He was disturbed, still
trembling, still vibrating with the throes of the crisis, but he was the
master; the animal was downed, was cowed for this time, at least.
But for all that, the brute was there. Long dormant, it was now at last
alive, awake. From now on he would feel its presence continually; would
feel it tugging at its chain, watching its opportunity. Ah, the pity
of it! Why could he not always love her purely, cleanly? What was this
perverse, vicious thing that lived within him, knitted to his flesh?
Below the fine fabric of all that was good in him ran the foul stream of
hereditary evil, like a sewer. The vices and sins of his father and
of his father's father, to the third and fourth and five hundredth
generation, tainted him. The evil of an entire race flowed in his veins.
Why should it be? He did not desire it. Was he to blame?
But McTeague could not understand this thing. It had faced him, as
sooner or later it faces every child of man; but its significance was
not for him. To reason with it was beyond him. He could only oppose to
it an instinctive stubborn resistance, blind, inert.
McTeague went on with his work. As he was rapping in the little blocks
and cylinders with the mallet, Trina slowly came back to herself with a
long sigh.
Pages:
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50