The Jungle
mule; he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls back
into his old rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red,
sentimental nose, and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a
look of infinite yearning. He is playing a bass part upon his cello,
and so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter what happens in the
treble, it is his task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note
after another, from four o’clock in the afternoon until nearly the same
hour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar per
hour.
Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleika
has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he
is beginning to edge over toward the tables. His nostrils are dilated
and his breath comes fast—his demons are driving him. He nods and
shakes his head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin,
until at last the long form of the second violinist also rises up. In
the end all three of them begin advancing, step by step, upon the
banqueters, Valentinavyczia, the cellist, bumping along with his
instrument between notes. Finally all three are gathered at the foot of
the tables, and there Tamoszius mounts upon a stool.
Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people are
eating, some are laughing and talking—but you will make a great mistake
if you think there is one of them who does not hear him. His notes are
never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks and
scratches on the high; but these things they heed no more than they
heed the dirt and noise and squalor about them—it is out of this
material that they have to build their lives, with it that they have to
utter their souls. And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous,
or mournful and wailing, or passionate and rebellious, this music is
their music, music of home. It stretches out its arms to them, they
have only to give themselves up. Chicago and its saloons and its slums
fade away—there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and
snow-clad hills. They behold home landscapes and childhood scenes
returning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old joys and
griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some
beat upon the table. Now and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for
this song or that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius’ eyes,
and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away they
go in mad career. The company takes up the choruses, and men and women
cry out like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the
floor, lifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long it
occurs to some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the
beauty of the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of this
masterpiece Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables,
making his way toward the head, where sits the bride. There is not a
foot of space between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so
short that he pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the
low notes; but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his
companions must follow. During their progress, needless to say, the
sounds of the cello are pretty well extinguished; but at last the three
are at the head, and Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of
the bride and begins to pour out his soul in melting strains.
Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little
something, when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but,
for the most part, she sits gazing with the same fearful eyes of
wonder. Teta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a hummingbird; her
sisters, too, keep running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But
Ona seems scarcely to hear them—the music keeps calling, and the
far-off look comes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together
over her heart. Then the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she
is ashamed to wipe them away, and ashamed to let them run down her
cheeks, she turns and shakes her head a little, and then flushes red
when she sees that Jurgis is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius
Kuszleika has reached her side, and is waving his magic wand above her,
Ona’s cheeks are scarlet, and she looks as if she would have to get up
and run away.
In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom the
muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers’
parting; she wishes to hear it, and, as the musicians do not know it,
she has risen, and is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but
powerful in build. She works in a canning factory, and all day long she
handles cans of beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad Slavic
face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it is
tragical, but you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue
flannel shirt-waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing
her brawny arms; she has a carving fork in her hand, with which she
pounds on the table to mark the time. As she roars her song, in a voice
of which it is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room
vacant, the three musicians follow her, laboriously and note by note,
but averaging one note behind; thus they toil through stanza after
stanza of a lovesick swain’s lamentation:—
“Sudiev’ kvietkeli, tu brangiausis;
Sudiev’ ir laime, man biednam,
Matau—paskyre teip Aukszcziausis,
Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!”
When the song is over, it is time for the speech, and old Dede Antanas
rises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis’ father, is not more
than sixty years of age, but you would think that he was eighty. He has
been only six months in America, and the change has not done him good.
In his manhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing fell
upon him, and he had to leave; out in the country the trouble
disappeared, but he has been working in the pickle rooms at Durham’s,
and the breathing of the cold, damp air all day has brought it back.
Now as he rises he is seized with a coughing fit, and holds himself by
his chair and turns away his wan and battered face until it passes.
Generally it is the custom for the speech at a _veselija_ to be taken
out of one of the books and learned by heart; but in his youthful days
Dede Antanas used to be a scholar, and really make up all the love
letters of his friends. Now it is understood that he has composed an
original speech of congratulation and benediction, and this is one of
the events of the day. Even the boys, who are romping about the room,
draw near and listen, and some of the women sob and wipe their aprons
in their eyes. It is very solemn, for Antanas Rudkus has become
possessed of the idea that he has not much longer to stay with his
children. His speech leaves them all so tearful that one of the guests,
Jokubas Szedvilas, who keeps a delicatessen store on Halsted Street,
and is fat and hearty, is moved to rise and say that things may not be
as bad as that, and then to go on and make a little speech of his own,
in which he showers congratulations and prophecies of happiness upon
the bride and groom, proceeding to particulars which greatly delight
the young men, but which cause Ona to blush more furiously than ever.
