by Frank Norris
“Oh, stop them, stop them! Don’t let them fight. Oh, it’s too awful.”
“Here, here, Doc, quit. Don’t make a fool of yourself,” cried Heise, clinging to the dentist. “That’s enough now. LISTEN to me, will you?”
“Oh, Mac, Mac,” cried Trina, running to her husband. “Mac, dear, listen; it’s me, it’s Trina, look at me, you — —”
“Get hold of his other arm, will you, Ryer?” panted Heise. “Quick!”
“Mac, Mac,” cried Trina, her arms about his neck.
“For God’s sake, hold up, Doc, will you?” shouted the harness-maker. “You don’t want to kill him, do you?”
Mrs. Ryer and Heise’s lame wife were filling the air with their outcries. Selina was giggling with hysteria. Marcus, terrified, but too brave to run, had picked up a jagged stone with his left hand and stood on the defensive. His swollen right arm, from which the shirt sleeve had been torn, dangled at his side, the back of the hand twisted where the palm should have been. The shirt itself was a mass of grass stains and was spotted with the dentist’s blood.
But McTeague, in the centre of the group that struggled to hold him, was nigh to madness. The side of his face, his neck, and all the shoulder and breast of his shirt were covered with blood. He had ceased to cry out, but kept muttering between his gripped jaws, as he labored to tear himself free of the retaining hands:
“Ah, I’ll kill him! Ah, I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him! Damn you, Heise,” he exclaimed suddenly, trying to strike the harness-maker, “let go of me, will you!”
Little by little they pacified him, or rather (for he paid but little attention to what was said to him) his bestial fury lapsed by degrees. He turned away and let fall his arms, drawing long breaths, and looking stupidly about him, now searching helplessly upon the ground, now gazing vaguely into the circle of faces about him. His ear bled as though it would never stop.
“Say, Doctor,” asked Heise, “what’s the best thing to do?”
“Huh?” answered McTeague. “What — what do you mean? What is it?”
“What’ll we do to stop this bleeding here?”
McTeague did not answer, but looked intently at the blood-stained bosom of his shirt.
“Mac,” cried Trina, her face close to his, “tell us something — the best thing we can do to stop your ear bleeding.”
“Collodium,” said the dentist.
“But we can’t get to that right away; we—”
“There’s some ice in our lunch basket,” broke in Heise. “We brought it for the beer; and take the napkins and make a bandage.”
“Ice,” muttered the dentist, “sure, ice, that’s the word.”
Mrs. Heise and the Ryers were looking after Marcus’s broken arm. Selina sat on the slope of the grass, gasping and sobbing. Trina tore the napkins into strips, and, crushing some of the ice, made a bandage for her husband’s head.’
The party resolved itself into two groups; the Ryers and Mrs. Heise bending over Marcus, while the harness-maker and Trina came and went about McTeague, sitting on the ground, his shirt, a mere blur of red and white, detaching itself violently from the background of pale-green grass. Between the two groups was the torn and trampled bit of turf, the wrestling ring; the picnic baskets, together with empty beer bottles, broken egg-shells, and discarded sardine tins, were scattered here and there. In the middle of the improvised wrestling ring the sleeve of Marcus’s shirt fluttered occasionally in the sea breeze.
Nobody was paying any attention to Selina. All at once she began to giggle hysterically again, then cried out with a peal of laughter:
“Oh, what a way for our picnic to end!”
CHAPTER 12
“Now, then, Maria,” said Zerkow, his cracked, strained voice just rising above a whisper, hitching his chair closer to the table, “now, then, my girl, let’s have it all over again. Tell us about the gold plate — the service. Begin with, ‘There were over a hundred pieces and every one of them gold.’”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Zerkow,” answered Maria. “There never was no gold plate, no gold service. I guess you must have dreamed it.”
