Essential Novelists - Frank Norris. Frank Norris

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СКАЧАТЬ through the rabbit hutch, and the audience stirred and stretched itself. Most of the young men left their seats.

      During this intermission McTeague and his party had “refreshments.” Mrs. Sieppe and Trina had Queen Charlottes, McTeague drank a glass of beer, Owgooste ate the orange and one of the bananas. He begged for a glass of lemonade, which was finally given him.

      “Joost to geep um quiet,” observed Mrs. Sieppe.

      But almost immediately after drinking his lemonade Owgooste was seized with a sudden restlessness. He twisted and wriggled in his seat, swinging his legs violently, looking about him with eyes full of a vague distress. At length, just as the musicians were returning, he stood up and whispered energetically in his mother's ear. Mrs. Sieppe was exasperated at once.

      “No, no,” she cried, reseating him brusquely.

      The performance was resumed. A lightning artist appeared, drawing caricatures and portraits with incredible swiftness. He even went so far as to ask for subjects from the audience, and the names of prominent men were shouted to him from the gallery. He drew portraits of the President, of Grant, of Washington, of Napoleon Bonaparte, of Bismarck, of Garibaldi, of P. T. Barnum.

      And so the evening passed. The hall grew very hot, and the smoke of innumerable cigars made the eyes smart. A thick blue mist hung low over the heads of the audience. The air was full of varied smells—the smell of stale cigars, of flat beer, of orange peel, of gas, of sachet powders, and of cheap perfumery.

      One “artist” after another came upon the stage. McTeague's attention never wandered for a minute. Trina and her mother enjoyed themselves hugely. At every moment they made comments to one another, their eyes never leaving the stage.

      “Ain't dot fool joost too funny?”

      “That's a pretty song. Don't you like that kind of a song?”

      “Wonderful! It's wonderful! Yes, yes, wonderful! That's the word.”

      Owgooste, however, lost interest. He stood up in his place, his back to the stage, chewing a piece of orange peel and watching a little girl in her father's lap across the aisle, his eyes fixed in a glassy, ox-like stare. But he was uneasy. He danced from one foot to the other, and at intervals appealed in hoarse whispers to his mother, who disdained an answer.

      “Ma, say, ma-ah,” he whined, abstractedly chewing his orange peel, staring at the little girl.

      “Ma-ah, say, ma.” At times his monotonous plaint reached his mother's consciousness. She suddenly realized what this was that was annoying her.

      “Owgooste, will you sit down?” She caught him up all at once, and jammed him down into his place. “Be quiet, den; loog; listun at der yunge girls.”

      Three young women and a young man who played a zither occupied the stage. They were dressed in Tyrolese costume; they were yodlers, and sang in German about “mountain tops” and “bold hunters” and the like. The yodling chorus was a marvel of flute-like modulations. The girls were really pretty, and were not made up in the least. Their “turn” had a great success. Mrs. Sieppe was entranced. Instantly she remembered her girlhood and her native Swiss village.

      “Ach, dot is heavunly; joost like der old country. Mein gran'mutter used to be one of der mos' famous yodlers. When I was leedle, I haf seen dem joost like dat.”

      “Ma-ah,” began Owgooste fretfully, as soon as the yodlers had departed. He could not keep still an instant; he twisted from side to side, swinging his legs with incredible swiftness.

      “Ma-ah, I want to go ho-ome.”

      “Pehave!” exclaimed his mother, shaking him by the arm; “loog, der leedle girl is watchun you. Dis is der last dime I take you to der blay, you see.”

      “I don't ca-are; I'm sleepy.” At length, to their great relief, he went to sleep, his head against his mother's arm.

      The kinetoscope fairly took their breaths away.

      “What will they do next?” observed Trina, in amazement. “Ain't that wonderful, Mac?”

      McTeague was awe-struck.

      “Look at that horse move his head,” he cried excitedly, quite carried away. “Look at that cable car coming—and the man going across the street. See, here comes a truck. Well, I never in all my life! What would Marcus say to this?”

      “It's all a drick!” exclaimed Mrs. Sieppe, with sudden conviction. “I ain't no fool; dot's nothun but a drick.”

      “Well, of course, mamma,” exclaimed Trina, “it's——”

      But Mrs. Sieppe put her head in the air.

      “I'm too old to be fooled,” she persisted. “It's a drick.” Nothing more could be got out of her than this.

      The party stayed to the very end of the show, though the kinetoscope was the last number but one on the programme, and fully half the audience left immediately afterward. However, while the unfortunate Irish comedian went through his “act” to the backs of the departing people, Mrs. Sieppe woke Owgooste, very cross and sleepy, and began getting her “things together.” As soon as he was awake Owgooste began fidgeting again.

      “Save der brogramme, Trina,” whispered Mrs. Sieppe. “Take ut home to popper. Where is der hat of Owgooste? Haf you got mein handkerchief, Trina?”

      But at this moment a dreadful accident happened to Owgooste; his distress reached its climax; his fortitude collapsed. What a misery! It was a veritable catastrophe, deplorable, lamentable, a thing beyond words! For a moment he gazed wildly about him, helpless and petrified with astonishment and terror. Then his grief found utterance, and the closing strains of the orchestra were mingled with a prolonged wail of infinite sadness.

      “Owgooste, what is ut?” cried his mother eyeing him with dawning suspicion; then suddenly, “What haf you done? You haf ruin your new Vauntleroy gostume!” Her face blazed; without more ado she smacked him soundly. Then it was that Owgooste touched the limit of his misery, his unhappiness, his horrible discomfort; his utter wretchedness was complete. He filled the air with his doleful outcries. The more he was smacked and shaken, the louder he wept.

      “What—what is the matter?” inquired McTeague.

      Trina's face was scarlet. “Nothing, nothing,” she exclaimed hastily, looking away. “Come, we must be going. It's about over.” The end of the show and the breaking up of the audience tided over the embarrassment of the moment.

      The party filed out at the tail end of the audience. Already the lights were being extinguished and the ushers spreading druggeting over the upholstered seats.

      McTeague and the Sieppes took an uptown car that would bring them near Polk Street. The car was crowded; McTeague and Owgooste were obliged to stand. The little boy fretted to be taken in his mother's lap, but Mrs. Sieppe emphatically refused.

      On their way home they discussed the performance.

      “I—I like best der yodlers.”

      “Ah, the soloist was the best—the lady who sang those sad songs.”

      “Wasn't—wasn't СКАЧАТЬ