McTeague by Frank Norris (leveled readers TXT) 📕

“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 from 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 hatbox 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