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Updated: June 22, 2025
But the birth of this child had peculiar consequences. Maria came out of her dementia, and in a few days the household settled itself again to its sordid regime and Maria went about her duties as usual. Then one evening, about a week after the child's burial, Zerkow had asked Maria to tell him the story of the famous service of gold plate for the hundredth time.
The money that Zerkow paid her, Maria spent on shirt waists and dotted blue neckties, trying to dress like the girls who tended the soda-water fountain in the candy store on the corner. She was sick with envy of these young women. They were in the world, they were elegant, they were debonair, they had their "young men."
"There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold " "Ah, every one of them gold." "You should have seen the sight when the leather trunk was opened. There wa'n't a piece that was so much as scratched; every one was like a mirror, smooth and bright, polished so that it looked black you know how I mean." "Oh, I know, I know," cried Zerkow, moistening his lips.
Begin with, 'There were over a hundred pieces and every one of them gold." "I don't know what you're talking about, Zerkow," answered Maria. "There never was no gold plate, no gold service. I guess you must have dreamed it." Maria and the red-headed Polish Jew had been married about a month after the McTeague's picnic which had ended in such lamentable fashion.
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.
"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 before Zerkow was aware, Marcus had wrenched it away. "Now, get outa here." Zerkow backed away, peering and peeping over Marcus's shoulder. "I want Maria." "Get outa here. Get along out, or I'll PUT you out." The street door closed.
"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.
To know every individual piece as an old friend; to feel its weight; to be dazzled by its glitter; to call it one's own, own; to have it to oneself, hugged to the breast; and then to start, to wake, to come down to the horrible reality. "And you, YOU had it once," gasped Zerkow, clawing at her arm; "you had it once, all your own. Think of it, and now it's gone." "Gone for good and all."
"Tell us about it again," said Zerkow, his bloodless lower lip moving against the upper, his claw-like fingers feeling about his mouth and chin. "Tell us about it; go on." He was breathing short, his limbs trembled a little. It was as if some hungry beast of prey had scented a quarry. Maria still refused, putting up her head, insisting that she had to be going. "Let's have it," insisted the Jew.
But Zerkow still had something to say. As Maria folded up the pillow-case and rose to go, the old Jew said: "Well, see here a minute, we'll you'll have a drink before you go, won't you? Just to show that it's all right between us." Maria sat down again. "Yes, I guess I'll have a drink," she answered.
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