From
The Jungle.
Endlessly the dancers swung round and round--when they were dizzy they
swung the other way. Hour after hour this had continued--the darkness
had fallen and the room was dim from the light of two smoky oil lamps.
The musicians had spent all their fine frenzy by now, and played only
one tune, wearily, ploddingly. There were twenty bars or so of it, and
when they came to the end they began again. Once every ten minutes or
so they would fail to begin again, but instead would sink back exhausted;
a circumstance which invariably brought on a painful and terrifying scene,
that made the fat policeman stir uneasily in his sleeping place behind
the door.
It was all Marija Berczynskas. Marija was one of those hungry souls who
cling with desperation to the skirts of the retreating muse. All day long
she had been in a state of wonderful exaltation; and now it was leaving--
and she would not let it go. Her soul cried out in the words of Faust,
"Stay, thou art fair!" Whether it was by beer, or by shouting, or by music,
or by motion, she meant that it should not go. And she would go back to
the chase of it--and no sooner be fairly started than her chariot would
be thrown off the track, so to speak, by the stupidity of those thrice
accursed musicians. Each time, Marija would emit a howl and fly at them,
shaking her fists in their faces, stamping upon the floor, purple and
incoherent with rage. In vain the frightened Tamoszius would attempt
to speak, to plead the limitations of the flesh; in vain would the puffing
and breathless ponas Jokubas insist, in vain would Teta Elzbieta implore.
"Szalin!" Marija would scream. "Palauk! isz kelio! What are you paid for,
children of hell?" And so, in sheer terror, the orchestra would strike up
again, and Marija would return to her place and take up her task.
She bore all the burden of the festivities now. Ona was kept up by her
excitement, but all of the women and most of the men were tired--the soul
of Marija was alone unconquered. She drove on the dancers--what had once
been the ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at the stem, pulling
one way and pushing the other. shouting, stamping, singing, a very volcano
of energy. Now and then some one coming in or out would leave the door
open, and the night air was chill; Marija as she passed would stretch out
her foot and kick the doorknob, and slam would go the door! Once this
procedure was the cause of a calamity of which Sebastijonas Szedvilas was
the hapless victim. Little Sebastijonas, aged three, had been wandering
about oblivious to all things, holding turned up over his mouth a bottle
of liquid known as "pop," pink-colored, ice-cold, and delicious. Passing
through the doorway the door smote him full, and the shriek which followed
brought the dancing to a halt. Marija, who threatened horrid murder a
hundred times a day, and would weep over the injury of a fly, seized
little Sebastijonas in her arms and bid fair to smother him with kisses.
There was a long rest for the orchestra, and plenty of refreshments, while
Marija was making her peace with her victim, seating him upon the bar,
and standing beside him and holding to his lips a foaming schooner of beer.
In the meantime there was going on in another corner of the room an
anxious conference between Teta Elzbieta and Dede Antanas, and a few of
the more intimate friends of the family. A trouble was come upon them.
The veselija is a compact, a compact not expressed, but therefore only the
more binding upon all. Every one's share was different--and yet every one
knew perfectly well what his share was, and strove to give a little more.
Now, however, since they had come to the new country, all this was changing;
it seemed as if there must be some subtle poison in the air that one
breathed here--it was affecting all the young men at once. They would
come in crowds and fill themselves with a fine dinner, and then sneak off.
One would throw another's hat out of the window, and both would go out to
get it, and neither could be seen again. Or now and then half a dozen of
them would get together and march out openly, staring at you, and making fun
of you to your face. Still others, worse yet, would crowd about the bar,
and at the expense of the host drink themselves sodden, paying not the
least attention to any one, and leaving it to be thought that either they
had danced with the bride already, or meant to later on.
All these things were going on now, and the family was helpless with
dismay. So long they had toiled, and such an outlay they had made!
Ona stood by, her eyes wide with terror. Those frightful bills--how they
had haunted her, each item gnawing at her soul all day and spoiling her
rest at night. How often she had named them over one by one and figured
on them as she went to work--fifteen dollars for the hall, twenty-two
dollars and a quarter for the ducks, twelve dollars for the musicians,
five dollars at the church, and a blessing of the Virgin besides--and so
on without an end! Worst of all was the frightful bill that was still
to come from Graiczunas for the beer and liquor that might be consumed.
One could never get in advance more than a guess as to this from a
saloonkeeper--and then, when the time came he always came to you 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 saloonkeeper 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."
The Jungle Chapter 2