Wednesday morning, Washington's Birthday, McTeague rose very early and
shaved himself. Besides the six mournful concertina airs, the dentist
knew one song. Whenever he shaved, he sung this song; never at any other
time. His voice was a bellowing roar, enough to make the window sashes
rattle. Just now he woke up all the lodgers in his hall with it. It was
a lamentable wail:
“No one to love, none to caress,
Left all alone in this world's wilderness.”
As he paused to strop his razor, Marcus came into his room,
half-dressed, a startling phantom in red flannels.
Marcus often ran back and forth between his room and the dentist's
“Parlors” in all sorts of undress. Old Miss Baker had seen him thus
several times through her half-open door, as she sat in her room
listening and waiting. The old dressmaker was shocked out of all
expression. She was outraged, offended, pursing her lips, putting up her
head. She talked of complaining to the landlady. “And Mr. Grannis right
next door, too. You can understand how trying it is for both of us.” She
would come out in the hall after one of these apparitions, her little
false curls shaking, talking loud and shrill to any one in reach of her
voice.
“Well,” Marcus would shout, “shut your door, then, if you don't want to
see. Look out, now, here I come again. Not even a porous plaster on me
this time.”
On this Wednesday morning Marcus called McTeague out into the hall, to
the head of the stairs that led down to the street door.
“Come and listen to Maria, Mac,” said he.
Maria sat on the next to the lowest step, her chin propped by her
two fists. The red-headed Polish Jew, the ragman Zerkow, stood in the
doorway. He was talking eagerly.
“Now, just once more, Maria,” he was saying. “Tell it to us just once
more.” Maria's voice came up the stairway in a monotone. Marcus and
McTeague caught a phrase from time to time.
“There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold--just
that punch-bowl was worth a fortune-thick, fat, red gold.”
“Get onto to that, will you?” observed Marcus. “The old skin has got her
started on the plate. Ain't they a pair for you?”
“And it rang like bells, didn't it?” prompted Zerkow.
“Sweeter'n church bells, and clearer.”
“Ah, sweeter'n bells. Wasn't that punch-bowl awful heavy?”
“All you could do to lift it.”
“I know. Oh, I know,” answered Zerkow, clawing at his lips. “Where did
it all go to? Where did it go?”
Maria shook her head.
“It's gone, anyhow.”
“Ah, gone, gone! Think of it! The punch-bowl gone, and the engraved
ladle, and the plates and goblets. What a sight it must have been all
heaped together!”
“It was a wonderful sight.”
“Yes, wonderful; it must have been.”
On the lower steps of that cheap flat, the Mexican woman and the
red-haired Polish Jew mused long over that vanished, half-mythical gold
plate.
Marcus and the dentist spent Washington's Birthday across the bay. The
journey over was one long agony to McTeague. He shook with a formless,
uncertain dread; a dozen times he would have turned back had not Marcus
been with him. The stolid giant was as nervous as a schoolboy. He
fancied that his call upon Miss Sieppe was an outrageous affront. She
would freeze him with a stare; he would be shown the door, would be
ejected, disgraced.
As they got off the local train at B Street station they suddenly
collided with the whole tribe of Sieppes--the mother, father, three
children, and Trina--equipped for one of their eternal picnics. They
were to go to Schuetzen Park, within walking distance of the station.
They were grouped about four lunch baskets. One of the children, a
little boy, held a black greyhound by a rope around its neck. Trina wore
a blue cloth skirt, a striped shirt waist, and a white sailor; about her
round waist was a belt of imitation alligator skin.
At once Mrs. Sieppe began to talk to Marcus. He had written of their
coming, but the picnic had been decided upon after the arrival of his
letter. Mrs. Sieppe explained this to him. She was an immense old lady
with a pink face and wonderful hair, absolutely white. The Sieppes were
a German-Swiss family.
“We go to der park, Schuetzen Park, mit alle dem childern, a little
eggs-kursion, eh not soh? We breathe der freshes air, a celubration, a
pignic bei der seashore on. Ach, dot wull be soh gay, ah?”
