From
The Jungle.
All summer long the family toiled, and in the fall they had money enough
for Jurgis and Ona to be married according to home traditions of decency.
In the latter part of November they hired a hall, and invited all their
new acquaintances, who came and left them over a hundred dollars in debt.
It was a bitter and cruel experience, and it plunged them into an agony
of despair. Such a time, of all times, for them to have it, when their
hearts were made tender! Such a pitiful beginning it was for their
married life; they loved each other so, and they could not have the
briefest respite! It was a time when everything cried out to them that
they ought to be happy; when wonder burned in their hearts, and leaped
into flame at the slightest breath. They were shaken to the depths
of them, with the awe of love realized--and was it so very weak of them
that they cried out for a little peace? They had opened their hearts,
like flowers to the springtime, and the merciless winter had fallen
upon them. They wondered if ever any love that had blossomed in the
world had been so crushed and trampled!
Over them, relentless and savage, there cracked the lash of want;
the morning after the wedding it sought them as they slept, and drove
them out before daybreak to work. Ona was scarcely able to stand with
exhaustion; but if she were to lose her place they would be ruined,
and she would surely lose it if she were not on time that day. They all
had to go, even little Stanislovas, who was ill from overindulgence in
sausages and sarsaparilla. All that day he stood at his lard machine,
rocking unsteadily, his eyes closing in spite of him; and he all but
lost his place even so, for the foreman booted him twice to waken him.
It was fully a week before they were all normal again, and meantime,
with whining children and cross adults, the house was not a pleasant
place to live in. Jurgis lost his temper very little, however, all
things considered. It was because of Ona; the least glance at her was
always enough to make him control himself. She was so sensitive--she
was not fitted for such a life as this; and a hundred times a day,
when he thought of her, he would clench his hands and fling himself
again at the task before him. She was too good for him, he told himself,
and he was afraid, because she was his. So long he had hungered to
possess her, but now that the time had come he knew that he had not
earned the right; that she trusted him so was all her own simple
goodness, and no virtue of his. But he was resolved that she should
never find this out, and so was always on the watch to see that he did not
betray any of his ugly self; he would take care even in little matters,
such as his manners, and his habit of swearing when things went wrong.
The tears came so easily into Ona's eyes, and she would look at him so
appealingly--it kept Jurgis quite busy making resolutions, in addition
to all the other things he had on his mind. It was true that more things
were going on at this time in the mind of Jurgis than ever had in all his
life before.
He had to protect her, to do battle for her against the horror he saw
about them. He was all that she had to look to, and if he failed she
would be lost; he would wrap his arms about her, and try to hide her
from the world. He had learned the ways of things about him now. It was
a war of each against all, and the devil take the hindmost. You did not
give feasts to other people, you waited for them to give feasts to you.
You went about with your soul full of suspicion and hatred; you understood
that you were environed by hostile powers that were trying to get your
money, and who used all the virtues to bait their traps with. The store-
keepers plastered up their windows with all sorts of lies to entice you;
the very fences by the wayside, the lampposts and telegraph poles, were
pasted over with lies. The great corporation which employed you lied
to you, and lied to the whole country--from top to bottom it was nothing
but one gigantic lie.
So Jurgis said that he understood it; and yet it was really pitiful,
for the struggle was so unfair--some had so much the advantage!
Here he was, for instance, vowing upon his knees that he would save
Ona from harm, and only a week later she was suffering atrociously,
and from the blow of an enemy that he could not possibly have thwarted.
There came a day when the rain fell in torrents; and it being December,
to be wet with it and have to sit all day long in one of the cold cellars
of Brown's was no laughing matter. Ona was a working girl, and did not
own waterproofs and such things, and so Jurgis took her and put her on
the streetcar. Now it chanced that this car line was owned by gentlemen
who were trying to make money. And the city having passed an ordinance
requiring them to give transfers, they had fallen into a rage; and first
they had made a rule that transfers could be had only when the fare was
paid; and later, growing still uglier, they had made another--that the
passenger must ask for the transfer, the conductor was not allowed to
offer it. Now Ona had been told that she was to get a transfer; but it
was not her way to speak up, and so she merely waited, following the
conductor about with her eyes, wondering when he would think of her.
