Jungle E-book

                                      1906
                                   THE JUNGLE

                               by Upton Sinclair









Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)



                              Chapter 1
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  It was four o'clock when the ceremony was over and the carriages
began to arrive. There had been a crowd following all the way, owing
to the exuberance of Marija Berczynskas. The occasion rested heavily
upon Marija's broad shoulders- it was her task to see that all
things went in due form, and after the best home traditions; and,
flying wildly hither and thither, bowling every one out of the way,
and scolding and exhorting all day with her tremendous voice, Marija
was too eager to see that others conformed to the proprieties to
consider them herself. She had left the church last of all, and,
desiring to arrive first at the hall, had issued orders to the
coachman to drive faster. When that personage had developed a will
of his own in the matter, Marija had flung up the window of the
carriage, and, leaning out, proceeded to tell him her opinion of
him, first in Lithuanian, which he did not understand, and then in
Polish, which he did. Having the advantage of her in altitude, the
driver had stood his ground and even ventured to attempt to speak; and
the result had been a furious altercation, which, continuing all the
way down Ashland Avenue, had added a new swarm of urchins to the
cortege at each side street for half a mile.
  This was unfortunate, for already there was a throng before the
door. The music had started up, and half a block away you could hear
the dull "broom, broom" of a cello, with the squeaking of two
fiddles which vied with each other in intricate and altitudinous
gymnastics. Seeing the throng, Marija abandoned precipitately the
debate concerning the ancestors of her coachman, and, springing from
the moving carriage, plunged in and proceeded to clear a way to the
hall. Once within, she turned and began to push the other way,
roaring, meantime, "Eik! Eik! Uzdaryk-duris!" in tones which
made the orchestral uproar sound like fairy music.

                                                    
  Z. Graiczunas, Pasilinksminimams darzas. Vynas. Sznapsas. Wines
and Liquors. Union Headquarters- that was the way the signs ran. The
reader, who perhaps has never held much converse in the language of
far-off Lithuania, will be glad of the explanation that the place
was the rear room of a saloon in that part of Chicago known as "back
of the yards." This information is definite and suited to the matter
of fact; but how pitifully inadequate it would have seemed to one
who understood that it was also the supreme hour of ecstasy in the
life of one of God's gentlest creatures, the scene of the wedding
feast and the joy-transfiguration of little Ona Lukoszaite!
  She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless
from pushing through the crowd, and in her happiness painful to look
upon. There was a light of wonder in her eyes and her lids trembled,
and her otherwise wan little face was flushed. She wore a muslin
dress, conspicuously white, and a stiff little veil coming to her
shoulders. There were five pink paper roses, twisted in the veil,
and eleven bright green rose leaves. There were new white cotton
gloves upon her hands, and as she stood staring about her she
twisted them together feverishly. It was almost too much for her-
you could see the pain of too great emotion in her face, and all the
tremor of her form. She was so young- not quite sixteen- and small for
her age, a mere child; and she had just been married to Jurgis, * of
all men, to Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the
buttonhole of his new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the
giant hands.
-
  * pronounced Yoorghis.
-
                                                   
  Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes with
beetling brows, and thick black hair that curled in waves about his
ears- in short, they were one of those incongruous and impossible
married couples with which Mother Nature so often wills to confound
all prophets, before and after. Jurgis could take up a
two-hundred-and-fifty-pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car
without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a far
corner, frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his lips
with his tongue each time before he could answer the congratulations
of his friends.
  Gradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and
the guests- a separation at least sufficiently complete for working
purposes. There was no time during the festivities which ensued when
there were not groups of onlookers in the doorways and the corners;
and if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked
sufficiently hungry, a chair was offered him, and he was invited to
the feast. It was one of the laws of the veselija that no one goes
hungry; and, while a rule made in the forests of Lithuania is hard
to apply in the stockyards district of Chicago, with its quarter of
a million inhabitants, still they did their best, and the children who
ran in from the street, and even the dogs, went out again happier. A
charming informality was one of the characteristics of this
celebration. The men wore their hats, or, if they wished, they took
them off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where they
pleased, and moved as often as they pleased. There were to be speeches
and singing, but no one had to listen who did not care to; if he
wished, meantime, to speak or sing himself, he was perfectly free. The
resulting medley of sound distracted no one, save possibly alone the
babies, of which there were present a number equal to the total
possessed by all the guests invited. There was no other place for
the babies to be, and so part of the preparations for the evening
consisted of a collection of cribs and carriages in one corner. In
these the babies slept, three or four together, or wakened together,
as the case might be. Those who were still older, and could reach
the tables, marched about munching contentedly at meat bones and
bologna sausages.
-
  The room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed walls, bare
save for a calendar, a picture of a race horse, and a family tree in a
gilded frame. To the right there is a door from the saloon, with a few
loafers in the doorway, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a
presiding genius clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches
and a carefully oiled curl plastered against one side of his forehead.
In the opposite corner are two tables, filling a third of the room and
laden with dishes and cold viands, which a few of the hungrier
guests are already munching. At the head, where sits the bride, is a
snow-white cake, with an Eiffel tower of constructed decoration,
with sugar roses and two angels upon it, and a generous sprinkling
of pink and green and yellow candies. Beyond opens a door into the
kitchen, where there is a glimpse to be had of a range with much steam
ascending from it, and many women, old and young, rushing hither and
thither. In the corner to the left are the three musicians, upon a
little platform, toiling heroically to make some impression upon the
hubbub; also the babies, similarly occupied, and an open window whence
the populace imbibes the sights and sounds and odors.
  Suddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and, peering through
it, you discern Aunt Elizabeth, Ona's stepmother- Teta Elzbieta, as
they call her- bearing aloft a great platter of stewed duck. Behind
her is Kotrina, making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a
similar burden; and half a minute later there appears old
Grandmother Majauszkiene, with a big yellow bowl of smoking
potatoes, nearly as big as herself. So, bit by bit, the feast takes
form- there is a ham and a dish of sauerkraut, boiled rice,
macaroni, bologna sausages, great piles of penny buns, bowls of
milk, and foaming pitchers of beer. There is also, not six feet from
your back, the bar, where you may order all you please and do not have
to pay for it. "Eiksz! Graicziau!" screams Marija Berczynskas, and
falls to work herself- for there is more upon the stove inside that
will be spoiled if it be not eaten.
                                                   
  So, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage and merriment, the
guests take their places. The young men, who for the most part have
been huddled near the door, summon their resolution and advance; and
the shrinking Jurgis is poked and scolded by the old folks until he
consents to seat himself at the right hand of the bride. The two
bridesmaids, whose insignia of office are paper wreaths, come next,
and after them the rest of the guests, old and young, boys and
girls. The spirit of the occasion takes hold of the stately bartender,
who condescends to a plate of stewed duck; even the fat policeman-
whose duty it will be, later in the evening, to break up the fights-
draws up a chair to the foot of the table. And the children shout
and the babies yell, and every one laughs and sings and chatters-
while above all the deafening clamor Cousin Marija shouts orders to
the musicians.
  The musicians- how shall one begin to describe them? All this time
they have been there, playing in a mad frenzy- all of this scene
must be read, or said, or sung, to music. It is the music which
makes it what it is; it is the music which changes the place from
the rear room of a saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a
wonderland, a little corner of the high mansions of the sky.
  The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man. His fiddle
is out of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an
inspired man- the hands of the muses have been laid upon him. He plays
like one possessed by a demon, by a whole horde of demons. You can
feel them in the air round about him, capering frenetically; with
their invisible feet they set the pace, and the hair of the leader
of the orchestra rises on end, and his eyeballs start from their
sockets, as he toils to keep up with them.
  Tamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught himself to play
the violin by practicing all night, after working all day on the
"killing beds." He is in his shirt sleeves, with a vest figured with
faded gold horseshoes, and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of
peppermint candy. A pair of military trousers, light blue with a
yellow stripe, serve to give that suggestion of authority proper to
leader of a band. He is only about five feet high, but even so these
trousers are about eight inches short of the ground. You wonder
where he can have gotten them- or rather you would wonder, if the
excitement of being in his presence left you time to think of such
things.
  For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired- you
might almost say inspired separately. He stamps with his feet, he
tosses his head, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up
little face, irresistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a
flourish, his brows knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink- the
very ends of his necktie bristle out. And every now and then he
turns upon his companions, nodding, signaling, beckoning
frantically- with every inch of him appealing, imploring, in behalf of
the muses and their call.
                                                   