“You bet it will. It'll be outa sight,” cried Marcus, enthusiastic in
an instant. “This is m' friend Doctor McTeague I wrote you about, Mrs.
Sieppe.”
“Ach, der doktor,” cried Mrs. Sieppe.
McTeague was presented, shaking hands gravely as Marcus shouldered him
from one to the other.
Mr. Sieppe was a little man of a military aspect, full of importance,
taking himself very seriously. He was a member of a rifle team. Over his
shoulder was slung a Springfield rifle, while his breast was decorated
by five bronze medals.
Trina was delighted. McTeague was dumfounded. She appeared positively
glad to see him.
“How do you do, Doctor McTeague,” she said, smiling at him and shaking
his hand. “It's nice to see you again. Look, see how fine my filling
is.” She lifted a corner of her lip and showed him the clumsy gold
bridge.
Meanwhile, Mr. Sieppe toiled and perspired. Upon him devolved the
responsibility of the excursion. He seemed to consider it a matter of
vast importance, a veritable expedition.
“Owgooste!” he shouted to the little boy with the black greyhound, “you
will der hound und basket number three carry. Der tervins,” he added,
calling to the two smallest boys, who were dressed exactly alike, “will
releef one unudder mit der camp-stuhl und basket number four. Dat
is comprehend, hay? When we make der start, you childern will in der
advance march. Dat is your orders. But we do not start,” he exclaimed,
excitedly; “we remain. Ach Gott, Selina, who does not arrive.”
Selina, it appeared, was a niece of Mrs. Sieppe's. They were on the
point of starting without her, when she suddenly arrived, very much out
of breath. She was a slender, unhealthy looking girl, who overworked
herself giving lessons in hand-painting at twenty-five cents an hour.
McTeague was presented. They all began to talk at once, filling the
little station-house with a confusion of tongues.
“Attention!” cried Mr. Sieppe, his gold-headed cane in one hand, his
Springfield in the other. “Attention! We depart.” The four little boys
moved off ahead; the greyhound suddenly began to bark, and tug at his
leash. The others picked up their bundles.
“Vorwarts!” shouted Mr. Sieppe, waving his rifle and assuming the
attitude of a lieutenant of infantry leading a charge. The party set off
down the railroad track.
Mrs. Sieppe walked with her husband, who constantly left her side
to shout an order up and down the line. Marcus followed with Selina.
McTeague found himself with Trina at the end of the procession.
“We go off on these picnics almost every week,” said Trina, by way of a
beginning, “and almost every holiday, too. It is a custom.”
“Yes, yes, a custom,” answered McTeague, nodding; “a custom--that's the
word.”
“Don't you think picnics are fine fun, Doctor McTeague?” she continued.
“You take your lunch; you leave the dirty city all day; you race about
in the open air, and when lunchtime comes, oh, aren't you hungry? And
the woods and the grass smell so fine!”
“I don' know, Miss Sieppe,” he answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the
ground between the rails. “I never went on a picnic.”
“Never went on a picnic?” she cried, astonished. “Oh, you'll see what
fun we'll have. In the morning father and the children dig clams in the
mud by the shore, an' we bake them, and--oh, there's thousands of things
to do.”
“Once I went sailing on the bay,” said McTeague. “It was in a tugboat;
we fished off the heads. I caught three codfishes.”
“I'm afraid to go out on the bay,” answered Trina, shaking her head,
“sailboats tip over so easy. A cousin of mine, Selina's brother, was
drowned one Decoration Day. They never found his body. Can you swim,
Doctor McTeague?”
“I used to at the mine.”
“At the mine? Oh, yes, I remember, Marcus told me you were a miner
once.”
“I was a car-boy; all the car-boys used to swim in the reservoir by the
ditch every Thursday evening. One of them was bit by a rattlesnake once
while he was dressing. He was a Frenchman, named Andrew. He swelled up
and began to twitch.”
“Oh, how I hate snakes! They're so crawly and graceful--but, just the
same, I like to watch them. You know that drug store over in town that
has a showcase full of live ones?”
“We killed the rattler with a cart whip.”
“How far do you think you could swim? Did you ever try? D'you think you
could swim a mile?”