When at last the time came for her to get out, she asked for the transfer,
and was refused. Not knowing what to make of this, she began to argue
with the conductor, in a language of which he did not understand a word.
After warning her several times, he pulled the bell and the car went
on--at which Ona burst into tears. At the next corner she got out,
of course; and as she had no more money, she had to walk the rest of
the way to the yards in the pouring rain. And so all day long she sat
shivering, and came home at night with her teeth chattering and pains
in her head and back. For two weeks afterward she suffered cruelly--
and yet every day she had to drag herself to her work. The forewoman was
especially severe with Ona, because she believed that she was obstinate
on account of having been refused a holiday the day after her wedding.
Ona had an idea that her "forelady" did not like to have her girls
marry--perhaps because she was old and ugly and unmarried herself.
There were many such dangers, in which the odds were all against them.
Their children were not as well as they had been at home; but how could
they know that there was no sewer to their house, and that the drainage
of fifteen years was in a cesspool under it? How could they know that
the pale-blue milk that they bought around the corner was watered,
and doctored with formaldehyde besides? When the children were not
well at home, Teta Elzbieta would gather herbs and cure them; now she
was obliged to go to the drugstore and buy extracts--and how was she to
know that they were all adulterated? How could they find out that their
tea and coffee, their sugar and flour, had been doctored; that their
canned peas had been colored with copper salts, and their fruit jams with
aniline dyes? And even if they had known it, what good would it have
done them, since there was no place within miles of them where any other
sort was to be had? The bitter winter was coming, and they had to save
money to get more clothing and bedding; but it would not matter in the
least how much they saved, they could not get anything to keep them warm.
All the clothing that was to be had in the stores was made of cotton and
shoddy, which is made by tearing old clothes to pieces and weaving the
fiber again. If they paid higher prices, they might get frills and
fanciness, or be cheated; but genuine quality they could not obtain for
love nor money. A young friend of Szedvilas', recently come from abroad,
had become a clerk in a store on Ashland Avenue, and he narrated with
glee a trick that had been played upon an unsuspecting countryman by
his boss. The customer had desired to purchase an alarm clock, and the
boss had shown him two exactly similar, telling him that the price of
one was a dollar and of the other a dollar seventy-five. Upon being
asked what the difference was, the man had wound up the first halfway
and the second all the way, and showed the customer how the latter
made twice as much noise; upon which the customer remarked that he was
a sound sleeper, and had better take the more expensive clock!
There is a poet who sings that
"Deeper their heart grows and nobler their bearing,
Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died."
But it was not likely that he had reference to the kind of anguish that
comes with destitution, that is so endlessly bitter and cruel, and yet
so sordid and petty, so ugly, so humiliating--unredeemed by the slightest
touch of dignity or even of pathos. It is a kind of anguish that poets
have not commonly dealt with; its very words are not admitted into the
vocabulary of poets--the details of it cannot be told in polite society
at all. How, for instance, could any one expect to excite sympathy among
lovers of good literature by telling how a family found their home alive
with vermin, and of all the suffering and inconvenience and humiliation
they were put to, and the hard-earned money they spent, in efforts to get
rid of them? After long hesitation and uncertainty they paid twenty-five
cents for a big package of insect powder--a patent preparation which
chanced to be ninety-five per cent gypsum, a harmless earth which had
cost about two cents to prepare. Of course it had not the least effect,
except upon a few roaches which had the misfortune to drink water after
eating it, and so got their inwards set in a coating of plaster of Paris.
The family, having no idea of this, and no more money to throw away,
had nothing to do but give up and submit to one more misery for the rest
of their days.
Then there was old Antanas. The winter came, and the place where he
worked was a dark, unheated cellar, where you could see your breath
all day, and where your fingers sometimes tried to freeze. So the
old man's cough grew every day worse, until there came a time when it
hardly ever stopped, and he had become a nuisance about the place.
