Then the grind began. It would have been easier for the McTeagues to
have faced their misfortunes had they befallen them immediately after
their marriage, when their love for each other was fresh and fine, and
when they could have found a certain happiness in helping each other and
sharing each other's privations. Trina, no doubt, loved her husband
more than ever, in the sense that she felt she belonged to him. But
McTeague's affection for his wife was dwindling a little every day--HAD
been dwindling for a long time, in fact. He had become used to her by
now. She was part of the order of the things with which he found himself
surrounded. He saw nothing extraordinary about her; it was no longer a
pleasure for him to kiss her and take her in his arms; she was merely
his wife. He did not dislike her; he did not love her. She was his wife,
that was all. But he sadly missed and regretted all those little animal
comforts which in the old prosperous life Trina had managed to find for
him. He missed the cabbage soups and steaming chocolate that Trina had
taught him to like; he missed his good tobacco that Trina had educated
him to prefer; he missed the Sunday afternoon walks that she had caused
him to substitute in place of his nap in the operating chair; and he
missed the bottled beer that she had induced him to drink in place of
the steam beer from Frenna's. In the end he grew morose and sulky, and
sometimes neglected to answer his wife when she spoke to him. Besides
this, Trina's avarice was a perpetual annoyance to him. Oftentimes when
a considerable alleviation of this unhappiness could have been obtained
at the expense of a nickel or a dime, Trina refused the money with a
pettishness that was exasperating.
“No, no,” she would exclaim. “To ride to the park Sunday afternoon, that
means ten cents, and I can't afford it.”
“Let's walk there, then.”
“I've got to work.”
“But you've worked morning and afternoon every day this week.”
“I don't care, I've got to work.”
There had been a time when Trina had hated the idea of McTeague drinking
steam beer as common and vulgar.
“Say, let's have a bottle of beer to-night. We haven't had a drop of
beer in three weeks.”
“We can't afford it. It's fifteen cents a bottle.”
“But I haven't had a swallow of beer in three weeks.”
“Drink STEAM beer, then. You've got a nickel. I gave you a quarter day
before yesterday.”
“But I don't like steam beer now.”
It was so with everything. Unfortunately, Trina had cultivated tastes in
McTeague which now could not be gratified. He had come to be very proud
of his silk hat and “Prince Albert” coat, and liked to wear them on
Sundays. Trina had made him sell both. He preferred “Yale mixture” in
his pipe; Trina had made him come down to “Mastiff,” a five-cent tobacco
with which he was once contented, but now abhorred. He liked to wear
clean cuffs; Trina allowed him a fresh pair on Sundays only. At first
these deprivations angered McTeague. Then, all of a sudden, he slipped
back into the old habits (that had been his before he knew Trina) with
an ease that was surprising. Sundays he dined at the car conductors'
coffee-joint once more, and spent the afternoon lying full length upon
the bed, crop-full, stupid, warm, smoking his huge pipe, drinking his
steam beer, and playing his six mournful tunes upon his concertina,
dozing off to sleep towards four o'clock.
The sale of their furniture had, after paying the rent and outstanding
bills, netted about a hundred and thirty dollars. Trina believed that
the auctioneer from the second-hand store had swindled and cheated
them and had made a great outcry to no effect. But she had arranged the
affair with the auctioneer herself, and offset her disappointment in the
matter of the sale by deceiving her husband as to the real amount of
the returns. It was easy to lie to McTeague, who took everything for
granted; and since the occasion of her trickery with the money that was
to have been sent to her mother, Trina had found falsehood easier than
ever.
“Seventy dollars is all the auctioneer gave me,” she told her husband;
“and after paying the balance due on the rent, and the grocer's bill,
there's only fifty left.”
“Only fifty?” murmured McTeague, wagging his head, “only fifty? Think of
that.”
“Only fifty,” declared Trina. Afterwards she said to herself with a
certain admiration for her cleverness:
“Couldn't save sixty dollars much easier than that,” and she had added
the hundred and thirty to the little hoard in the chamois-skin bag and
brass match-box in the bottom of her trunk.