“A mile? I don't know. I never tried. I guess I could.”
“I can swim a little. Sometimes we all go out to the Crystal Baths.”
“The Crystal Baths, huh? Can you swim across the tank?”
“Oh, I can swim all right as long as papa holds my chin up. Soon as
he takes his hand away, down I go. Don't you hate to get water in your
ears?”
“Bathing's good for you.”
“If the water's too warm, it isn't. It weakens you.”
Mr. Sieppe came running down the tracks, waving his cane.
“To one side,” he shouted, motioning them off the track; “der drain
gomes.” A local passenger train was just passing B Street station, some
quarter of a mile behind them. The party stood to one side to let it
pass. Marcus put a nickel and two crossed pins upon the rail, and waved
his hat to the passengers as the train roared past. The children shouted
shrilly. When the train was gone, they all rushed to see the nickel and
the crossed pins. The nickel had been jolted off, but the pins had been
flattened out so that they bore a faint resemblance to opened scissors.
A great contention arose among the children for the possession of these
“scissors.” Mr. Sieppe was obliged to intervene. He reflected gravely.
It was a matter of tremendous moment. The whole party halted, awaiting
his decision.
“Attend now,” he suddenly exclaimed. “It will not be soh soon. At der
end of der day, ven we shall have home gecommen, den wull it pe adjudge,
eh? A REward of merit to him who der bes' pehaves. It is an order.
Vorwarts!”
“That was a Sacramento train,” said Marcus to Selina as they started
off; “it was, for a fact.”
“I know a girl in Sacramento,” Trina told McTeague. “She's forewoman in
a glove store, and she's got consumption.”
“I was in Sacramento once,” observed McTeague, “nearly eight years ago.”
“Is it a nice place--as nice as San Francisco?”
“It's hot. I practised there for a while.”
“I like San Francisco,” said Trina, looking across the bay to where the
city piled itself upon its hills.
“So do I,” answered McTeague. “Do you like it better than living over
here?”
“Oh, sure, I wish we lived in the city. If you want to go across for
anything it takes up the whole day.”
“Yes, yes, the whole day--almost.”
“Do you know many people in the city? Do you know anybody named
Oelbermann? That's my uncle. He has a wholesale toy store in the
Mission. They say he's awful rich.”
“No, I don' know him.”
“His stepdaughter wants to be a nun. Just fancy! And Mr. Oelbermann
won't have it. He says it would be just like burying his child. Yes,
she wants to enter the convent of the Sacred Heart. Are you a Catholic,
Doctor McTeague?”
“No. No, I--”
“Papa is a Catholic. He goes to Mass on the feast days once in a while.
But mamma's Lutheran.”
“The Catholics are trying to get control of the schools,” observed
McTeague, suddenly remembering one of Marcus's political tirades.
“That's what cousin Mark says. We are going to send the twins to the
kindergarten next month.”
“What's the kindergarten?”
“Oh, they teach them to make things out of straw and toothpicks--kind of
a play place to keep them off the street.”
“There's one up on Sacramento Street, not far from Polk Street. I saw
the sign.”
“I know where. Why, Selina used to play the piano there.”
“Does she play the piano?”
“Oh, you ought to hear her. She plays fine. Selina's very accomplished.
She paints, too.”
“I can play on the concertina.”
“Oh, can you? I wish you'd brought it along. Next time you will. I hope
you'll come often on our picnics. You'll see what fun we'll have.”
“Fine day for a picnic, ain't it? There ain't a cloud.”
“That's so,” exclaimed Trina, looking up, “not a single cloud. Oh, yes;
there is one, just over Telegraph Hill.”
“That's smoke.”
“No, it's a cloud. Smoke isn't white that way.”
“'Tis a cloud.”
“I knew I was right. I never say a thing unless I'm pretty sure.”
“It looks like a dog's head.”
“Don't it? Isn't Marcus fond of dogs?”
“He got a new dog last week--a setter.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. He and I took a lot of dogs from his hospital out for a walk
to the Cliff House last Sunday, but we had to walk all the way home,
because they wouldn't follow. You've been out to the Cliff House?”