Then, too, a still more dreadful thing happened to him; he worked in
a place where his feet were soaked in chemicals, and it was not long
before they had eaten through his new boots. Then sores began to break
out on his feet, and grow worse and worse. Whether it was that his blood
was bad, or there had been a cut, he could not say; but he asked the men
about it, and learned that it was a regular thing--it was the saltpeter.
Every one felt it, sooner or later, and then it was all up with him,
at least for that sort of work. The sores would never heal--in the end
his toes would drop off, if he did not quit. Yet old Antanas would not
quit; he saw the suffering of his family, and he remembered what it had
cost him to get a job. So he tied up his feet, and went on limping about
and coughing, until at last he fell to pieces, all at once and in a heap,
like the One-Horse Shay. They carried him to a dry place and laid him
on the floor, and that night two of the men helped him home. The poor
old man was put to bed, and though he tried it every morning until the
end, he never could get up again. He would lie there and cough and cough,
day and night, wasting away to a mere skeleton. There came a time when
there was so little flesh on him that the bones began to poke through--
which was a horrible thing to see or even to think of. And one night
he had a choking fit, and a little river of blood came out of his mouth.
The family, wild with terror, sent for a doctor, and paid half a dollar
to be told that there was nothing to be done. Mercifully the doctor did
not say this so that the old man could hear, for he was still clinging
to the faith that tomorrow or next day he would be better, and could go
back to his job. The company had sent word to him that they would keep
it for him--or rather Jurgis had bribed one of the men to come one Sunday
afternoon and say they had. Dede Antanas continued to believe it, while
three more hemorrhages came; and then at last one morning they found him
stiff and cold. Things were not going well with them then, and though
it nearly broke Teta Elzbieta's heart, they were forced to dispense with
nearly all the decencies of a funeral; they had only a hearse, and one
hack for the women and children; and Jurgis, who was learning things fast,
spent all Sunday making a bargain for these, and he made it in the
presence of witnesses, so that when the man tried to charge him for all
sorts of incidentals, he did not have to pay. For twenty-five years old
Antanas Rudkus and his son had dwelt in the forest together, and it was
hard to part in this way; perhaps it was just as well that Jurgis had to
give all his attention to the task of having a funeral without being
bankrupted, and so had no time to indulge in memories and grief.
Now the dreadful winter was come upon them. In the forests, all summer
long, the branches of the trees do battle for light, and some of them
lose and die; and then come the raging blasts, and the storms of snow
and hail, and strew the ground with these weaker branches. Just so it
was in Packingtown; the whole district braced itself for the struggle
that was an agony, and those whose time was come died off in hordes.
All the year round they had been serving as cogs in the great packing
machine; and now was the time for the renovating of it, and the replacing
of damaged parts. There came pneumonia and grippe, stalking among them,
seeking for weakened constitutions; there was the annual harvest of those
whom tuberculosis had been dragging down. There came cruel, cold, and
biting winds, and blizzards of snow, all testing relentlessly for failing
muscles and impoverished blood. Sooner or later came the day when the
unfit one did not report for work; and then, with no time lost in waiting,
and no inquiries or regrets, there was a chance for a new hand.
The new hands were here by the thousands. All day long the gates of the
packing houses were besieged by starving and penniless men; they came,
literally, by the thousands every single morning, fighting with each
other for a chance for life. Blizzards and cold made no difference
to them, they were always on hand; they were on hand two hours before the
sun rose, an hour before the work began. Sometimes their faces froze,
sometimes their feet and their hands; sometimes they froze all together--
but still they came, for they had no other place to go. One day Durham
advertised in the paper for two hundred men to cut ice; and all that day
the homeless and starving of the city came trudging through the snow from
all over its two hundred square miles. That night forty score of them
crowded into the station house of the stockyards district--they filled
the rooms, sleeping in each other's laps, toboggan fashion, and they
piled on top of each other in the corridors, till the police shut the
doors and left some to freeze outside. On the morrow, before daybreak,
there were three thousand at Durham's, and the police reserves had to be
sent for to quell the riot. Then Durham's bosses picked out twenty of
the biggest; the "two hundred" proved to have been a printer's error.
