by Frank Norris
“She was in here only yesterday and drew out the balance of her money. She’s been drawing against her money for the last month or so. She’s got it all now, I guess.”
“Ah, she’s got it all.”
The dentist went away from his bootless visit to his wife shaking with rage, hating her with all the strength of a crude and primitive nature. He clenched his fists till his knuckles whitened, his teeth ground furiously upon one another.
“Ah, if I had hold of you once, I’d make you dance. She had five thousand dollars in that room, while I stood there, not twenty feet away, and told her I was starving, and she wouldn’t give me a dime to get a cup of coffee with; not a dime to get a cup of coffee. Oh, if I once get my hands on you!” His wrath strangled him. He clutched at the darkness in front of him, his breath fairly whistling between his teeth.
That night he walked the streets until the morning, wondering what now he was to do to fight the wolf away. The morning of the next day towards ten o’clock he was on Kearney Street, still walking, still tramping the streets, since there was nothing else for him to do. By and by he paused on a corner near a music store, finding a momentary amusement in watching two or three men loading a piano upon a dray. Already half its weight was supported by the dray’s backboard. One of the men, a big mulatto, almost hidden under the mass of glistening rosewood, was guiding its course, while the other two heaved and tugged in the rear. Something in the street frightened the horses and they shied abruptly. The end of the piano was twitched sharply from the backboard. There was a cry, the mulatto staggered and fell with the falling piano, and its weight dropped squarely upon his thigh, which broke with a resounding crack.
An hour later McTeague had found his job. The music store engaged him as handler at six dollars a week. McTeague’s enormous strength, useless all his life, stood him in good stead at last.
He slept in a tiny back room opening from the storeroom of the music store. He was in some sense a watchman as well as handler, and went the rounds of the store twice every night. His room was a box of a place that reeked with odors of stale tobacco smoke. The former occupant had papered the walls with newspapers and had pasted up figures cut out from the posters of some Kiralfy ballet, very gaudy. By the one window, chittering all day in its little gilt prison, hung the canary bird, a tiny atom of life that McTeague still clung to with a strange obstinacy.
McTeague drank a good deal of whiskey in these days, but the only effect it had upon him was to increase the viciousness and bad temper that had developed in him since the beginning of his misfortunes. He terrorized his fellow-handlers, powerful men though they were. For a gruff word, for an awkward movement in lading the pianos, for a surly look or a muttered oath, the dentist’s elbow would crook and his hand contract to a mallet-like fist. As often as not the blow followed, colossal in its force, swift as the leap of the piston from its cylinder.
His hatred of Trina increased from day to day. He’d make her dance yet. Wait only till he got his hands upon her. She’d let him starve, would she? She’d turn him out of doors while she hid her five thousand dollars in the bottom of her trunk. Aha, he would see about that some day. She couldn’t make small of him. Ah, no. She’d dance all right — all right. McTeague was not an imaginative man by nature, but he would lie awake nights, his clumsy wits galloping and frisking under the lash of the alcohol, and fancy himself thrashing his wife, till a sudden frenzy of rage would overcome him, and he would shake all over, rolling upon the bed and biting the mattress.
On a certain day, about a week after Christmas of that year, McTeague was on one of the top floors of the music store, where the second-hand instruments were kept, helping to move about and rearrange some old pianos. As he passed by one of the counters he paused abruptly, his eye caught by an object that was strangely familiar.
“Say,” he inquired, addressing the clerk in charge, “say, where’d this come from?”
“Why, let’s see. We got that from a second-hand store up on Polk Street, I guess. It’s a fairly good machine; a little tinkering with the stops and a bit of shellac, and we’ll make it about’s good as new. Good tone. See.” And the clerk drew a long, sonorous wail from the depths of McTeague’s old concertina.
“Well, it’s mine,” growled the dentist.
The other laughed. “It’s yours for eleven dollars.”
“It’s mine,” persisted McTeague. “I want it.”
“Go ‘long with you, Mac. What do you mean?”