“Not for a long time. We had a picnic there one Fourth of July, but it
rained. Don't you love the ocean?”
“Yes--yes, I like it pretty well.”
“Oh, I'd like to go off in one of those big sailing ships. Just away,
and away, and away, anywhere. They're different from a little yacht. I'd
love to travel.”
“Sure; so would I.”
“Papa and mamma came over in a sailing ship. They were twenty-one days.
Mamma's uncle used to be a sailor. He was captain of a steamer on Lake
Geneva, in Switzerland.”
“Halt!” shouted Mr. Sieppe, brandishing his rifle. They had arrived at
the gates of the park. All at once McTeague turned cold. He had only
a quarter in his pocket. What was he expected to do--pay for the whole
party, or for Trina and himself, or merely buy his own ticket? And even
in this latter case would a quarter be enough? He lost his wits,
rolling his eyes helplessly. Then it occurred to him to feign a great
abstraction, pretending not to know that the time was come to pay. He
looked intently up and down the tracks; perhaps a train was coming.
“Here we are,” cried Trina, as they came up to the rest of the party,
crowded about the entrance. “Yes, yes,” observed McTeague, his head in
the air.
“Gi' me four bits, Mac,” said Marcus, coming up. “Here's where we shell
out.”
“I--I--I only got a quarter,” mumbled the dentist, miserably. He felt
that he had ruined himself forever with Trina. What was the use of
trying to win her? Destiny was against him. “I only got a quarter,” he
stammered. He was on the point of adding that he would not go in the
park. That seemed to be the only alternative.
“Oh, all right!” said Marcus, easily. “I'll pay for you, and you can
square with me when we go home.”
They filed into the park, Mr. Sieppe counting them off as they entered.
“Ah,” said Trina, with a long breath, as she and McTeague pushed through
the wicket, “here we are once more, Doctor.” She had not appeared to
notice McTeague's embarrassment. The difficulty had been tided over
somehow. Once more McTeague felt himself saved.
“To der beach!” shouted Mr. Sieppe. They had checked their baskets at
the peanut stand. The whole party trooped down to the seashore. The
greyhound was turned loose. The children raced on ahead.
From one of the larger parcels Mrs. Sieppe had drawn forth a small tin
steamboat--August's birthday present--a gaudy little toy which could be
steamed up and navigated by means of an alcohol lamp. Her trial trip was
to be made this morning.
“Gi' me it, gi' me it,” shouted August, dancing around his father.
“Not soh, not soh,” cried Mr. Sieppe, bearing it aloft. “I must first
der eggsperimunt make.”
“No, no!” wailed August. “I want to play with ut.”
“Obey!” thundered Mr. Sieppe. August subsided. A little jetty ran part
of the way into the water. Here, after a careful study of the directions
printed on the cover of the box, Mr. Sieppe began to fire the little
boat.
“I want to put ut in the wa-ater,” cried August.
“Stand back!” shouted his parent. “You do not know so well as me; dere
is dandger. Mitout attention he will eggsplode.”
“I want to play with ut,” protested August, beginning to cry.
“Ach, soh; you cry, bube!” vociferated Mr. Sieppe. “Mommer,” addressing
Mrs. Sieppe, “he will soh soon be ge-whipt, eh?”
“I want my boa-wut,” screamed August, dancing.
“Silence!” roared Mr. Sieppe. The little boat began to hiss and smoke.
“Soh,” observed the father, “he gommence. Attention! I put him in der
water.” He was very excited. The perspiration dripped from the back of
his neck. The little boat was launched. It hissed more furiously than
ever. Clouds of steam rolled from it, but it refused to move.
“You don't know how she wo-rks,” sobbed August.
“I know more soh mudge as der grossest liddle fool as you,” cried Mr.
Sieppe, fiercely, his face purple.
“You must give it sh--shove!” exclaimed the boy.
“Den he eggsplode, idiot!” shouted his father. All at once the boiler of
the steamer blew up with a sharp crack. The little tin toy turned over
and sank out of sight before any one could interfere.
“Ah--h! Yah! Yah!” yelled August. “It's go-one!”
