Chapter 12

by Frank Norris

　　"Now, then, Maria," said Zerkow, his cracked, strained voicejust rising above a whisper, hitching his chair closer tothe table, "now, then, my girl, let's have it all overagain. Tell us about the gold plate--the service. Beginwith, 'There were over a hundred pieces and every one ofthem gold.'""I don't know what you're talking about, Zerkow," answeredMaria. "There never was no gold plate, no gold service. Iguess you must have dreamed it."Maria and the red-headed Polish Jew had been married about amonth after the McTeague's picnic which had ended in suchlamentable fashion. Zerkow had taken Maria home to hiswretched hovel in the alley back of the flat, and the flathad been obliged to get another maid of all work. Timepassed, a month, six months, a whole year went by. Atlength Maria gave birth to a child, a wretched, sicklychild, with not even strength enough nor wits enough tocry. 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 thebaby's burial. Neither Zerkow nor Maria was much affectedby either the birth or the death of this little child.Zerkow had welcomed it with pronounced disfavor, since ithad a mouth to be fed and wants to be provided for. Mariawas out of her head so much of the time that she couldscarcely remember how it looked when alive. The child was amere incident in their lives, a thing that had comeundesired and had gone unregretted. It had not even a name;a strange, hybrid little being, come and gone within afortnight's time, yet combining in its puny little body theblood 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 thehousehold settled itself again to its sordid regime andMaria went about her duties as usual. Then one evening,about a week after the child's burial, Zerkow had askedMaria to tell him the story of the famous service of goldplate for the hundredth time.Zerkow had come to believe in this story infallibly. He wasimmovably persuaded that at one time Maria or Maria's peoplehad possessed these hundred golden dishes. In his pervertedmind the hallucination had developed still further. Notonly had that service of gold plate once existed, but itexisted now, entire, intact; not a single burnished goldenpiece of it was missing. It was somewhere, somebody had it,locked away in that leather trunk with its quilted liningand round brass locks. It was to be searched for andsecured, to be fought for, to be gained at all hazards.Maria must know where it was; by dint of questioning, Zerkowwould surely get the information from her. Some day, if onlyhe was persistent, he would hit upon the right combinationof questions, the right suggestion that would disentangleMaria's confused recollections. Maria would tell him wherethe thing was kept, was concealed, was buried, and he wouldgo to that place and secure it, and all that wonderful goldwould be his forever and forever. This service of plate hadcome to be Zerkow's mania.On this particular evening, about a week after thechild'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 brokenbase between them--and had said:"Now, then, Maria, tell us that story of the gold dishesagain."Maria stared at him, an expression of perplexity coming intoher face."What gold dishes?" said she."The ones your people used to own in Central America. Comeon, 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 drankher whiskey. "What gold plate? I don' know what you'retalking about, Zerkow."Zerkow sat back in his chair, staring at her."Why, your people's gold dishes, what they used to eat offof. 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 everyone 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 from her."You fool!" he wheezed, trying to raise his broken voice toa shout. "You fool! Don't you dare try an' cheat me, orI'll do for you. You know about the gold plate, and youknow where it is." Suddenly he pitched his voice at theprolonged rasping shout with which he made his street cry.He rose to his feet, his long, prehensile fingers curledinto fists. He was menacing, terrible in his rage. Heleaned over Maria, his fists in her face."I believe you've got it!" he yelled. "I believe you've gotit, an' are hiding it from me. Where is it, where is it? Isit 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'tanywhere. What gold plate? What are you talking about? Idon't remember nothing about no gold plate at all."No, Maria did not remember. The trouble and turmoil of hermind consequent upon the birth of her child seemed to havereadjusted her disordered ideas upon this point. Her maniahad come to a crisis, which in subsiding had cleared herbrain of its one illusion. She did not remember. Or it waspossible that the gold plate she had once remembered had hadsome foundation in fact, that her recital of its splendorshad been truth, sound and sane. It was possible that nowher forgetfulness of it was some form of brain trouble,a relic of the dementia of childbirth. At all events Mariadid not remember; the idea of the gold plate had passedentirely out of her mind, and it was now Zerkow who laboredunder its hallucination. It was now Zerkow, the raker ofthe city's muck heap, the searcher after gold, that saw thatwonderful service in the eye of his perverted mind. It washe who could now describe it in a language almost eloquent.Maria had been content merely to remember it; but Zerkow'savarice goaded him to a