her lips, her mother’s net reticule stuffed to bursting. Once in their tiny private room, she would drop into her chair with a little groan.

  “Oh, MAC, I am so tired; I’ve just been all OVER town. Oh, it’s good to sit down. Just think, I had to stand up in the car all the way, after being on my feet the whole blessed morning. Look here what I’ve bought. Just things and things. Look, there’s some dotted veiling I got for myself; see now, do you think it looks pretty?” — she spread it over her face— “and I got a box of writing paper, and a roll of crepe paper to make a lamp shade for the front parlor; and — what do you suppose — I saw a pair of Nottingham lace curtains for FORTY-NINE CENTS; isn’t that cheap? and some chenille portieres for two and a half. Now what have YOU been doing since I last saw you? Did Mr. Heise finally get up enough courage to have his tooth pulled yet?” Trina took off her hat and veil and rearranged her hair before the looking-glass.

  “No, no — not yet. I went down to the sign painter’s yesterday afternoon to see about that big gold tooth for a sign. It costs too much; I can’t get it yet a while. There’s two kinds, one German gilt and the other French gilt; but the German gilt is no good.”

  McTeague sighed, and wagged his head. Even Trina and the five thousand dollars could not make him forget this one unsatisfied longing.

  At other times they would talk at length over their plans, while Trina sipped her chocolate and McTeague devoured huge chunks of butterless bread. They were to be married at the end of May, and the dentist already had his eye on a couple of rooms, part of the suite of a bankrupt photographer. They were situated in the flat, just back of his “Parlors,” and he believed the photographer would sublet them furnished.

  McTeague and Trina had no apprehensions as to their finances. They could be sure, in fact, of a tidy little income. The dentist’s practice was fairly good, and they could count upon the interest of Trina’s five thousand dollars. To McTeague’s mind this interest seemed woefully small. He had had uncertain ideas about that five thousand dollars; had imagined that they would spend it in some lavish fashion; would buy a house, perhaps, or would furnish their new rooms with overwhelming luxury — luxury that implied red velvet carpets and continued feasting. The oldtime miner’s idea of wealth easily gained and quickly spent persisted in his mind. But when Trina had begun to talk of investments and interests and per cents, he was troubled and not a little disappointed. The lump sum of five thousand dollars was one thing, a miserable little twenty or twenty-five a month was quite another; and then someone else had the money.

  “But don’t you see, Mac,” explained Trina, “it’s ours just the same. We could get it back whenever we wanted it; and then it’s the reasonable way to do. We mustn’t let it turn our heads, Mac, dear, like that man that spent all he won in buying more tickets. How foolish we’d feel after we’d spent it all! We ought to go on just the same as before; as if we hadn’t won. We must be sensible about it, mustn’t we?”

  “Well, well, I guess perhaps that’s right,” the dentist would answer, looking slowly about on the floor.

  Just what should ultimately be done with the money was the subject of endless discussion in the Sieppe family. The savings bank would allow only three per cent., but Trina’s parents believed that something better could be got.

  “There’s Uncle Oelbermann,” Trina had suggested, remembering the rich relative who had the wholesale toy store in the Mission.

  Mr. Sieppe struck his hand to his forehead. “Ah, an idea,” he cried. In the end an agreement was made. The money was invested in Mr. Oelbermann’s business. He gave Trina six per cent.

  Invested in this fashion, Trina’s winning would bring in twenty-five dollars a month. But, besides this, Trina had her own little trade. She made
Noah’s ark animals for Uncle Oelbermann’s store. Trina’s ancestors on both sides were German-Swiss, and some long-forgotten forefather of the sixteenth century, some worsted-leggined wood-carver of the Tyrol, had handed down the talent of the national industry, to reappear in this strangely distorted guise.

  She made Noah’s ark animals, whittling them out of a block of soft wood with a sharp jack-knife, the only instrument she used. Trina was very proud to explain her work to McTeague as he had already explained his own to her.

  “You see, I take a block of straight-grained pine and cut out the shape, roughly at first, with the big blade; then I go over it a second time with the little blade, more carefully; then I put in the ears and tail with a drop of glue, and paint it with a ‘non-poisonous’ paint — Vandyke brown for the horses, foxes, and cows; slate gray for the elephants and camels; burnt umber for the chickens, zebras, and so on; then, last, a dot of Chinese white for the eyes, and there you are, all finished. They sell for nine cents a dozen. Only I can’t make the manikins.”

  “The manikins?”

  “The little figures, you know — Noah and his wife, and Shem, and all the others.”

  It was true. Trina could not whittle them fast enough and cheap enough to compete with the turning lathe, that could throw off whole tribes and peoples of manikins while she was fashioning one family. Everything else, however, she made — the ark itself, all windows and no door; the box in which the whole was packed; even down to pasting on the label, which read, “Made in France.” She earned from three to four dollars a week.

  The income from these three sources, McTeague’s profession, the interest of the five thousand dollars, and Trina’s whittling, made a respectable little sum taken altogether. Trina declared they could even lay by something, adding to the five thousand dollars little by little.