Instantly Mr. Sieppe boxed his ears. There was a lamentable scene.
August rent the air with his outcries; his father shook him till his
boots danced on the jetty, shouting into his face:
“Ach, idiot! Ach, imbecile! Ach, miserable! I tol' you he eggsplode.
Stop your cry. Stop! It is an order. Do you wish I drow you in der
water, eh? Speak. Silence, bube! Mommer, where ist mein stick? He will
der grossest whippun ever of his life receive.”
Little by little the boy subsided, swallowing his sobs, knuckling his
eyes, gazing ruefully at the spot where the boat had sunk. “Dot is
better soh,” commented Mr. Sieppe, finally releasing him. “Next dime
berhaps you will your fat'er better pelief. Now, no more. We will
der glams ge-dig, Mommer, a fire. Ach, himmel! we have der pfeffer
forgotten.”
The work of clam digging began at once, the little boys taking off their
shoes and stockings. At first August refused to be comforted, and it was
not until his father drove him into the water with his gold-headed cane
that he consented to join the others.
What a day that was for McTeague! What a never-to-be-forgotten day! He
was with Trina constantly. They laughed together--she demurely, her lips
closed tight, her little chin thrust out, her small pale nose, with its
adorable little freckles, wrinkling; he roared with all the force of his
lungs, his enormous mouth distended, striking sledge-hammer blows upon
his knee with his clenched fist.
The lunch was delicious. Trina and her mother made a clam chowder that
melted in one's mouth. The lunch baskets were emptied. The party were
fully two hours eating. There were huge loaves of rye bread full of
grains of chickweed. There were weiner-wurst and frankfurter sausages.
There was unsalted butter. There were pretzels. There was cold underdone
chicken, which one ate in slices, plastered with a wonderful kind of
mustard that did not sting. There were dried apples, that gave Mr.
Sieppe the hiccoughs. There were a dozen bottles of beer, and, last of
all, a crowning achievement, a marvellous Gotha truffle. After lunch
came tobacco. Stuffed to the eyes, McTeague drowsed over his pipe, prone
on his back in the sun, while Trina, Mrs. Sieppe, and Selina washed the
dishes. In the afternoon Mr. Sieppe disappeared. They heard the reports
of his rifle on the range. The others swarmed over the park, now around
the swings, now in the Casino, now in the museum, now invading the
merry-go-round.
At half-past five o'clock Mr. Sieppe marshalled the party together. It
was time to return home.
The family insisted that Marcus and McTeague should take supper with
them at their home and should stay over night. Mrs. Sieppe argued they
could get no decent supper if they went back to the city at that hour;
that they could catch an early morning boat and reach their business in
good time. The two friends accepted.
The Sieppes lived in a little box of a house at the foot of B Street,
the first house to the right as one went up from the station. It was two
stories high, with a funny red mansard roof of oval slates. The interior
was cut up into innumerable tiny rooms, some of them so small as to be
hardly better than sleeping closets. In the back yard was a contrivance
for pumping water from the cistern that interested McTeague at once.
It was a dog-wheel, a huge revolving box in which the unhappy black
greyhound spent most of his waking hours. It was his kennel; he slept
in it. From time to time during the day Mrs. Sieppe appeared on the back
doorstep, crying shrilly, “Hoop, hoop!” She threw lumps of coal at him,
waking him to his work.
They were all very tired, and went to bed early. After great discussion
it was decided that Marcus would sleep upon the lounge in the front
parlor. Trina would sleep with August, giving up her room to McTeague.
Selina went to her home, a block or so above the Sieppes's. At nine
o'clock Mr. Sieppe showed McTeague to his room and left him to himself
with a newly lighted candle.
For a long time after Mr. Sieppe had gone McTeague stood motionless in
the middle of the room, his elbows pressed close to his sides, looking
obliquely from the corners of his eyes. He hardly dared to move. He was
in Trina's room.
It was an ordinary little room. A clean white matting was on the floor;
gray paper, spotted with pink and green flowers, covered the walls. In
one corner, under a white netting, was a little bed, the woodwork gayly
painted with knots of bright flowers. Near it, against the wall, was a
black walnut bureau. A work-table with spiral legs stood by the window,
which was hung with a green and gold window curtain. Opposite the window
the closet door stood ajar, while in the corner across from the bed was
a tiny washstand with two clean towels.