  For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two members of
the orchestra. The second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with
black-rimmed spectacles and the mute and patient look of an overdriven
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 snowclad 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 shirtwaists, 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 arms 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, "Nustok! 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 years; it is high-waisted- almost under
her arms, and not very becoming,- but that does not trouble Jadvyga,
who is dancing with her Mikolas. She is small, while he is big and
powerful; she nestles in his arms as if she would hide herself from
view, and leans her head upon his shoulder. He in turn has clasped his
arms tightly around her, as if he would carry her away; and so she
dances, and will dance the entire evening, and would dance forever, in
ecstasy of bliss. You would smile, perhaps, to see them- but you would
not smile if you knew all the story. This is the fifth year, now, that
Jadvyga has been engaged to Mikolas, and her heart is sick. They would
have been married in the beginning, only Mikolas has a father who is
drunk all day, and he is the only other man in a large family. Even so
they might have managed it (for Mikolas is a skilled man) but for
cruel accidents which have almost taken the heart out of them. He is a
beef-boner, and that is a dangerous trade, especially when you are
on piecework and trying to earn a bride. Your hands are slippery,
and your knife is slippery, and you are toiling like mad, when
somebody happens to speak to you, or you strike a bone. Then your hand
slips up on the blade, and there is a fearful gash. And that would not
be so bad, only for the deadly contagion. The cut may heal, but you
never can tell. Twice now, within the last three years, Mikolas has
been lying at home with blood poisoning- once for three months and
once for nearly seven. The last time, too, he lost his job, and that
meant six weeks more of standing at the doors of the packing houses,
at six o'clock on bitter winter mornings, with a foot of snow on the
ground and more in the air. There are learned people who can tell
you out of the statistics that beef-boners make forty cents an hour,
but, perhaps, these people have never looked into a beef-boner's
hands.
  When Tamoszius and his companions stop for a rest, as perforce
they must, now and then, the dancers halt where they are and wait
patiently. They never seem to tire; and there is no place for them
to sit down if they did. It is only for a minute, anyway, for the
leader starts up again, in spite of all the protests of the other two.
This time it is another sort of a dance, a Lithuanian dance. Those who
prefer to, go on with the two-step, but the majority go through an
intricate series of motions, resembling more fancy skating than a
dance. The climax of it is a furious prestissimo, at which the
couples seize hands and begin a mad whirling. This is quite
irresistible, and every one in the room joins in, until the place
becomes a maze of flying skirts and bodies, quite dazzling to look
upon. But the sight of sights at this moment is Tamoszius Kuszleika.
The old fiddle squeaks and shrieks in protest, but Tamoszius has no
mercy. The sweat starts out on his forehead, and he bends over like
a cyclist on the last lap of a race. His body shakes and throbs like a
runaway steam engine, and the ear cannot follow the flying showers
of notes- there is a pale blue mist where you look to see his bowing
arm. With a most wonderful rush he comes to the end of the tune, and
flings up his hands and staggers back exhausted; and with a final
shout of delight the dancers fly apart, reeling here and there,
bringing up against the walls of the room.
  After this there is beer for every one, the musicians included,
and the revelers take a long breath and prepare for the great event of
the evening, which is the acziavimas. The acziavimas is a ceremony
which, once begun, will continue for three or four hours, and it
involves one uninterrupted dance. The guests form a great ring,
locking hands, and, when the music starts up, begin to move around
in a circle. In the center stands the bride, and, one by one, the
men step into the enclosure and dance with her. Each dances for
several minutes- as long as he pleases; it is a very merry proceeding,
with laughter and singing, and when the guest has finished, he finds
himself face to face with Teta Elzbieta, who holds the hat. Into it he
drops a sum of money- a dollar, or perhaps five dollars, according
to his power, and his estimate of the value of the privilege. The
guests are expected to pay for this entertainment; if they be proper
guests, they will see that there is a neat sum left over for the bride
and bridegroom to start life upon.
  Most fearful they are to contemplate, the expenses of this
entertainment. They will certainly be over two hundred dollars, and
maybe three hundred; and three hundred dollars is more than the year's
income of many a person in this room. There are able-bodied men here
who work from early morning until late at night, in ice-cold cellars
with a quarter of an inch of water on the floor- men who for six or
seven months in the year never see the sunlight from Sunday
afternoon till the next Sunday morning- and who cannot earn three
hundred dollars in a year. There are little children here, scarce in
their teens, who can hardly see the top of the work benches- whose
parents have lied to get them their place who do not make the half
of three hundred dollars a year, and perhaps not even the third of it.
And then to spend such a sum, all in a single day of your life, at a
wedding feast! (For obviously it is the same thing, whether you
spend it at once for your own wedding, or in a long time, at the
weddings of all your friends.)
  It is very imprudent, it is tragic- but, ah, it is so beautiful! Bit
by bit these poor people have given up everything else; but to this
they cling with all the power of their souls- they cannot give up
the veselija! To do that would mean, not merely to be defeated,
but to acknowledge defeat- and the difference between these two things
is what keeps the world going. The veselija has come down to them
from a far-off time; and the meaning of it was that one might dwell
within the cave and gaze upon shadows, provided only that once in
his lifetime he could break his chains, and feel his wings, and behold
the sun; provided that once in his lifetime he might testify to the
fact that life, with all its cares and its terrors, is no such great
thing after all, but merely a bubble upon the surface of a river, a
thing that one may toss about and play with as a juggler tosses his
golden balls, a thing that one may quaff, like a goblet of rare red
wine. Thus having known himself for the master of things, a man
could go back to his toil and live upon the memory all his days.
                                                   