Four or five miles to the eastward lay the lake, and over this the bitter
winds came raging. Sometimes the thermometer would fall to ten or twenty
degrees below zero at night, and in the morning the streets would be
piled with snowdrifts up to the first-floor windows. The streets through
which our friends had to go to their work were all unpaved and full of
deep holes and gullies; in summer, when it rained hard, a man might have
to wade to his waist to get to his house; and now in winter it was no
joke getting through these places, before light in the morning and after
dark at night. They would wrap up in all they owned, but they could not
wrap up against exhaustion; and many a man gave out in these battles with
the snowdrifts, and lay down and fell asleep.
And if it was bad for the men, one may imagine how the women and children
fared. Some would ride in the cars, if the cars were running; but when
you are making only five cents an hour, as was little Stanislovas, you
do not like to spend that much to ride two miles. The children would
come to the yards with great shawls about their ears, and so tied up
that you could hardly find them--and still there would be accidents.
One bitter morning in February the little boy who worked at the lard
machine with Stanislovas came about an hour late, and screaming with pain.
They unwrapped him, and a man began vigorously rubbing his ears; and as
they were frozen stiff, it took only two or three rubs to break them
short off. As a result of this, little Stanislovas conceived a terror of
the cold that was almost a mania. Every morning, when it came time to
start for the yards, he would begin to cry and protest. Nobody knew quite
how to manage him, for threats did no good--it seemed to be something that
he could not control, and they feared sometimes that he would go into
convulsions. In the end it had to be arranged that he always went with
Jurgis, and came home with him again; and often, when the snow was deep,
the man would carry him the whole way on his shoulders. Sometimes Jurgis
would be working until late at night, and then it was pitiful, for there
was no place for the little fellow to wait, save in the doorways or in
a corner of the killing beds, and he would all but fall asleep there,
and freeze to death.
There was no heat upon the killing beds; the men might exactly as well
have worked out of doors all winter. For that matter, there was very
little heat anywhere in the building, except in the cooking rooms and
such places--and it was the men who worked in these who ran the most
risk of all, because whenever they had to pass to another room they
had to go through ice-cold corridors, and sometimes with nothing on
above the waist except a sleeveless undershirt. On the killing beds
you were apt to be covered with blood, and it would freeze solid; if you
leaned against a pillar, you would freeze to that, and if you put your
hand upon the blade of your knife, you would run a chance of leaving
your skin on it. The men would tie up their feet in newspapers and old
sacks, and these would be soaked in blood and frozen, and then soaked
again, and so on, until by nighttime a man would be walking on great
lumps the size of the feet of an elephant. Now and then, when the bosses
were not looking, you would see them plunging their feet and ankles into
the steaming hot carcass of the steer, or darting across the room to the
hot-water jets. The cruelest thing of all was that nearly all of them--
all of those who used knives--were unable to wear gloves, and their arms
would be white with frost and their hands would grow numb, and then of
course there would be accidents. Also the air would be full of steam,
from the hot water and the hot blood, so that you could not see five feet
before you; and then, with men rushing about at the speed they kept up
on the killing beds, and all with butcher knives, like razors, in their
hands-- well, it was to be counted as a wonder that there were not more
men slaughtered than cattle.
And yet all this inconvenience they might have put up with, if only it
had not been for one thing--if only there had been some place where they
might eat. Jurgis had either to eat his dinner amid the stench in which
he had worked, or else to rush, as did all his companions, to any one of
the hundreds of liquor stores which stretched out their arms to him.
To the west of the yards ran Ashland Avenue, and here was an unbroken
line of saloons--"Whiskey Row," they called it; to the north was Forty-
seventh Street, where there were half a dozen to the block, and at the
angle of the two was "Whiskey Point," a space of fifteen or twenty acres,
and containing one glue factory and about two hundred saloons.