In these first months of their misfortunes the routine of the McTeagues
was as follows: They rose at seven and breakfasted in their room,
Trina cooking the very meagre meal on an oil stove. Immediately after
breakfast Trina sat down to her work of whittling the Noah's ark
animals, and McTeague took himself off to walk down town. He had by the
greatest good luck secured a position with a manufacturer of surgical
instruments, where his manual dexterity in the making of excavators,
pluggers, and other dental contrivances stood him in fairly good stead.
He lunched at a sailor's boarding-house near the water front, and in the
afternoon worked till six. He was home at six-thirty, and he and Trina
had supper together in the “ladies' dining parlor,” an adjunct of
the car conductors' coffee-joint. Trina, meanwhile, had worked at her
whittling all day long, with but half an hour's interval for lunch,
which she herself prepared upon the oil stove. In the evening they were
both so tired that they were in no mood for conversation, and went to
bed early, worn out, harried, nervous, and cross.
Trina was not quite so scrupulously tidy now as in the old days. At one
time while whittling the Noah's ark animals she had worn gloves. She
never wore them now. She still took pride in neatly combing and coiling
her wonderful black hair, but as the days passed she found it more and
more comfortable to work in her blue flannel wrapper. Whittlings and
chips accumulated under the window where she did her work, and she was
at no great pains to clear the air of the room vitiated by the fumes of
the oil stove and heavy with the smell of cooking. It was not gay, that
life. The room itself was not gay. The huge double bed sprawled over
nearly a fourth of the available space; the angles of Trina's trunk and
the washstand projected into the room from the walls, and barked shins
and scraped elbows. Streaks and spots of the “non-poisonous” paint that
Trina used were upon the walls and wood-work. However, in one corner of
the room, next the window, monstrous, distorted, brilliant, shining with
a light of its own, stood the dentist's sign, the enormous golden tooth,
the tooth of a Brobdingnag.
One afternoon in September, about four months after the McTeagues had
left their suite, Trina was at her work by the window. She had whittled
some half-dozen sets of animals, and was now busy painting them and
making the arks. Little pots of “non-poisonous” paint stood at her elbow
on the table, together with a box of labels that read, “Made in France.”
Her huge clasp-knife was stuck into the under side of the table. She was
now occupied solely with the brushes and the glue pot. She turned the
little figures in her fingers with a wonderful lightness and deftness,
painting the chickens Naples yellow, the elephants blue gray, the horses
Vandyke brown, adding a dot of Chinese white for the eyes and sticking
in the ears and tail with a drop of glue. The animals once done, she put
together and painted the arks, some dozen of them, all windows and no
doors, each one opening only by a lid which was half the roof. She had
all the work she could handle these days, for, from this time till a
week before Christmas, Uncle Oelbermann could take as many “Noah's ark
sets” as she could make.
Suddenly Trina paused in her work, looking expectantly toward the door.
McTeague came in.
“Why, Mac,” exclaimed Trina. “It's only three o'clock. What are you home
so early for? Have they discharged you?”
“They've fired me,” said McTeague, sitting down on the bed.
“Fired you! What for?”
“I don' know. Said the times were getting hard an' they had to let me
go.”
Trina let her paint-stained hands fall into her lap.
“OH!” she cried. “If we don't have the HARDEST luck of any two people
I ever heard of. What can you do now? Is there another place like that
where they make surgical instruments?”
“Huh? No, I don' know. There's three more.”
“Well, you must try them right away. Go down there right now.”
“Huh? Right now? No, I'm tired. I'll go down in the morning.”
“Mac,” cried Trina, in alarm, “what are you thinking of? You talk as
though we were millionaires. You must go down this minute. You're losing
money every second you sit there.” She goaded the huge fellow to his
feet again, thrust his hat into his hands, and pushed him out of the
door, he obeying the while, docile and obedient as a big cart horse. He
was on the stairs when she came running after him.
“Mac, they paid you off, didn't they, when they discharged you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must have some money. Give it to me.”
The dentist heaved a shoulder uneasily.
“No, I don' want to.”