“I mean that it’s mine, that’s what I mean. You got no right to it. It was STOLEN from me, that’s what I mean,” he added, a sullen anger flaming up in his little eyes.
The clerk raised a shoulder and put the concertina on an upper shelf.
“You talk to the boss about that; t’ain’t none of my affair. If you want to buy it, it’s eleven dollars.”
The dentist had been paid off the day before and had four dollars in his wallet at the moment. He gave the money to the clerk.
“Here, there’s part of the money. You — you put that concertina aside for me, an’ I’ll give you the rest in a week or so — I’ll give it to you tomorrow,” he exclaimed, struck with a sudden idea.
McTeague had sadly missed his concertina. Sunday afternoons when there was no work to be done, he was accustomed to lie flat on his back on his springless bed in the little room in the rear of the music store, his coat and shoes off, reading the paper, drinking steam beer from a pitcher, and smoking his pipe. But he could no longer play his six lugubrious airs upon his concertina, and it was a deprivation. He often wondered where it was gone. It had been lost, no doubt, in the general wreck of his fortunes. Once, even, the dentist had taken a concertina from the lot kept by the music store. It was a Sunday and no one was about. But he found he could not play upon it. The stops were arranged upon a system he did not understand.
Now his own concertina was come back to him. He would buy it back. He had given the clerk four dollars. He knew where he would get the remaining seven.
The clerk had told him the concertina had been sold on Polk Street to the second-hand store there. Trina had sold it. McTeague knew it. Trina had sold his concertina — had stolen it and sold it — his concertina, his beloved concertina, that he had had all his life. Why, barring the canary, there was not one of all his belongings that McTeague had cherished more dearly. His steel engraving of “Lorenzo de’ Medici and his Court” might be lost, his stone pug dog might go, but his concertina!
“And she sold it — stole it from me and sold it. Just because I happened to forget to take it along with me. Well, we’ll just see about that. You’ll give me the money to buy it back, or — —”
His rage loomed big within him. His hatred of Trina came back upon him like a returning surge. He saw her small, prim mouth, her narrow blue eyes, her black mane of hair, and up-tilted chin, and hated her the more because of them. Aha, he’d show her; he’d make her dance. He’d get that seven dollars from her, or he’d know the reason why. He went through his work that day, heaving and hauling at the ponderous pianos, handling them with the ease of a lifting crane, impatient for the coming of evening, when he could be left to his own devices. As often as he had a moment to spare he went down the street to the nearest saloon and drank a pony of whiskey. Now and then as he fought and struggled with the vast masses of ebony, rosewood, and mahogany on the upper floor of the music store, raging and chafing at their inertness and unwillingness, while the whiskey pirouetted in his brain, he would mutter to himself:
“An’ I got to do this. I got to work like a dray horse while she sits at home by her stove and counts her money — and sells my concertina.”
Six o’clock came. Instead of supper, McTeague drank some more whiskey, five ponies in rapid succession. After supper he was obliged to go out with the dray to deliver a concert grand at the Odd Fellows’ Hall, where a piano “recital” was to take place.
“Ain’t you coming back with us?” asked one of the handlers as he clim
bed upon the driver’s seat after the piano had been put in place.
“No, no,” returned the dentist; “I got something else to do.” The brilliant lights of a saloon near the City Hall caught his eye. He decided he would have another drink of whiskey. It was about eight o’clock.
The following day was to be a fete day at the kindergarten, the Christmas and New Year festivals combined. All that afternoon the little two-story building on Pacific Street had been filled with a number of grand ladies of the Kindergarten Board, who were hanging up ropes of evergreen and sprays of holly, and arranging a great Christmas tree that stood in the centre of the ring in the schoolroom. The whole place was pervaded with a pungent, piney odor. Trina had been very busy since the early morning, coming and going at everybody’s call, now running down the street after another tack-hammer or a fresh supply of cranberries, now tying together the ropes of evergreen and passing them up to one of the grand ladies as she carefully balanced herself on a step-ladder. By evening everything was in place. As the last grand lady left the school, she gave Trina an extra dollar for her work, and said:
“Now, if you’ll just tidy up here, Mrs. McTeague, I think that will be all. Sweep up the pine needles here — you see they are all over the floor — and look through all the rooms, and tidy up generally. Good night — and a Happy New Year,” she cried pleasantly as she went out.