Maria and the red-headed Polish Jew had been married about a month after the McTeague’s picnic which had ended in such lamentable fashion. Zerkow had taken Maria home to his wretched hovel in the alley back of the flat, and the flat had been obliged to get another maid of all work. Time passed, a month, six months, a whole year went by. At length Maria gave birth to a child, a wretched, sickly child, with not even strength enough nor wits enough to cry. At the time of its birth Maria was out of her mind, and continued in a state of dementia for nearly ten days. She recovered just in time to make the arrangements for the baby’s burial. Neither Zerkow nor Maria was much affected by either the birth or the death of this little child. Zerkow had welcomed it with pronounced disfavor, since it had a mouth to be fed and wants to be provided for. Maria was out of her head so much of the time that she could scarcely remember how it looked when alive. The child was a mere incident in their lives, a thing that had come undesired and had gone unregretted. It had not even a name; a strange, hybrid little being, come and gone within a fortnight’s time, yet combining in its puny little body the blood of the Hebrew, the Pole, and the Spaniard.
But the birth of this child had peculiar consequences. Maria came out of her dementia, and in a few days the household settled itself again to its sordid regime and Maria went about her duties as usual. Then one evening, about a week after the child’s burial, Zerkow had asked Maria to tell him the story of the famous service of gold plate for the hundredth time.
Zerkow had come to believe in this story infallibly. He was immovably persuaded that at one time Maria or Maria’s people had possessed these hundred golden dishes. In his perverted mind the hallucination had developed still further. Not only had that service of gold plate once existed, but it existed now, entire, intact; not a single burnished golden piece of it was missing. It was somewhere, somebody had it, locked away in that leather trunk with its quilted lining and round brass locks. It was to be searched for and secured, to be fought for, to be gained at all hazards. Maria must know where it was; by dint of questioning, Zerkow would surely get the information from her. Some day, if only he was persistent, he would hit upon the right combination of questions, the right suggestion that would disentangle Maria’s confused recollections. Maria would tell him where the thing was kept, was concealed, was buried, and he would go to that place and secure it, and all that wonderful gold would be his forever and forever. This service of plate had come to be Zerkow’s mania.
On this particular evening, about a week after the child’s burial, in the wretched back room of the Junk shop, Zerkow had made Maria sit down to the table opposite him — the whiskey bottle and the red glass tumbler with its broken base between them — and had said:
“Now, then, Maria, tell us that story of the gold dishes again.”
Maria stared at him, an expression of perplexity coming into her face.
“What gold dishes?” said she.
“The ones your people used to own in Central America. Come on, Maria, begin, begin.” The Jew craned himself forward, his lean fingers clawing eagerly at his lips.
“What gold plate?” said Maria, frowning at him as she drank her whiskey. “What gold plate? I don’ know what you’re talking about, Zerkow.”
Zerkow sat back in his chair, staring at her.
“Why, your people’s gold dishes, what they used to eat off of. You’ve told me about it a hundred times.”
“You’re crazy, Zerkow,” said Maria. “Push the bottle here, will you?”
“Come, now,” insisted Zerkow, sweating with desire, “come, now, my girl, don’t be a fool; let’s have it, let’s have it. Begin now, ‘There were more’n a hundred pieces, and every one of ’em gold.’ Oh, YOU know; come on, come on.”
“I don’t remember nothing of the kind,” protested Maria, reaching for the bottle. Zerkow snatched it fr
om her.
“You fool!” he wheezed, trying to raise his broken voice to a shout. “You fool! Don’t you dare try an’ cheat ME, or I’ll DO for you. You know about the gold plate, and you know where it is.” Suddenly he pitched his voice at the prolonged rasping shout with which he made his street cry. He rose to his feet, his long, prehensile fingers curled into fists. He was menacing, terrible in his rage. He leaned over Maria, his fists in her face.
“I believe you’ve got it!” he yelled. “I believe you’ve got it, an’ are hiding it from me. Where is it, where is it? Is it here?” he rolled his eyes wildly about the room. “Hey? hey?” he went on, shaking Maria by the shoulders. “Where is it? Is it here? Tell me where it is. Tell me, or I’ll do for you!”
“It ain’t here,” cried Maria, wrenching from him. “It ain’t anywhere. What gold plate? What are you talking about? I don’t remember nothing about no gold plate at all.”