“I've got to have that money. There's no more oil for the stove, and I
must buy some more meal tickets to-night.”
“Always after me about money,” muttered the dentist; but he emptied his
pockets for her, nevertheless.
“I--you've taken it all,” he grumbled. “Better leave me something for
car fare. It's going to rain.”
“Pshaw! You can walk just as well as not. A big fellow like you 'fraid
of a little walk; and it ain't going to rain.”
Trina had lied again both as to the want of oil for the stove and the
commutation ticket for the restaurant. But she knew by instinct that
McTeague had money about him, and she did not intend to let it go out of
the house. She listened intently until she was sure McTeague was gone.
Then she hurriedly opened her trunk and hid the money in the chamois bag
at the bottom.
The dentist presented himself at every one of the makers of surgical
instruments that afternoon and was promptly turned away in each case.
Then it came on to rain, a fine, cold drizzle, that chilled him and wet
him to the bone. He had no umbrella, and Trina had not left him even
five cents for car fare. He started to walk home through the rain. It
was a long way to Polk Street, as the last manufactory he had visited
was beyond even Folsom Street, and not far from the city front.
By the time McTeague reached Polk Street his teeth were chattering
with the cold. He was wet from head to foot. As he was passing Heise's
harness shop a sudden deluge of rain overtook him and he was obliged to
dodge into the vestibule for shelter. He, who loved to be warm, to
sleep and to be well fed, was icy cold, was exhausted and footsore
from tramping the city. He could look forward to nothing better than a
badly-cooked supper at the coffee-joint--hot meat on a cold plate,
half done suet pudding, muddy coffee, and bad bread, and he was cold,
miserably cold, and wet to the bone. All at once a sudden rage against
Trina took possession of him. It was her fault. She knew it was going
to rain, and she had not let him have a nickel for car fare--she who had
five thousand dollars. She let him walk the streets in the cold and in
the rain. “Miser,” he growled behind his mustache. “Miser, nasty little
old miser. You're worse than old Zerkow, always nagging about money,
money, and you got five thousand dollars. You got more, an' you live
in that stinking hole of a room, and you won't drink any decent beer. I
ain't going to stand it much longer. She knew it was going to rain. She
KNEW it. Didn't I TELL her? And she drives me out of my own home in the
rain, for me to get money for her; more money, and she takes it. She
took that money from me that I earned. 'Twasn't hers; it was mine, I
earned it--and not a nickel for car fare. She don't care if I get wet
and get a cold and DIE. No, she don't, as long as she's warm and's got
her money.” He became more and more indignant at the picture he made of
himself. “I ain't going to stand it much longer,” he repeated.
“Why, hello, Doc. Is that you?” exclaimed Heise, opening the door of
the harness shop behind him. “Come in out of the wet. Why, you're soaked
through,” he added as he and McTeague came back into the shop, that
reeked of oiled leather. “Didn't you have any umbrella? Ought to have
taken a car.”
“I guess so--I guess so,” murmured the dentist, confused. His teeth were
chattering.
“YOU'RE going to catch your death-a-cold,” exclaimed Heise. “Tell you
what,” he said, reaching for his hat, “come in next door to Frenna's and
have something to warm you up. I'll get the old lady to mind the shop.”
He called Mrs. Heise down from the floor above and took McTeague into
Joe Frenna's saloon, which was two doors above his harness shop.
“Whiskey and gum twice, Joe,” said he to the barkeeper as he and the
dentist approached the bar.
“Huh? What?” said McTeague. “Whiskey? No, I can't drink whiskey. It kind
of disagrees with me.”
“Oh, the hell!” returned Heise, easily. “Take it as medicine. You'll get
your death-a-cold if you stand round soaked like that. Two whiskey and
gum, Joe.”
McTeague emptied the pony glass at a single enormous gulp.
“That's the way,” said Heise, approvingly. “Do you good.” He drank his
off slowly.
“I'd--I'd ask you to have a drink with me, Heise,” said the dentist, who
had an indistinct idea of the amenities of the barroom, “only,” he added
shamefacedly, “only--you see, I don't believe I got any change.” His
anger against Trina, heated by the whiskey he had drank, flamed up
afresh. What a humiliating position for Trina to place him in, not to
leave him the price of a drink with a friend, she who had five thousand
dollars!