And that was all. But it was Trina's room. McTeague was in his lady's
bower; it seemed to him a little nest, intimate, discreet. He felt
hideously out of place. He was an intruder; he, with his enormous feet,
his colossal bones, his crude, brutal gestures. The mere weight of his
limbs, he was sure, would crush the little bed-stead like an eggshell.
Then, as this first sensation wore off, he began to feel the charm of
the little chamber. It was as though Trina were close by, but invisible.
McTeague felt all the delight of her presence without the embarrassment
that usually accompanied it. He was near to her--nearer than he had ever
been before. He saw into her daily life, her little ways and manners,
her habits, her very thoughts. And was there not in the air of that room
a certain faint perfume that he knew, that recalled her to his mind with
marvellous vividness?
As he put the candle down upon the bureau he saw her hairbrush lying
there. Instantly he picked it up, and, without knowing why, held it
to his face. With what a delicious odor was it redolent! That heavy,
enervating odor of her hair--her wonderful, royal hair! The smell of
that little hairbrush was talismanic. He had but to close his eyes to
see her as distinctly as in a mirror. He saw her tiny, round figure,
dressed all in black--for, curiously enough, it was his very first
impression of Trina that came back to him now--not the Trina of the
later occasions, not the Trina of the blue cloth skirt and white sailor.
He saw her as he had seen her the day that Marcus had introduced them:
saw her pale, round face; her narrow, half-open eyes, blue like the
eyes of a baby; her tiny, pale ears, suggestive of anaemia; the freckles
across the bridge of her nose; her pale lips; the tiara of royal black
hair; and, above all, the delicious poise of the head, tipped back as
though by the weight of all that hair--the poise that thrust out her
chin a little, with the movement that was so confiding, so innocent, so
nearly infantile.
McTeague went softly about the room from one object to another,
beholding Trina in everything he touched or looked at. He came at last
to the closet door. It was ajar. He opened it wide, and paused upon the
threshold.
Trina's clothes were hanging there--skirts and waists, jackets, and
stiff white petticoats. What a vision! For an instant McTeague caught
his breath, spellbound. If he had suddenly discovered Trina herself
there, smiling at him, holding out her hands, he could hardly have been
more overcome. Instantly he recognized the black dress she had worn on
that famous first day. There it was, the little jacket she had
carried over her arm the day he had terrified her with his blundering
declaration, and still others, and others--a whole group of Trinas
faced him there. He went farther into the closet, touching the clothes
gingerly, stroking them softly with his huge leathern palms. As he
stirred them a delicate perfume disengaged itself from the folds. Ah,
that exquisite feminine odor! It was not only her hair now, it was
Trina herself--her mouth, her hands, her neck; the indescribably sweet,
fleshly aroma that was a part of her, pure and clean, and redolent of
youth and freshness. All at once, seized with an unreasoned impulse,
McTeague opened his huge arms and gathered the little garments close to
him, plunging his face deep amongst them, savoring their delicious odor
with long breaths of luxury and supreme content.
* * * * *
The picnic at Schuetzen Park decided matters. McTeague began to call
on Trina regularly Sunday and Wednesday afternoons. He took Marcus
Schouler's place. Sometimes Marcus accompanied him, but it was generally
to meet Selina by appointment at the Sieppes's house.
But Marcus made the most of his renunciation of his cousin. He
remembered his pose from time to time. He made McTeague unhappy and
bewildered by wringing his hand, by venting sighs that seemed to tear
his heart out, or by giving evidences of an infinite melancholy. “What
is my life!” he would exclaim. “What is left for me? Nothing, by damn!”
And when McTeague would attempt remonstrance, he would cry: “Never mind,
old man. Never mind me. Go, be happy. I forgive you.”
Forgive what? McTeague was all at sea, was harassed with the thought of
some shadowy, irreparable injury he had done his friend.