belief that it was still inexistence, hid somewhere, perhaps in that very house, stowedaway there by Maria. For it stood to reason, didn't it,that Maria could not have described it with such wonderfulaccuracy and such careful detail unless she had seen itrecently--the day before, perhaps, or that very day, or thatvery hour, that very hour?"Look out for yourself," he whispered, hoarsely, to hiswife. "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 ifI don't, I'll find a way that'll make you tell me where itis. I'll make you speak--believe me, I will, I will, mygirl--trust me for that."And at night Maria would sometimes wake to find Zerkowgone from the bed, and would see him burrowing intosome corner by the light of his dark-lantern and would hearhim mumbling to himself: "There were more'n a hundredpieces, and every one of 'em gold--when the leather trunkwas opened it fair dazzled your eyes--why, just that punch-bowl was worth a fortune, I guess; solid, solid, heavy,rich, pure gold, nothun but gold, gold, heaps and heaps ofit--what a glory! I'll find it yet, I'll find it. It'shere 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 thrashedMaria 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 nothingabout it. How can I tell you if I don' know?"Then one evening matters reached a crisis. Marcus Schoulerwas in his room, the room in the flat just over McTeague's"Parlors" which he had always occupied. It was betweeneleven and twelve o'clock. The vast house was quiet; PolkStreet outside was very still, except for the occasionalwhirr and trundle of a passing cable car and the persistentcalling of ducks and geese in the deserted market directlyopposite. Marcus was in his shirt sleeves, perspiring andswearing with exertion as he tried to get all his belongingsinto an absurdly inadequate trunk. The room was in greatconfusion. It looked as though Marcus was about to move.He stood in front of his trunk, his precious silk hat in itshat-box in his hand. He was raging at the perverseness of apair of boots that refused to fit in his trunk, no matterhow he arranged them."I've tried you so, and I've tried you so," heexclaimed fiercely, between his teeth, "and you won't go."He began to swear horribly, grabbing at the boots with hisfree 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 stairsand a clamorous pounding upon his door. He opened it to letin Maria Macapa, her hair dishevelled and her eyes startingwith terror."Oh, Mister Schouler," she gasped, "lock the doorquick. Don't let him get me. He's got a knife, and he sayssure he's going to do for me, if I don't tell him where itis.""Who has? What has? Where is what?" shouted Marcus,flaming with excitement upon the instant. He opened thedoor and peered down the dark hall, both fists clenched,ready to fight--he did not know whom, and he did not knowwhy."It's Zerkow," wailed Maria, pulling him back into the roomand bolting the door, "and he's got a knife as long asthat. 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 landingoutside. "You're in Schouler's room. What are you doing inSchouler's room at this time of night? Come outa there; yououghta be ashamed. I'll do for you yet, my girl. Come outathere 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 thestairs. "What's she mean by running away from me and goinginto your room?""Look out, he's got a knife!" cried Maria through the crackof the door."Ah, there you are. Come outa that, and come back home,"exclaimed Zerkow."Get outa here yourself," cried Marcus, advancing on himangrily. "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 beforeZerkow was aware, Marcus had wrenched it away. "Now, getouta here."Zerkow backed away, peering and peeping over Marcus'sshoulder."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 ofanybody," he shouted pointedly, for McTeague and his wife,roused by the clamor, were peering over the banisters fromthe 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 Zerkowwasn't in bed; maybe he hadn't come to bed at all. He wasdown on his knees by the sink, and he'd pried up some boardsoff the floor and was digging there. He had his dark-lantern. He was digging with that knife, I guess, and allthe time he kept mumbling to himself, 'More'n a hundredpieces, an' every one of 'em gold; more'n a hundred pieces,an' every one of 'em gold.' Then, all of a sudden, he caughtsight of me. I was sitting up in bed, and he jumped up andcame at me with his knife, an' he says, 'Where is it? Whereis it? I know you got it hid somewhere. Where is it? Tellme or I'll knife you.' I kind of fooled him and kept himoff till I got my wrapper on, an' then I run out. I didn'tdare stay.""Well, what did you tell him about your gold dishes for inthe first place?" cried Marcus."I never told him," protested Maria, with the greatestenergy. "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 littleMiss Baker--all the lodgers on the upper floors of the flat--had gathered about Maria. Trina and the dentist, who hadgone to bed, were partially dressed, and Trina's enormousmane of black hair was hanging in two thick braids far downher back. But, late as it was, Old Grannis and theretired dressmaker had still been up and about when Mariahad aroused them."Why, Maria," said Trina, "you always used to tell us aboutyour gold dishes. You said your folks used to have them.""Never, never, never!" exclaimed