“Sha! That's all right, Doc,” returned Heise, nibbling on a grain of
coffee. “Want another? Hey? This my treat. Two more of the same, Joe.”
McTeague hesitated. It was lamentably true that whiskey did not agree
with him; he knew it well enough. However, by this time he felt very
comfortably warm at the pit of his stomach. The blood was beginning to
circulate in his chilled finger-tips and in his soggy, wet feet. He had
had a hard day of it; in fact, the last week, the last month, the last
three or four months, had been hard. He deserved a little consolation.
Nor could Trina object to this. It wasn't costing a cent. He drank again
with Heise.
“Get up here to the stove and warm yourself,” urged Heise, drawing up
a couple of chairs and cocking his feet upon the guard. The two fell to
talking while McTeague's draggled coat and trousers smoked.
“What a dirty turn that was that Marcus Schouler did you!” said Heise,
wagging his head. “You ought to have fought that, Doc, sure. You'd been
practising too long.” They discussed this question some ten or fifteen
minutes and then Heise rose.
“Well, this ain't earning any money. I got to get back to the shop.”
McTeague got up as well, and the pair started for the door. Just as they
were going out Ryer met them.
“Hello, hello,” he cried. “Lord, what a wet day! You two are going the
wrong way. You're going to have a drink with me. Three whiskey punches,
Joe.”
“No, no,” answered McTeague, shaking his head. “I'm going back home.
I've had two glasses of whiskey already.”
“Sha!” cried Heise, catching his arm. “A strapping big chap like you
ain't afraid of a little whiskey.”
“Well, I--I--I got to go right afterwards,” protested McTeague.
About half an hour after the dentist had left to go down town, Maria
Macapa had come in to see Trina. Occasionally Maria dropped in on Trina
in this fashion and spent an hour or so chatting with her while she
worked. At first Trina had been inclined to resent these intrusions of
the Mexican woman, but of late she had begun to tolerate them. Her day
was long and cheerless at the best, and there was no one to talk to.
Trina even fancied that old Miss Baker had come to be less cordial since
their misfortune. Maria retailed to her all the gossip of the flat and
the neighborhood, and, which was much more interesting, told her of her
troubles with Zerkow.
Trina said to herself that Maria was common and vulgar, but one had
to have some diversion, and Trina could talk and listen without
interrupting her work. On this particular occasion Maria was much
excited over Zerkow's demeanor of late.
“He's gettun worse an' worse,” she informed Trina as she sat on the edge
of the bed, her chin in her hand. “He says he knows I got the dishes and
am hidun them from him. The other day I thought he'd gone off with his
wagon, and I was doin' a bit of ir'ning, an' by an' by all of a sudden I
saw him peeping at me through the crack of the door. I never let on
that I saw him, and, honest, he stayed there over two hours, watchun
everything I did. I could just feel his eyes on the back of my neck all
the time. Last Sunday he took down part of the wall, 'cause he said
he'd seen me making figures on it. Well, I was, but it was just the wash
list. All the time he says he'll kill me if I don't tell.”
“Why, what do you stay with him for?” exclaimed Trina. “I'd be deathly
'fraid of a man like that; and he did take a knife to you once.”
“Hoh! HE won't kill me, never fear. If he'd kill me he'd never know
where the dishes were; that's what HE thinks.”
“But I can't understand, Maria; you told him about those gold dishes
yourself.”
“Never, never! I never saw such a lot of crazy folks as you are.”
“But you say he hits you sometimes.”
“Ah!” said Maria, tossing her head scornfully, “I ain't afraid of him.
He takes his horsewhip to me now and then, but I can always manage.
I say, 'If you touch me with that, then I'll NEVER tell you.' Just
pretending, you know, and he drops it as though it was red hot. Say,
Mrs. McTeague, have you got any tea? Let's make a cup of tea over the
stove.”