One might walk among these and take his choice: "Hot pea-soup and boiled
cabbage today." "Sauerkraut and hot frankfurters. Walk in." "Bean soup
and stewed lamb. Welcome." All of these things were printed in many
languages, as were also the names of the resorts, which were infinite
in their variety and appeal. There was the "Home Circle" and the
"Cosey Corner"; there were "Firesides" and "Hearthstones" and "Pleasure
Palaces" and "Wonderlands" and "Dream Castles" and "Love's Delights."
Whatever else they were called, they were sure to be called "Union
Headquarters," and to hold out a welcome to workingmen; and there was
always a warm stove, and a chair near it, and some friends to laugh
and talk with. There was only one condition attached,--you must drink.
If you went in not intending to drink, you would be put out in no time,
and if you were slow about going, like as not you would get your head
split open with a beer bottle in the bargain. But all of the men
understood the convention and drank; they believed that by it they were
getting something for nothing--for they did not need to take more than
one drink, and upon the strength of it they might fill themselves up with
a good hot dinner. This did not always work out in practice, however,
for there was pretty sure to be a friend who would treat you, and then
you would have to treat him. Then some one else would come in--and,
anyhow, a few drinks were good for a man who worked hard. As he went
back he did not shiver so, he had more courage for his task; the deadly
brutalizing monotony of it did not afflict him so,--he had ideas while
he worked, and took a more cheerful view of his circumstances. On the
way home, however, the shivering was apt to come on him again; and so
he would have to stop once or twice to warm up against the cruel cold.
As there were hot things to eat in this saloon too, he might get home
late to his supper, or he might not get home at all. And then his
wife might set out to look for him, and she too would feel the cold;
and perhaps she would have some of the children with her--and so a
whole family would drift into drinking, as the current of a river drifts
downstream. As if to complete the chain, the packers all paid their men
in checks, refusing all requests to pay in coin; and where in Packingtown
could a man go to have his check cashed but to a saloon, where he could
pay for the favor by spending a part of the money?
From all of these things Jurgis was saved because of Ona. He never
would take but the one drink at noontime; and so he got the reputation
of being a surly fellow, and was not quite welcome at the saloons,
and had to drift about from one to another. Then at night he would
go straight home, helping Ona and Stanislovas, or often putting the
former on a car. And when he got home perhaps he would have to trudge
several blocks, and come staggering back through the snowdrifts with a
bag of coal upon his shoulder. Home was not a very attractive place--
at least not this winter. They had only been able to buy one stove,
and this was a small one, and proved not big enough to warm even the
kitchen in the bitterest weather. This made it hard for Teta Elzbieta
all day, and for the children when they could not get to school. At night
they would sit huddled round this stove, while they ate their supper off
their laps; and then Jurgis and Jonas would smoke a pipe, after which
they would all crawl into their beds to get warm, after putting out the
fire to save the coal. Then they would have some frightful experiences
with the cold. They would sleep with all their clothes on, including
their overcoats, and put over them all the bedding and spare clothing
they owned; the children would sleep all crowded into one bed, and yet
even so they could not keep warm. The outside ones would be shivering
and sobbing, crawling over the others and trying to get down into the
center, and causing a fight. This old house with the leaky weatherboards
was a very different thing from their cabins at home, with great thick
walls plastered inside and outside with mud; and the cold which came
upon them was a living thing, a demon-presence in the room. They would
waken in the midnight hours, when everything was black; perhaps they would
hear it yelling outside, or perhaps there would be deathlike stillness--
and that would be worse yet. They could feel the cold as it crept in
through the cracks, reaching out for them with its icy, death-dealing
fingers; and they would crouch and cower, and try to hide from it, all
in vain. It would come, and it would come; a grisly thing, a specter
born in the black caverns of terror; a power primeval, cosmic, shadowing
the tortures of the lost souls flung out to chaos and destruction. It was
cruel iron-hard; and hour after hour they would cringe in its grasp,
alone, alone. There would be no one to hear them if they cried out;
there would be no help, no mercy. And so on until morning--when they
would go out to another day of toil, a little weaker, a little nearer
to the time when it would be their turn to be shaken from the tree.
The Jungle Chapter 8