No, Maria did not remember. The trouble and turmoil of her mind consequent upon the birth of her child seemed to have readjusted her disordered ideas upon this point. Her mania had come to a crisis, which in subsiding had cleared her brain of its one illusion. She did not remember. Or it was possible that the gold plate she had once remembered had had some foundation in fact, that her recital of its splendors had been truth, sound and sane. It was possible that now her FORGETFULNESS of it was some form of brain trouble, a relic of the dementia of childbirth. At all events Maria did not remember; the idea of the gold plate had passed entirely out of her mind, and it was now Zerkow who labored under its hallucination. It was now Zerkow, the raker of the city’s muck heap, the searcher after gold, that saw that wonderful service in the eye of his perverted mind. It was he who could now describe it in a language almost eloquent. Maria had been content merely to remember it; but Zerkow’s avarice goaded him to a belief that it was still in existence, hid somewhere, perhaps in that very house, stowed away there by Maria. For it stood to reason, didn’t it, that Maria could not have described it with such wonderful accuracy and such careful detail unless she had seen it recently — the day before, perhaps, or that very day, or that very hour, that very HOUR?
“Look out for yourself,” he whispered, hoarsely, to his wife. “Look out for yourself, my girl. I’ll hunt for it, and hunt for it, and hunt for it, and some day I’ll find it — I will, you’ll see — I’ll find it, I’ll find it; and if I don’t, I’ll find a way that’ll make you tell me where it is. I’ll make you speak — believe me, I will, I will, my girl — trust me for that.”
And at night Maria would sometimes wake to find Zerkow gone from the bed, and would see him burrowing into some corner by the light of his dark-lantern and would hear him mumbling to himself: “There were more’n a hundred pieces, and every one of ’em gold — when the leather trunk was opened it fair dazzled your eyes — why, just that punchbowl was worth a fortune, I guess; solid, solid, heavy, rich, pure gold, nothun but gold, gold, heaps and heaps of it — what a glory! I’ll find it yet, I’ll find it. It’s here somewheres, hid somewheres in this house.”
At length his continued ill success began to exasperate him. One day he took his whip from his junk wagon and thrashed Maria with it, gasping the while, “Where is it, you beast? Where is it? Tell me where it is; I’ll make you speak.”
“I don’ know, I don’ know,” cried Maria, dodging his blows. “I’d tell you, Zerkow, if I knew; but I don’ know nothing about it. How can I tell you if I don’ know?”
Then one evening matters reached a crisis. Marcus Schouler was in his room, the room in the flat just over McTeague’s “Parlors” which he had always occupied. It was between eleven and twelve o’clock. The vast house was quiet; Polk Street outside was very still, except for the occasional whirr and trundle of a passing cable car and the persistent calling of ducks and geese in the deserted market directly opposite. Marcus was in his shirt sleeves, perspiring and swearing with exertion as he tried to get all his belongings into an absurdly inadequate trunk. The room was in great confusion. It looked as though Marcus was about to move. He stood in front of his trunk, his precious silk hat in its hat-box in his hand. He was raging at the perverseness of a pair of boots that refused to fit in his trunk, no matter how he arranged them.
“I’ve tried you SO, and I’ve tried you SO,” he exclaimed fiercely, between his teeth, “and you won’t go.” He began to swear horribly, grabbing at the boots with his free hand. “Pretty soon I won’t take you at all; I won’t, for a fact.”
He was interrupted by a rush of feet upon the back stairs and a clamorous pounding upon his door. He opened it to let in Maria Macapa, her hair dishevelled and her eyes starting with terror.
“Oh, MISTER Schouler,” she gasped, “lock the door quick. Don’t let him get me. He’s got a knife, and he says sure he’s going to do for me, if I don’t tell him where it is.”
“Who has? What has? Where is what?” shouted Marcus, flaming with excitement upon the instant. He opened the door and peered down the dark hall, both fists clenched, ready to fight — he did not know whom, and he did not know why.
“It’s Zerkow,” wailed Maria, pulling him back into the room and bolting the door, “and he’s got a knife as long as THAT. Oh, my Lord, here he comes now! Ain’t that him? Listen.”
Zerkow was coming up the stairs, calling for Maria.
“Don’t you let him get me, will you, Mister Schouler?” gasped Maria.
“I’ll break him in two,” shouted Marcus, livid with rage. “Think I’m afraid of his knife?”
“I know where you are,” cried Zerkow, on the landing outside. “You’re in Schouler’s room. What are you doing in Schouler’s room at this time of night? Come outa there; you oughta be ashamed. I’ll do for you yet, my girl. Come outa there once, an’ see if I don’t.”