“Oh, don't think of me!” Marcus would exclaim at other times, even when
Trina was by. “Don't think of me; I don't count any more. I ain't in
it.” Marcus seemed to take great pleasure in contemplating the wreck of
his life. There is no doubt he enjoyed himself hugely during these days.
The Sieppes were at first puzzled as well over this change of front.
“Trina has den a new younge man,” cried Mr. Sieppe. “First Schouler, now
der doktor, eh? What die tevil, I say!”
Weeks passed, February went, March came in very rainy, putting a stop to
all their picnics and Sunday excursions.
One Wednesday afternoon in the second week in March McTeague came over
to call on Trina, bringing his concertina with him, as was his custom
nowadays. As he got off the train at the station he was surprised to
find Trina waiting for him.
“This is the first day it hasn't rained in weeks,” she explained, “an' I
thought it would be nice to walk.”
“Sure, sure,” assented McTeague.
B Street station was nothing more than a little shed. There was no
ticket office, nothing but a couple of whittled and carven benches. It
was built close to the railroad tracks, just across which was the dirty,
muddy shore of San Francisco Bay. About a quarter of a mile back from
the station was the edge of the town of Oakland. Between the station
and the first houses of the town lay immense salt flats, here and there
broken by winding streams of black water. They were covered with a
growth of wiry grass, strangely discolored in places by enormous stains
of orange yellow.
Near the station a bit of fence painted with a cigar advertisement
reeled over into the mud, while under its lee lay an abandoned gravel
wagon with dished wheels. The station was connected with the town by
the extension of B Street, which struck across the flats geometrically
straight, a file of tall poles with intervening wires marching along
with it. At the station these were headed by an iron electric-light pole
that, with its supports and outriggers, looked for all the world like an
immense grasshopper on its hind legs.
Across the flats, at the fringe of the town, were the dump heaps, the
figures of a few Chinese rag-pickers moving over them. Far to the left
the view was shut off by the immense red-brown drum of the gas-works;
to the right it was bounded by the chimneys and workshops of an iron
foundry.
Across the railroad tracks, to seaward, one saw the long stretch of
black mud bank left bare by the tide, which was far out, nearly half a
mile. Clouds of sea-gulls were forever rising and settling upon this mud
bank; a wrecked and abandoned wharf crawled over it on tottering legs;
close in an old sailboat lay canted on her bilge.
But farther on, across the yellow waters of the bay, beyond Goat Island,
lay San Francisco, a blue line of hills, rugged with roofs and spires.
Far to the westward opened the Golden Gate, a bleak cutting in the
sand-hills, through which one caught a glimpse of the open Pacific.
The station at B Street was solitary; no trains passed at this hour;
except the distant rag-pickers, not a soul was in sight. The wind blew
strong, carrying with it the mingled smell of salt, of tar, of dead
seaweed, and of bilge. The sky hung low and brown; at long intervals a
few drops of rain fell.
Near the station Trina and McTeague sat on the roadbed of the tracks, at
the edge of the mud bank, making the most out of the landscape, enjoying
the open air, the salt marshes, and the sight of the distant water. From
time to time McTeague played his six mournful airs upon his concertina.
After a while they began walking up and down the tracks, McTeague
talking about his profession, Trina listening, very interested and
absorbed, trying to understand.
“For pulling the roots of the upper molars we use the cowhorn forceps,”
continued the dentist, monotonously. “We get the inside beak over the
palatal roots and the cow-horn beak over the buccal roots--that's the
roots on the outside, you see. Then we close the forceps, and that
breaks right through the alveolus--that's the part of the socket in the
jaw, you understand.”
At another moment he told her of his one unsatisfied desire. “Some day
I'm going to have a big gilded tooth outside my window for a sign. Those
big gold teeth are beautiful, beautiful--only they cost so much, I can't
afford one just now.”
“Oh, it's raining,” suddenly exclaimed Trina, holding out her palm.
They turned back and reached the station in a drizzle. The afternoon was
closing in dark and rainy. The tide was coming back, talking and lapping
for miles along the mud bank. Far off across the flats, at the edge of
the town, an electric car went by, stringing out a long row of diamond
sparks on the overhead wires.
