McTeague Frank Norris (the best books of all time TXT) đ
- Author: Frank Norris
Book online «McTeague Frank Norris (the best books of all time TXT) đ». Author Frank Norris
âWhat you alus sewing up them books for, Mister Grannis?â asked Maria, as she began rummaging about in Old Grannisâs closet shelves. âThereâs just hundreds of âem in here on yer shelves; they ainât no good to you.â
âWell, well,â answered Old Grannis, timidly, rubbing his chin, âIâ âIâm sure I canât quite say; a little habit, you know; a diversion, aâ âaâ âit occupies one, you know. I donât smoke; it takes the place of a pipe, perhaps.â
âHereâs this old yellow pitcher,â said Maria, coming out of the closet with it in her hand. âThe handleâs cracked; you donât want it; better give me it.â
Old Grannis did want the pitcher; true, he never used it now, but he had kept it a long time, and somehow he held to it as old people hold to trivial, worthless things that they have had for many years.
âOh, that pitcherâ âwell, Maria, Iâ âI donât know. Iâm afraidâ âyou see, that pitcherâ ââ
âAh, go âlong,â interrupted Maria Macapa, âwhatâs the good of it?â
âIf you insist, Maria, but I would much ratherâ ââ he rubbed his chin, perplexed and annoyed, hating to refuse, and wishing that Maria were gone.
âWhy, whatâs the good of it?â persisted Maria. He could give no sufficient answer. âThatâs all right,â she asserted, carrying the pitcher out.
âAhâ âMariaâ âI say, youâ âyou might leave the doorâ âah, donât quite shut itâ âitâs a bit close in here at times.â Maria grinned, and swung the door wide. Old Grannis was horribly embarrassed; positively, Maria was becoming unbearable.
âGot any junk?â cried Maria at Miss Bakerâs door. The little old lady was sitting close to the wall in her rocking-chair; her hands resting idly in her lap.
âNow, Maria,â she said plaintively, âyou are always after junk; you know I never have anything laying âround like that.â
It was true. The retired dressmakerâs tiny room was a marvel of neatness, from the little red table, with its three Gorham spoons laid in exact parallels, to the decorous geraniums and mignonettes growing in the starch box at the window, underneath the fish globe with its one venerable gold fish. That day Miss Baker had been doing a bit of washing; two pocket handkerchiefs, still moist, adhered to the window panes, drying in the sun.
âOh, I guess you got something you donât want,â Maria went on, peering into the corners of the room. âLook-a-here what Mister Grannis giâ me,â and she held out the yellow pitcher. Instantly Miss Baker was in a quiver of confusion. Every word spoken aloud could be perfectly heard in the next room. What a stupid drab was this Maria! Could anything be more trying than this position?
âAinât that right, Mister Grannis?â called Maria; âdidnât you giâ me this pitcher?â Old Grannis affected not to hear; perspiration stood on his forehead; his timidity overcame him as if he were a ten-year-old schoolboy. He half rose from his chair, his fingers dancing nervously upon his chin.
Maria opened Miss Bakerâs closet unconcernedly. âWhatâs the matter with these old shoes?â she exclaimed, turning about with a pair of half-worn silk gaiters in her hand. They were by no means old enough to throw away, but Miss Baker was almost beside herself. There was no telling what might happen next. Her only thought was to be rid of Maria.
âYes, yes, anything. You can have them; but go, go. Thereâs nothing else, not a thing.â
Maria went out into the hall, leaving Miss Bakerâs door wide open, as if maliciously. She had left the dirty pillowcase on the floor in the hall, and she stood outside, between the two open doors, stowing away the old pitcher and the half-worn silk shoes. She made remarks at the top of her voice, calling now to Miss Baker, now to Old Grannis. In a way she brought the two old people face to face. Each time they were forced to answer her questions it was as if they were talking directly to each other.
âThese here are first-rate shoes, Miss Baker. Look here, Mister Grannis, get on to the shoes Miss Baker giâ me. You ainât got a pair you donât want, have you? You two people have less junk than anyone else in the flat. How do you manage, Mister Grannis? You old bachelors are just like old maids, just as neat as pins. You two are just alikeâ âyou and Mister Grannisâ âainât you, Miss Baker?â
Nothing could have been more horribly constrained, more awkward. The two old people suffered veritable torture. When Maria had gone, each heaved a sigh of unspeakable relief. Softly they pushed to their doors, leaving open a space of half a dozen inches. Old Grannis went back to his binding. Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea to quiet her nerves. Each tried to regain their composure, but in vain. Old Grannisâs fingers trembled so that he pricked them with his needle. Miss Baker dropped her spoon twice. Their nervousness would not wear off. They were perturbed, upset. In a word, the afternoon was spoiled.
Maria went on about the flat from room to room. She had already paid Marcus Schouler a visit early that morning before he had gone out. Marcus had sworn at her, excitedly vociferating; âNo, by damn! No, he hadnât a thing for her; he hadnât, for a fact. It was a positive persecution. Every day his privacy was invaded. He would complain to the landlady, he would. Heâd move out of the place.â In the end he had given Maria seven empty whiskey flasks, an iron grate, and ten centsâ âthe latter because he said she wore her hair like a girl he used to know.
After coming from Miss Bakerâs room Maria knocked at McTeagueâs door.
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