Maria, vehemently. "Youfolks must all be crazy. I never heard of any golddishes.""Well," spoke up Miss Baker, "you're a queer girl, Maria;that's all I can say." She left the group and returned toher room. Old Grannis watched her go from the corner of hiseye, and in a few moments followed her, leaving the group asunnoticed as he had joined it. By degrees the flat quieteddown again. Trina and McTeague returned to their rooms."I guess I'll go back now," said Maria. "He's all rightnow. I ain't afraid of him so long as he ain't got hisknife.""Well, say," Marcus called to her as she went down stairs,"if he gets funny again, you just yell out; I'll hearyou. I won't let him hurt you."Marcus went into his room again and resumed his wrangle withthe refractory boots. His eye fell on Zerkow's knife, along, 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 nervesafter the excitement of Maria's incursion. This evening shewent so far as to make tea for two, laying an extra place onthe other side of her little teatable, setting out a cup andsaucer and one of the Gorham silver spoons. Close upon theother side of the partition Old Grannis bound uncut numbersof the "Nation.""Do you know what I think, Mac?" said Trina, when the couplehad returned to their rooms. "I think Marcus is goingaway.""What? What?" muttered the dentist, very sleepy and stupid,"what you saying? What's that about Marcus?""I believe Marcus has been packing up, the last two or threedays. I wonder if he's going away.""Who's going away?" said McTeague, blinking at her."Oh, go to bed," said Trina, pushing him goodnaturedly."Mac, you're the stupidest man I ever knew."But it was true. Marcus was going away. Trina received aletter the next morning from her mother. The carpet-cleaning and upholstery business in which Mr. Sieppe hadinvolved himself was going from bad to worse. Mr. Sieppehad even been obliged to put a mortgage upon their house.Mrs. Sieppe didn't know what was to become of them all. Herhusband had even begun to talk of emigrating to New Zealand.Meanwhile, she informed Trina that Mr. Sieppe had finallycome across a man with whom Marcus could "go in with on aranch," a cattle ranch in the southeastern portion of theState. Her ideas were vague upon the subject, but she knewthat Marcus was wildly enthusiastic at the prospect, and wasexpected down before the end of the month. In the meantime,could Trina send them fifty dollars?"Marcus is going away, after all, Mac," said Trina toher husband that day as he came out of his "Parlors" and satdown to the lunch of sausages, mashed potatoes, andchocolate in the sitting-room."Huh?" said the dentist, a little confused. "Who's goingaway? Schouler going away? Why's Schouler going away?"Trina explained. "Oh!" growled McTeague, behind his thickmustache, "he can go far before I'll stop him.""And, say, Mac," continued Trina, pouring the chocolate,"what do you think? Mamma wants me--wants us to send herfifty dollars. She says they're hard up.""Well," said the dentist, after a moment, "well, I guess wecan send it, can't we?""Oh, that's easy to say," complained Trina, her little chinin the air, her small pale lips pursed. "I wonder if mammathinks we're millionaires?""Trina, you're getting to be regular stingy," mutteredMcTeague. "You're getting worse and worse every day.""But fifty dollars is fifty dollars, Mac. Just think howlong it takes you to earn fifty dollars. Fifty dollars!That's two months of our interest.""Well," said McTeague, easily, his mouth full of mashedpotato, "you got a lot saved up."Upon every reference to that little hoard in the brassmatch-safe and chamois-skin bag at the bottom of her trunk,Trina bridled on the instant."Don't talk that way, Mac. 'A lot of money.' What doyou call a lot of money? I don't believe I've got fiftydollars saved.""Hoh!" exclaimed McTeague. "Hoh! I guess you got nearer ahundred an' fifty. That's what I guess you got.""I've not, I've not," declared Trina, "and you knowI've not. I wish mamma hadn't asked me for any money. Whycan't she be a little more economical? I manage allright. No, no, I can't possibly afford to send her fifty.""Oh, pshaw! What will you do, then?" grumbled herhusband."I'll send her twenty-five this month, and tell her I'llsend the rest as soon as I can afford it.""Trina, you're a regular little miser," said McTeague."I don't care," answered Trina, beginning to laugh. "Iguess I am, but I can't help it, and it's a good fault."Trina put off sending this money for a couple of weeks, andher mother made no mention of it in her next letter. "Oh, Iguess if she wants it so bad," said Trina, "she'll speakabout it again." So she again postponed the sending of it.Day by day she put it off. When her mother asked her for ita second time, it seemed harder than ever for Trina to partwith even half the sum requested. She answered her mother,telling her that they were very hard up themselves for thatmonth, but that she would send down the amount in a fewweeks."I'll tell you what we'll do, Mac," she said to her husband,"you send half and I'll send half; we'll send twenty-fivedollars altogether. Twelve and a half apiece. That's anidea. How will that do?""Sure, sure," McTeague had answered, giving her the money.Trina sent McTeague's twelve dollars, but never sent thetwelve that was to be her share. One day the dentisthappened to ask