“Say, Miss Trina,” said McTeague, after a while, “what's the good of
waiting any longer? Why can't us two get married?”
Trina still shook her head, saying “No” instinctively, in spite of
herself.
“Why not?” persisted McTeague. “Don't you like me well enough?”
“Yes.”
“Then why not?”
“Because.”
“Ah, come on,” he said, but Trina still shook her head.
“Ah, come on,” urged McTeague. He could think of nothing else to say,
repeating the same phrase over and over again to all her refusals.
“Ah, come on! Ah, come on!”
Suddenly he took her in his enormous arms, crushing down her struggle
with his immense strength. Then Trina gave up, all in an instant,
turning her head to his. They kissed each other, grossly, full in the
mouth.
A roar and a jarring of the earth suddenly grew near and passed them
in a reek of steam and hot air. It was the Overland, with its flaming
headlight, on its way across the continent.
The passage of the train startled them both. Trina struggled to free
herself from McTeague. “Oh, please! please!” she pleaded, on the point
of tears. McTeague released her, but in that moment a slight, a barely
perceptible, revulsion of feeling had taken place in him. The instant
that Trina gave up, the instant she allowed him to kiss her, he thought
less of her. She was not so desirable, after all. But this reaction
was so faint, so subtle, so intangible, that in another moment he
had doubted its occurrence. Yet afterward it returned. Was there not
something gone from Trina now? Was he not disappointed in her for doing
that very thing for which he had longed? Was Trina the submissive, the
compliant, the attainable just the same, just as delicate and adorable
as Trina the inaccessible? Perhaps he dimly saw that this must be so,
that it belonged to the changeless order of things--the man desiring
the woman only for what she withholds; the woman worshipping the man for
that which she yields up to him. With each concession gained the man's
desire cools; with every surrender made the woman's adoration increases.
But why should it be so?
Trina wrenched herself free and drew back from McTeague, her little
chin quivering; her face, even to the lobes of her pale ears, flushed
scarlet; her narrow blue eyes brimming. Suddenly she put her head
between her hands and began to sob.
“Say, say, Miss Trina, listen--listen here, Miss Trina,” cried McTeague,
coming forward a step.
“Oh, don't!” she gasped, shrinking. “I must go home,” she cried,
springing to her feet. “It's late. I must. I must. Don't come with
me, please. Oh, I'm so--so,”--she could not find any words. “Let me go
alone,” she went on. “You may--you come Sunday. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” said McTeague, his head in a whirl at this sudden,
unaccountable change. “Can't I kiss you again?” But Trina was firm now.
When it came to his pleading--a mere matter of words--she was strong
enough.
“No, no, you must not!” she exclaimed, with energy. She was gone in
another instant. The dentist, stunned, bewildered, gazed stupidly after
her as she ran up the extension of B Street through the rain.
But suddenly a great joy took possession of him. He had won her. Trina
was to be for him, after all. An enormous smile distended his thick
lips; his eyes grew wide, and flashed; and he drew his breath quickly,
striking his mallet-like fist upon his knee, and exclaiming under his
breath:
“I got her, by God! I got her, by God!” At the same time he thought
better of himself; his self-respect increased enormously. The man that
could win Trina Sieppe was a man of extraordinary ability.
Trina burst in upon her mother while the latter was setting a mousetrap
in the kitchen.
“Oh, mamma!”
“Eh? Trina? Ach, what has happun?”
Trina told her in a breath.
“Soh soon?” was Mrs. Sieppe's first comment. “Eh, well, what you cry
for, then?”
“I don't know,” wailed Trina, plucking at the end of her handkerchief.
“You loaf der younge doktor?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, what for you kiss him?”
“I don't know.”
“You don' know, you don' know? Where haf your sensus gone, Trina? You
kiss der doktor. You cry, and you don' know. Is ut Marcus den?”
“No, it's not Cousin Mark.”
“Den ut must be der doktor.”
Trina made no answer.
“Eh?”
“I--I guess so.”
“You loaf him?”
“I don't know.”
Mrs. Sieppe set down the mousetrap with such violence that it sprung
with a sharp snap.