The Jungle
scratching his head and saying that he had guessed too low, but that he
had done his best—your guests had gotten so very drunk. By him you were
sure to be cheated unmercifully, and that even though you thought
yourself the dearest of the hundreds of friends he had. He would begin
to serve your guests out of a keg that was half full, and finish with
one that was half empty, and then you would be charged for two kegs of
beer. He would agree to serve a certain quality at a certain price, and
when the time came you and your friends would be drinking some horrible
poison that could not be described. You might complain, but you would
get nothing for your pains but a ruined evening; while, as for going to
law about it, you might as well go to heaven at once. The saloon-keeper
stood in with all the big politics men in the district; and when you
had once found out what it meant to get into trouble with such people,
you would know enough to pay what you were told to pay and shut up.
What made all this the more painful was that it was so hard on the few
that had really done their best. There was poor old ponas Jokubas, for
instance—he had already given five dollars, and did not every one know
that Jokubas Szedvilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for
two hundred dollars to meet several months’ overdue rent? And then
there was withered old poni Aniele—who was a widow, and had three
children, and the rheumatism besides, and did washing for the
tradespeople on Halsted Street at prices it would break your heart to
hear named. Aniele had given the entire profit of her chickens for
several months. Eight of them she owned, and she kept them in a little
place fenced around on her backstairs. All day long the children of
Aniele were raking in the dump for food for these chickens; and
sometimes, when the competition there was too fierce, you might see
them on Halsted Street walking close to the gutters, and with their
mother following to see that no one robbed them of their finds. Money
could not tell the value of these chickens to old Mrs. Jukniene—she
valued them differently, for she had a feeling that she was getting
something for nothing by means of them—that with them she was getting
the better of a world that was getting the better of her in so many
other ways. So she watched them every hour of the day, and had learned
to see like an owl at night to watch them then. One of them had been
stolen long ago, and not a month passed that some one did not try to
steal another. As the frustrating of this one attempt involved a score
of false alarms, it will be understood what a tribute old Mrs. Jukniene
brought, just because Teta Elzbieta had once loaned her some money for
a few days and saved her from being turned out of her house.
More and more friends gathered round while the lamentation about these
things was going on. Some drew nearer, hoping to overhear the
conversation, who were themselves among the guilty—and surely that was
a thing to try the patience of a saint. Finally there came Jurgis,
urged by some one, and the story was retold to him. Jurgis listened in
silence, with his great black eyebrows knitted. Now and then there
would come a gleam underneath them and he would glance about the room.
Perhaps he would have liked to go at some of those fellows with his big
clenched fists; but then, doubtless, he realized how little good it
would do him. No bill would be any less for turning out any one at this
time; and then there would be the scandal—and Jurgis wanted nothing
except to get away with Ona and to let the world go its own way. So his
hands relaxed and he merely said quietly: “It is done, and there is no
use in weeping, Teta Elzbieta.” Then his look turned toward Ona, who
stood close to his side, and he saw the wide look of terror in her
eyes. “Little one,” he said, in a low voice, “do not worry—it will not
matter to us. We will pay them all somehow. I will work harder.” That
was always what Jurgis said. Ona had grown used to it as the solution
of all difficulties—“I will work harder!” He had said that in Lithuania
when one official had taken his passport from him, and another had
arrested him for being without it, and the two had divided a third of
his belongings. He had said it again in New York, when the
smooth-spoken agent had taken them in hand and made them pay such high
prices, and almost prevented their leaving his place, in spite of their
paying. Now he said it a third time, and Ona drew a deep breath; it was
so wonderful to have a husband, just like a grown woman—and a husband
who could solve all problems, and who was so big and strong!
The last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled, and the orchestra
has once more been reminded of its duty. The ceremony begins again—but
there are few now left to dance with, and so very soon the collection
is over and promiscuous dances once more begin. It is now after
midnight, however, and things are not as they were before. The dancers
are dull and heavy—most of them have been drinking hard, and have long
ago passed the stage of exhilaration. They dance in monotonous measure,
round after round, hour after hour, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, as if
they were only half conscious, in a constantly growing stupor. The men
grasp the women very tightly, but there will be half an hour together
when neither will see the other’s face. Some couples do not care to
dance, and have retired to the corners, where they sit with their arms
enlaced. Others, who have been drinking still more, wander about the
room, bumping into everything; some are in groups of two or three,
singing, each group its own song. As time goes on there is a variety of
drunkenness, among the younger men especially. Some stagger about in
each other’s arms, whispering maudlin words—others start quarrels upon
the slightest pretext, and come to blows and have to be pulled apart.