“I’ll do for you myself, you dirty Jew,” shouted Marcus, unbolting the door and running out into the hall.
“I want my wife,” exclaimed the Jew, backing down the stairs. “What’s she mean by running away from me and going into your room?”
“Look out, he’s got a knife!” cried Maria through the crack of the door.
“Ah, there you are. Come outa that, and come back home,” exclaimed Zerkow.
“Get outa here yourself,” cried Marcus, advancing on him angrily. “Get outa here.”
“Maria’s gota come too.”
“Get outa here,” vociferated Marcus, “an’ put up that knife. I see it; you needn’t try an’ hide it behind your leg. Give it to me, anyhow,” he shouted suddenly, and before Zerkow was aware, Marcus had wrenched it away. “Now, get outa here.”
Zerkow backed away, peering and peeping over Marcus’s shoulder.
“I want Maria.”
“Get outa here. Get along out, or I’ll PUT you out.” The street door closed. The Jew was gone.
“Huh!” snorted Marcus, swelling with arrogance. “Huh! Think I’m afraid of his knife? I ain’t afraid of ANYBODY,” he shouted pointedly, for McTeague and his wife, roused by the clamor, were peering over the banisters from the landing above. “Not of anybody,” repeated Marcus.
Maria came out into the hall.
“Is he gone? Is he sure gone?”
“What was the trouble?” inquired Marcus, suddenly.
“I woke up about an hour ago,” Maria explained, “and Zerkow wasn’t in bed; maybe he hadn’t come to bed at all. He was down on his knees by the sink, and he’d pried up some boards off the floor and was digging there. He had his dark-lantern. He was digging with that knife, I guess, and all the time he kept mumbling to himself, ‘More’n a hundred pieces, an’ every one of ’em gold; more’n a hundred pieces, an’ every one of ’em gold.’ Then, all of a sudden, he caught sight of me. I was sitting up in bed, and he jumped up and came at me with his knife, an’ he says, ‘Where is it? Where is it? I know you got it hid somewhere. Where is it? Tell me or I’ll knife you.’ I kind of fooled him and kept him off till I got my wrapper on, an’ then I run out. I didn
’t dare stay.”
“Well, what did you tell him about your gold dishes for in the first place?” cried Marcus.
“I never told him,” protested Maria, with the greatest energy. “I never told him; I never heard of any gold dishes. I don’ know where he got the idea; he must be crazy.”
By this time Trina and McTeague, Old Grannis, and little Miss Baker — all the lodgers on the upper floors of the flat — had gathered about Maria. Trina and the dentist, who had gone to bed, were partially dressed, and Trina’s enormous mane of black hair was hanging in two thick braids far down her back. But, late as it was, Old Grannis and the retired dressmaker had still been up and about when Maria had aroused them.
“Why, Maria,” said Trina, “you always used to tell us about your gold dishes. You said your folks used to have them.”
“Never, never, never!” exclaimed Maria, vehemently. “You folks must all be crazy. I never HEARD of any gold dishes.”
“Well,” spoke up Miss Baker, “you’re a queer girl, Maria; that’s all I can say.” She left the group and returned to her room. Old Grannis watched her go from the corner of his eye, and in a few moments followed her, leaving the group as unnoticed as he had joined it. By degrees the flat quieted down again. Trina and McTeague returned to their rooms.
“I guess I’ll go back now,” said Maria. “He’s all right now. I ain’t afraid of him so long as he ain’t got his knife.”
“Well, say,” Marcus called to her as she went down stairs, “if he gets funny again, you just yell out; I’LL hear you. I won’t let him hurt you.”
Marcus went into his room again and resumed his wrangle with the refractory boots. His eye fell on Zerkow’s knife, a long, keen-bladed hunting-knife, with a buckhorn handle. “I’ll take you along with me,” he exclaimed, suddenly. “I’ll just need you where I’m going.”
Meanwhile, old Miss Baker was making tea to calm her nerves after the excitement of Maria’s incursion. This evening she went so far as to make tea for two, laying an extra place on the other side of her little tea-table, setting out a cup and saucer and one of the Gorham silver spoons. Close upon the other side of the partition Old Grannis bound uncut numbers of the “Nation.”