“No, no,” cried Trina, with niggardly apprehension; “no, I haven't got a
bit of tea.” Trina's stinginess had increased to such an extent that it
had gone beyond the mere hoarding of money. She grudged even the food
that she and McTeague ate, and even brought away half loaves of bread,
lumps of sugar, and fruit from the car conductors' coffee-joint. She hid
these pilferings away on the shelf by the window, and often managed
to make a very creditable lunch from them, enjoying the meal with the
greater relish because it cost her nothing.
“No, Maria, I haven't got a bit of tea,” she said, shaking her head
decisively. “Hark, ain't that Mac?” she added, her chin in the air.
“That's his step, sure.”
“Well, I'm going to skip,” said Maria. She left hurriedly, passing
the dentist in the hall just outside the door. “Well?” said Trina
interrogatively as her husband entered. McTeague did not answer. He hung
his hat on the hook behind the door and dropped heavily into a chair.
“Well,” asked Trina, anxiously, “how did you make out, Mac?”
Still the dentist pretended not to hear, scowling fiercely at his muddy
boots.
“Tell me, Mac, I want to know. Did you get a place? Did you get caught
in the rain?”
“Did I? Did I?” cried the dentist, sharply, an alacrity in his manner
and voice that Trina had never observed before.
“Look at me. Look at me,” he went on, speaking with an unwonted
rapidity, his wits sharp, his ideas succeeding each other quickly. “Look
at me, drenched through, shivering cold. I've walked the city over.
Caught in the rain! Yes, I guess I did get caught in the rain, and it
ain't your fault I didn't catch my death-a-cold; wouldn't even let me
have a nickel for car fare.”
“But, Mac,” protested Trina, “I didn't know it was going to rain.”
The dentist put back his head and laughed scornfully. His face was very
red, and his small eyes twinkled. “Hoh! no, you didn't know it was going
to rain. Didn't I TELL you it was?” he exclaimed, suddenly angry again.
“Oh, you're a DAISY, you are. Think I'm going to put up with your
foolishness ALL the time? Who's the boss, you or I?”
“Why, Mac, I never saw you this way before. You talk like a different
man.”
“Well, I AM a different man,” retorted the dentist, savagely. “You can't
make small of me ALWAYS.”
“Well, never mind that. You know I'm not trying to make small of you.
But never mind that. Did you get a place?”
“Give me my money,” exclaimed McTeague, jumping up briskly. There was
an activity, a positive nimbleness about the huge blond giant that
had never been his before; also his stupidity, the sluggishness of his
brain, seemed to be unusually stimulated.
“Give me my money, the money I gave you as I was going away.”
“I can't,” exclaimed Trina. “I paid the grocer's bill with it while you
were gone.”
“Don't believe you.”
“Truly, truly, Mac. Do you think I'd lie to you? Do you think I'd lower
myself to do that?”
“Well, the next time I earn any money I'll keep it myself.”
“But tell me, Mac, DID you get a place?”
McTeague turned his back on her.
“Tell me, Mac, please, did you?”
The dentist jumped up and thrust his face close to hers, his heavy jaw
protruding, his little eyes twinkling meanly.
“No,” he shouted. “No, no, NO. Do you hear? NO.”
Trina cowered before him. Then suddenly she began to sob aloud, weeping
partly at his strange brutality, partly at the disappointment of his
failure to find employment.
McTeague cast a contemptuous glance about him, a glance that embraced
the dingy, cheerless room, the rain streaming down the panes of the one
window, and the figure of his weeping wife.
“Oh, ain't this all FINE?” he exclaimed. “Ain't it lovely?”
“It's not my fault,” sobbed Trina.
“It is too,” vociferated McTeague. “It is too. We could live like
Christians and decent people if you wanted to. You got more'n five
thousand dollars, and you're so damned stingy that you'd rather live in
a rat hole--and make me live there too--before you'd part with a nickel
of it. I tell you I'm sick and tired of the whole business.”
An allusion to her lottery money never failed to rouse Trina.
“And I'll tell you this much too,” she cried, winking back the tears.
“Now that you're out of a job, we can't afford even to live in your rat
hole, as you call it. We've got to find a cheaper place than THIS even.”