Trina put the dollar away in her trunk before she did anything else and cooked herself a bit of supper. Then she came downstairs again.
The kindergarten was not large. On the lower floor were but two rooms, the main schoolroom and another room, a cloakroom, very small, where the children hung their hats and coats. This cloakroom opened off the back of the main schoolroom. Trina cast a critical glance into both of these rooms. There had been a great deal of going and coming in them during the day, and she decided that the first thing to do would be to scrub the floors. She went up again to her room overhead and heated some water over her oil stove; then, re-descending, set to work vigorously.
By nine o’clock she had almost finished with the schoolroom. She was down on her hands and knees in the midst of a steaming muck of soapy water. On her feet were a pair of man’s shoes fastened with buckles; a dirty cotton gown, damp with the water, clung about her shapeless, stunted figure. From time to time she sat back on her heels to ease the strain of her position, and with one smoking hand, white and parboiled with the hot water, brushed her hair, already streaked with gray, out of her weazened, pale face and the corners of her mouth.
It was very quiet. A gas-jet without a globe lit up the place with a crude, raw light. The cat who lived on the premises, preferring to be dirty rather than to be wet, had got into the coal scuttle, and over its rim watched her sleepily with a long, complacent purr.
All at once he stopped purring, leaving an abrupt silence in the air like the sudden shutting off of a stream of water, while his eyes grew wide, two lambent disks of yellow in the heap of black fur.
“Who is there?” cried Trina, sitting back on her heels. In the stillness that succeeded, the water dripped from her hands with the steady tick of a clock. Then a brutal fist swung open the street door of the schoolroom and McTeague came in. He was drunk; not with that drunkenness which is stupid, maudlin, wavering on its feet, but with that which is alert, unnaturally intelligent, vicious, perfectly steady, deadly wicked. Trina only had to look once at him, and in an instant, with some strange sixth sense, born of the occasion, knew what she had to expect.
She jumped up and ran from him into the little cloakroom. She locked and bolted the door after her, and leaned her weight against it, panting and trembling, every nerve shrinking and quivering with the fear of him.
McTeague put his hand on the knob of the door outside and opened it, tearing off the lock and bolt guard, and sending her staggering across the room.
“Mac,” she cried to him, as he came in, speaking with horrid rapidity, cringing and holding out her hands, “Mac, listen. Wait a minute — look here — listen here. It wasn’t my fault. I’ll give you some money. You can come back. I’ll do ANYTHING you want. Won’t you just LISTEN to me? Oh, don’t! I’ll scream. I can’t help it, you know. The people will hear.”
McTeague came towards her slowly, his immense feet dragging and grinding on the floor; his enormous fists, hard as wooden mallets, swinging at his sides. Trina backed from him to the corner of the room, cowering before him, holding her elbow crooked in front of her face, watching him with fearful intentness, ready to dodge.
“I want that money,” he said, pausing in front of her.
“What money?” cried Trina.
“I want that money. You got it — that five thousand dollars. I want every nickel of it! You understand?”
“I haven’t it. It isn’t here. Uncle Oelbermann’s got it.”
“That’s a lie. He told me that you came and got it. You’ve had it long enough; now I want it. Do you hear?”
“Mac, I can’t give you that money. I — I WON’T give it to you,” Trina cried, with sudden resolution.
“Yes, you will. You’ll give me every nickel of it.”
“No, NO.”
“You ain’t going to make small of me this time. Give me that money.”
“NO.”
“For the last time, will you give me that money?”
“No.”
“You won’t, huh? You won’t give me it? For the last time.”
“No, NO.”
Usually the dentist was slow in his movements, but now the alcohol had awakened in him an ape-like agility. He kept his small eyes upon her, and all at once sent his fist into the middle of her face with the suddenness of a relaxed spring.