her about it."You sent that twenty-five to your mother, didn't you?" saidhe."Oh, long ago," answered Trina, without thinking.In fact, Trina never allowed herself to think very much ofthis affair. And, in fact, another matter soon came toengross her attention.One Sunday evening Trina and her husband were in theirsitting-room together. It was dark, but the lamp had notbeen lit. McTeague had brought up some bottles of beer fromthe "Wein Stube" on the ground floor, where the branch post-office used to be. But they had not opened the beer. Itwas a warm evening in summer. Trina was sitting onMcTeague's lap in the bay window, and had looped back theNottingham curtains so the two could look out into thedarkened street and watch the moon coming up over the glassroof of the huge public baths. On occasions they sat likethis for an hour or so, "philandering," Trina cuddlingherself down upon McTeague's enormous body, rubbing hercheek against the grain of his unshaven chin, kissing thebald spot on the top of his head, or putting her fingersinto his ears and eyes. At times, a brusque access ofpassion would seize upon her, and, with a nervous littlesigh, she would clasp his thick red neck in both her smallarms and whisper in his ear:"Do you love me, Mac, dear? Love me big, big?Sure, do you love me as much as you did when we weremarried?"Puzzled, McTeague would answer: "Well, you know it, don'tyou, Trina?""But I want you to say so; say so always and always.""Well, I do, of course I do.""Say it, then.""Well, then, I love you.""But you don't say it of your own accord.""Well, what--what--what--I don't understand," stammered thedentist, bewildered.There was a knock on the door. Confused andembarrassed, as if they were not married, Trina scrambledoff McTeague's lap, hastening to light the lamp, whispering,"Put on your coat, Mac, and smooth your hair," and makinggestures for him to put the beer bottles out of sight. Sheopened the door and uttered an exclamation."Why, Cousin Mark!" she said. McTeague glared at him,struck speechless, confused beyond expression. MarcusSchouler, perfectly at his ease, stood in the doorway,smiling with great affability."Say," he remarked, "can I come in?"Taken all aback, Trina could only answer:"Why--I suppose so. Yes, of course--come in.""Yes, yes, come in," exclaimed the dentist, suddenly,speaking without thought. "Have some beer?" he added,struck with an idea."No, thanks, Doctor," said Marcus, pleasantly.McTeague and Trina were puzzled. What could it all mean?Did Marcus want to become reconciled to his enemy? "Iknow." Trina said to herself. "He's going away, and hewants to borrow some money. He won't get a penny, not apenny." She set her teeth together hard."Well," said Marcus, "how's business, Doctor?""Oh," said McTeague, uneasily, "oh, I don' know. I guess--Iguess," he broke off in helpless embarrassment. They hadall sat down by now. Marcus continued, holding his hat andhis cane--the black wand of ebony with the gold toppresented to him by the "Improvement Club.""Ah!" said he, wagging his head and looking about thesitting-room, "you people have got the best fixed rooms inthe whole flat. Yes, sir; you have, for a fact." Heglanced from the lithograph framed in gilt and red plush--the two little girls at their prayers--to the "I'm Grandpa"and "I'm Grandma" pictures, noted the clean white mattingand the gay worsted tidies over the chair backs, andappeared to contemplate in ecstasy the framedphotograph of McTeague and Trina in their wedding finery."Well, you two are pretty happy together, ain't you?" saidhe, smiling good-humoredly."Oh, we don't complain," answered Trina."Plenty of money, lots to do, everything fine, hey?""We've got lots to do," returned Trina, thinking to head himoff, "but we've not got lots of money."But evidently Marcus wanted no money."Well, Cousin Trina," he said, rubbing his knee, "I'm goingaway.""Yes, mamma wrote me; you're going on a ranch.""I'm going in ranching with an English duck," correctedMarcus. "Mr. Sieppe has fixed things. We'll see if we can'traise some cattle. I know a lot about horses, and he'sranched some before--this English duck. And then I'm goingto keep my eye open for a political chance down there. Igot some introductions from the President of the ImprovementClub. I'll work things somehow, oh, sure.""How long you going to be gone?" asked Trina.Marcus stared."Why, I ain't ever coming back," he vociferated. "I'mgoing to-morrow, and I'm going for good. I come to saygood-by."Marcus stayed for upwards of an hour that evening. Hetalked on easily and agreeably, addressing himself as muchto McTeague as to Trina. At last he rose."Well, good-by, Doc.""Good-by, Marcus," returned McTeague. The two shook hands."Guess we won't ever see each other again," continuedMarcus. "But good luck to you, Doc. Hope some day you'llhave the patients standing in line on the stairs.""Huh! I guess so, I guess so," said the dentist."Good-by, Cousin Trina.""Good-by, Marcus," answered Trina. "You be sure toremember me to mamma, and papa, and everybody. I'mgoing to make two great big sets of Noah's ark animals forthe twins on their next birthday; August is too old fortoys. But you can tell the twins that I'll make them somegreat big animals. Good-by, success to you, Marcus.""Good-by, good-by. Good luck to you both.""Good-by, Cousin Mark.""Good-by, Marcus."He was gone.