“What!” exclaimed the dentist, purple with rage. “What, get into a worse
hole in the wall than this? Well, we'll SEE if we will. We'll just see
about that. You're going to do just as I tell you after this, Trina
McTeague,” and once more he thrust his face close to hers.
“I know what's the matter,” cried Trina, with a half sob; “I know, I can
smell it on your breath. You've been drinking whiskey.”
“Yes, I've been drinking whiskey,” retorted her husband. “I've been
drinking whiskey. Have you got anything to say about it? Ah, yes, you're
RIGHT, I've been drinking whiskey. What have YOU got to say about my
drinking whiskey? Let's hear it.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” sobbed Trina, covering her face with her hands. McTeague
caught her wrists in one palm and pulled them down. Trina's pale face
was streaming with tears; her long, narrow blue eyes were swimming; her
adorable little chin upraised and quivering.
“Let's hear what you got to say,” exclaimed McTeague.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Trina, between her sobs.
“Then stop that noise. Stop it, do you hear me? Stop it.” He threw up
his open hand threateningly. “STOP!” he exclaimed.
Trina looked at him fearfully, half blinded with weeping. Her husband's
thick mane of yellow hair was disordered and rumpled upon his great
square-cut head; his big red ears were redder than ever; his face was
purple; the thick eyebrows were knotted over the small, twinkling eyes;
the heavy yellow mustache, that smelt of alcohol, drooped over the
massive, protruding chin, salient, like that of the carnivora; the veins
were swollen and throbbing on his thick red neck; while over her head
Trina saw his upraised palm, callused, enormous.
“Stop!” he exclaimed. And Trina, watching fearfully, saw the palm
suddenly contract into a fist, a fist that was hard as a wooden mallet,
the fist of the old-time car-boy. And then her ancient terror of him,
the intuitive fear of the male, leaped to life again. She was afraid of
him. Every nerve of her quailed and shrank from him. She choked back her
sobs, catching her breath.
“There,” growled the dentist, releasing her, “that's more like. Now,”
he went on, fixing her with his little eyes, “now listen to me. I'm beat
out. I've walked the city over--ten miles, I guess--an' I'm going to
bed, an' I don't want to be bothered. You understand? I want to be let
alone.” Trina was silent.
“Do you HEAR?” he snarled.
“Yes, Mac.”
The dentist took off his coat, his collar and necktie, unbuttoned his
vest, and slipped his heavy-soled boots from his big feet. Then he
stretched himself upon the bed and rolled over towards the wall. In a
few minutes the sound of his snoring filled the room.
Trina craned her neck and looked at her husband over the footboard of
the bed. She saw his red, congested face; the huge mouth wide open; his
unclean shirt, with its frayed wristbands; and his huge feet encased
in thick woollen socks. Then her grief and the sense of her unhappiness
returned more poignant than ever. She stretched her arms out in front of
her on her work-table, and, burying her face in them, cried and sobbed
as though her heart would break.
The rain continued. The panes of the single window ran with sheets of
water; the eaves dripped incessantly. It grew darker. The tiny, grimy
room, full of the smells of cooking and of “non-poisonous” paint, took
on an aspect of desolation and cheerlessness lamentable beyond words.
The canary in its little gilt prison chittered feebly from time to time.
Sprawled at full length upon the bed, the dentist snored and snored,
stupefied, inert, his legs wide apart, his hands lying palm upward at
his sides.
At last Trina raised her head, with a long, trembling breath. She rose,
and going over to the washstand, poured some water from the pitcher into
the basin, and washed her face and swollen eyelids, and rearranged her
hair. Suddenly, as she was about to return to her work, she was struck
with an idea.
“I wonder,” she said to herself, “I wonder where he got the money to buy
his whiskey.” She searched the pockets of his coat, which he had flung
into a corner of the room, and even came up to him as he lay upon the
bed and went through the pockets of his vest and trousers. She found
nothing.
“I wonder,” she murmured, “I wonder if he's got any money he don't tell
me about. I'll have to look out for that.”