Beside herself with terror, Trina turned and fought him back; fought for her miserable life with the exasperation and strength of a harassed cat; and with such energy and such wild, unnatural force, that even McTeague for the moment drew back from her. But her resistance was the one thing to drive him to the top of his fury. He came back at her again, his eyes drawn to two fine twinkling points, and his enormous fists, clenched till the knuckles whitened, raised in the air.
Then it became abominable.
In the schoolroom outside, behind the coal scuttle, the cat listened to the sounds of stamping and struggling and the muffled noise of blows, wildly terrified, his eyes bulging like brass knobs. At last the sounds stopped on a sudden; he heard nothing more. Then McTeague came out, closing the door. The cat followed him with distended eyes as he crossed the room and disappeared through the street door.
The dentist paused for a moment on the sidewalk, looking carefully up and down the street. It was deserted and quiet. He turned sharply to the right and went down a narrow passage that led into the little court yard behind the school. A candle was burning in Trina’s room. He went up by the outside stairway and entered.
The trunk stood locked in one corner of the room. The dentist took the lid-lifter from the little oil stove, put it underneath the lock-clasp and wrenched it open. Groping beneath a pile of dresses he found the chamois-skin bag, the little brass match-box, and, at the very bottom, carefully thrust into one corner, the canvas sack crammed to the mouth with twenty-dollar gold pieces. He emptied the chamois-skin bag and the matchbox into the pockets of his trousers. But the canvas sack was too bulky to hide about his clothes. “I guess I’ll just naturally have to carry YOU,” he muttered. He blew out the candle, closed the door, and gained the street again.
The dentist crossed the city, going back to the music store. It was a little after eleven o’clock. The night was moonless, filled with a gray blur of faint light that seemed to come from all quarters of the horizon at once. From time to time there were sudden explosions of a southeast wind at the street corners. McTeague went on, slanting his head against the gusts, to keep his cap from blowing off, carrying the sack close to his side. Once he looked critically at the sky.
“I bet it’ll rain to-morrow,” he muttered, “if this wind works roun
d to the south.”
Once in his little den behind the music store, he washed his hands and forearms, and put on his working clothes, blue overalls and a jumper, over cheap trousers and vest. Then he got together his small belongings — an old campaign hat, a pair of boots, a tin of tobacco, and a pinchbeck bracelet which he had found one Sunday in the Park, and which he believed to be valuable. He stripped his blanket from his bed and rolled up in it all these objects, together with the canvas sack, fastening the roll with a half hitch such as miners use, the instincts of the old-time car-boy coming back to him in his present confusion of mind. He changed his pipe and his knife — a huge jackknife with a yellowed bone handle — to the pockets of his overalls.
Then at last he stood with his hand on the door, holding up the lamp before blowing it out, looking about to make sure he was ready to go. The wavering light woke his canary. It stirred and began to chitter feebly, very sleepy and cross at being awakened. McTeague started, staring at it, and reflecting. He believed that it would be a long time before anyone came into that room again. The canary would be days without food; it was likely it would starve, would die there, hour by hour, in its little gilt prison. McTeague resolved to take it with him. He took down the cage, touching it gently with his enormous hands, and tied a couple of sacks about it to shelter the little bird from the sharp night wind.
Then he went out, locking all the doors behind him, and turned toward the ferry slips. The boats had ceased running hours ago, but he told himself that by waiting till four o’clock he could get across the bay on the tug that took over the morning papers.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Trina lay unconscious, just as she had fallen under the last of McTeague’s blows, her body twitching with an occasional hiccough that stirred the pool of blood in which she lay face downward. Towards morning she died with a rapid series of hiccoughs that sounded like a piece of clockwork running down.
The thing had been done in the cloakroom where the kindergarten children hung their hats and coats. There was no other entrance except by going through the main schoolroom. McTeague going out had shut the door of the cloakroom, but had left the street door open; so when the children arrived in the morning, they entered as usual.