Jokubas possesses what his wife complacently describes as “poetiszka
vaidintuve”—a poetical imagination.
Now a good many of the guests have finished, and, since there is no
pretense of ceremony, the banquet begins to break up. Some of the men
gather about the bar; some wander about, laughing and singing; here and
there will be a little group, chanting merrily, and in sublime
indifference to the others and to the orchestra as well. Everybody is
more or less restless—one would guess that something is on their minds.
And so it proves. The last tardy diners are scarcely given time to
finish, before the tables and the debris are shoved into the corner,
and the chairs and the babies piled out of the way, and the real
celebration of the evening begins. Then Tamoszius Kuszleika, after
replenishing himself with a pot of beer, returns to his platform, and,
standing up, reviews the scene; he taps authoritatively upon the side
of his violin, then tucks it carefully under his chin, then waves his
bow in an elaborate flourish, and finally smites the sounding strings
and closes his eyes, and floats away in spirit upon the wings of a
dreamy waltz. His companion follows, but with his eyes open, watching
where he treads, so to speak; and finally Valentinavyczia, after
waiting for a little and beating with his foot to get the time, casts
up his eyes to the ceiling and begins to saw—“Broom! broom! broom!”
The company pairs off quickly, and the whole room is soon in motion.
Apparently nobody knows how to waltz, but that is nothing of any
consequence—there is music, and they dance, each as he pleases, just as
before they sang. Most of them prefer the “two-step,” especially the
young, with whom it is the fashion. The older people have dances from
home, strange and complicated steps which they execute with grave
solemnity. Some do not dance anything at all, but simply hold each
other’s hands and allow the undisciplined joy of motion to express
itself with their feet. Among these are Jokubas Szedvilas and his wife,
Lucija, who together keep the delicatessen store, and consume nearly as
much as they sell; they are too fat to dance, but they stand in the
middle of the floor, holding each other fast in their arms, rocking
slowly from side to side and grinning seraphically, a picture of
toothless and perspiring ecstasy.
Of these older people many wear clothing reminiscent in some detail of
home—an embroidered waistcoat or stomacher, or a gaily colored
handkerchief, or a coat with large cuffs and fancy buttons. All these
things are carefully avoided by the young, most of whom have learned to
speak English and to affect the latest style of clothing. The girls
wear ready-made dresses or shirt waists, and some of them look quite
pretty. Some of the young men you would take to be Americans, of the
type of clerks, but for the fact that they wear their hats in the room.
Each of these younger couples affects a style of its own in dancing.
Some hold each other tightly, some at a cautious distance. Some hold
their hands out stiffly, some drop them loosely at their sides. Some
dance springily, some glide softly, some move with grave dignity. There
are boisterous couples, who tear wildly about the room, knocking every
one out of their way. There are nervous couples, whom these frighten,
and who cry, “Nusfok! Kas yra?” at them as they pass. Each couple is
paired for the evening—you will never see them change about. There is
Alena Jasaityte, for instance, who has danced unending hours with
Juozas Raczius, to whom she is engaged. Alena is the beauty of the
evening, and she would be really beautiful if she were not so proud.
She wears a white shirtwaist, which represents, perhaps, half a week’s
labor painting cans. She holds her skirt with her hand as she dances,
with stately precision, after the manner of the _grandes dames_. Juozas
is driving one of Durham’s wagons, and is making big wages. He affects
a “tough” aspect, wearing his hat on one side and keeping a cigarette
in his mouth all the evening. Then there is Jadvyga Marcinkus, who is
also beautiful, but humble. Jadvyga likewise paints cans, but then she
has an invalid mother and three little sisters to support by it, and so
she does not spend her wages for shirtwaists. Jadvyga is small and
delicate, with jet-black eyes and hair, the latter twisted into a
little knot and tied on the top of her head. She wears an old white
dress which she has made herself and worn to parties for the past five