Now the fat policeman wakens definitely, and feels of his club to see
that it is ready for business. He has to be prompt—for these
two-o’clock-in-the-morning fights, if they once get out of hand, are
like a forest fire, and may mean the whole reserves at the station. The
thing to do is to crack every fighting head that you see, before there
are so many fighting heads that you cannot crack any of them. There is
but scant account kept of cracked heads in back of the yards, for men
who have to crack the heads of animals all day seem to get into the
habit, and to practice on their friends, and even on their families,
between times. This makes it a cause for congratulation that by modern
methods a very few men can do the painfully necessary work of
head-cracking for the whole of the cultured world.
There is no fight that night—perhaps because Jurgis, too, is
watchful—even more so than the policeman. Jurgis has drunk a great
deal, as any one naturally would on an occasion when it all has to be
paid for, whether it is drunk or not; but he is a very steady man, and
does not easily lose his temper. Only once there is a tight shave—and
that is the fault of Marija Berczynskas. Marija has apparently
concluded about two hours ago that if the altar in the corner, with the
deity in soiled white, be not the true home of the muses, it is, at any
rate, the nearest substitute on earth attainable. And Marija is just
fighting drunk when there come to her ears the facts about the villains
who have not paid that night. Marija goes on the warpath straight off,
without even the preliminary of a good cursing, and when she is pulled
off it is with the coat collars of two villains in her hands.
Fortunately, the policeman is disposed to be reasonable, and so it is
not Marija who is flung out of the place.
All this interrupts the music for not more than a minute or two. Then
again the merciless tune begins—the tune that has been played for the
last half-hour without one single change. It is an American tune this
time, one which they have picked up on the streets; all seem to know
the words of it—or, at any rate, the first line of it, which they hum
to themselves, over and over again without rest: “In the good old
summertime—in the good old summertime! In the good old summertime—in
the good old summertime!” There seems to be something hypnotic about
this, with its endlessly recurring dominant. It has put a stupor upon
every one who hears it, as well as upon the men who are playing it. No
one can get away from it, or even think of getting away from it; it is
three o’clock in the morning, and they have danced out all their joy,
and danced out all their strength, and all the strength that unlimited
drink can lend them—and still there is no one among them who has the
power to think of stopping. Promptly at seven o’clock this same Monday
morning they will every one of them have to be in their places at
Durham’s or Brown’s or Jones’s, each in his working clothes. If one of
them be a minute late, he will be docked an hour’s pay, and if he be
many minutes late, he will be apt to find his brass check turned to the
wall, which will send him out to join the hungry mob that waits every
morning at the gates of the packing houses, from six o’clock until
nearly half-past eight. There is no exception to this rule, not even
little Ona—who has asked for a holiday the day after her wedding day, a
holiday without pay, and been refused. While there are so many who are
anxious to work as you wish, there is no occasion for incommoding
yourself with those who must work otherwise.
Little Ona is nearly ready to faint—and half in a stupor herself,
because of the heavy scent in the room. She has not taken a drop, but
every one else there is literally burning alcohol, as the lamps are
burning oil; some of the men who are sound asleep in their chairs or on
the floor are reeking of it so that you cannot go near them. Now and
then Jurgis gazes at her hungrily—he has long since forgotten his
shyness; but then the crowd is there, and he still waits and watches
the door, where a carriage is supposed to come. It does not, and
finally he will wait no longer, but comes up to Ona, who turns white
and trembles. He puts her shawl about her and then his own coat. They
live only two blocks away, and Jurgis does not care about the carriage.
There is almost no farewell—the dancers do not notice them, and all of
the children and many of the old folks have fallen asleep of sheer
exhaustion. Dede Antanas is asleep, and so are the Szedvilases, husband
and wife, the former snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and
Marija, sobbing loudly; and then there is only the silent night, with
the stars beginning to pale a little in the east. Jurgis, without a
word, lifts Ona in his arms, and strides out with her, and she sinks
her head upon his shoulder with a moan. When he reaches home he is not
sure whether she has fainted or is asleep, but when he has to hold her
with one hand while he unlocks the door, he sees that she has opened
her eyes.
“You shall not go to Brown’s today, little one,” he whispers, as he
climbs the stairs; and she catches his arm in terror, gasping: “No! No!
I dare not! It will ruin us!”
But he answers her again: “Leave it to me; leave it to me. I will earn
more money—I will work harder.”
CHAPTER II
Jurgis talked lightly about work, because he was young. They told him
stories about the breaking down of men, there in the stockyards of
Chicago, and of what had happened to them afterward—stories to make
your flesh creep, but Jurgis would only laugh. He had only been there
four months, and he was young, and a giant besides. There was too much
health in him. He could not even imagine how it would feel to be
beaten. “That is well enough for men like you,” he would say,
“_silpnas_, puny fellows—but my back is broad.”