-
  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 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 tenor, 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 2
-
  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."
  Jurgis was like a boy, a boy from the country. He was the sort of
man the bosses like to get hold of, the sort they make it a
grievance they cannot get hold of. When he was told to go to a certain
place, he would go there on the run. When he had nothing to do for the
moment, he would stand round fidgeting, dancing, with the overflow
of energy that was in him. If he were working in a line of men, the
line always moved too slowly for him, and you could pick him out by
his impatience and restlessness. That was why he had been picked out
on one important occasion; for Jurgis had stood outside of Brown and
Company's "Central Time Station" not more than half an hour, the
second day of his arrival in Chicago, before he had been beckoned by
one of the bosses. Of this he was very proud, and it made him more
disposed than ever to laugh at the pessimists. In vain would they
all tell him that there were men in that crowd from which he had
been chosen who had stood there a month- yes, many months- and not
been chosen yet. "Yes," he would say, "but what sort of men?
Broken-down tramps and good-for-nothings, fellows who have spent all
their money drinking, and want to get more for it. Do you want me to
believe that with these arms"- and he would clench his fists and
hold them up in the air, so that you might see the rolling muscles-
"that with these arms people will ever let me starve?"
  "It is plain," they would answer to this, "that you have come from
the country, and from very far in the country." And this was the fact,
for Jurgis had never seen a city, and scarcely even a fair-sized town,
until he had set out to make his fortune in the world and earn his
right to Ona. His father, and his father's father before him, and as
many ancestors back as legend could go, had lived in that part of
Lithuania known as Brelovicz, the Imperial Forest. This is a great
tract of a hundred thousand acres, which from time immemorial has been
a hunting preserve of the nobility. There are a very few peasants
settled in it, holding title from ancient times; and one of these
was Antanas Rudkus, who had been reared himself, and had reared his
children in turn, upon half a dozen acres of cleared land in the midst
of a wilderness. There had been one son besides Jurgis, and one
sister. The former had been drafted into the army; that had been
over ten years ago, but since that day nothing had ever been heard
of him. The sister was married, and her husband had bought the place
when old Antanas had decided to go with his son.
  It was nearly a year and a half ago that Jurgis had met Ona, at a
horsefair a hundred miles from home. Jurgis had never expected to
get married- he had laughed at it as a foolish trap for a man to
walk into; but here, without ever having spoken a word to her, with no
more than the exchange of half a dozen smiles, he found himself,
purple in the face with embarrassment and terror, asking her parents
to sell her to him for his wife- and offering his father's two
horses he had been sent to the fair to sell. But Ona's father proved
as a rock- the girl was yet a child, and he was a rich man, and his
daughter was not to be had in that way. So Jurgis went home with a
heavy heart, and that spring and summer toiled and tried hard to
forget. In the fall, after the harvest was over, he saw that it
would not do, and tramped the full fortnight's journey that lay
between him and Ona.
  He found an unexpected state of affairs- for the girl's father had
died, and his estate was tied up with creditors; Jurgis' heart
leaped as he realized that now the prize was within his reach. There
was Elzbieta Lukoszaite, Teta, or Aunt, as they called her, Ona's
stepmother, and there were her six children, of all ages. There was
also her brother Jonas, a dried-up little man who had worked upon
the farm. They were people of great consequence, as it seemed to
Jurgis, fresh out of the woods; Ona knew how to read, and knew many
other things that he did not know; and now the farm had been sold, and
the whole family was adrift- all they owned in the world being about
seven hundred rubles, which is half as many dollars. They would have
had three times that, but it had gone to court, and the judge had
decided against them, and it had cost the balance to get him to change
his decision.
                                                    
  Ona might have married and left them, but she would not, for she
loved Teta Elzbieta. It was Jonas who suggested that they all go to
America, where a friend of his had gotten rich. He would work, for his
part, and the women would work, and some of the children, doubtless-
they would live somehow. Jurgis, too, had heard of America. That was a
country where, they said, a man might earn three rubles a day; and
Jurgis figured what three rubles a day would mean, with prices as they
were where he lived, and decided forthwith, that he would go to
America and marry, and be a rich man in the bargain. In that
country, rich or poor, a man was free, it was said; he did not have to
go into the army, he did not have to pay out his money to rascally
officials- he might do as he pleased, and count himself as good as any
other man. So America was a place of which lovers and young people
dreamed. If one could only manage to get the price of a passage, he
could count his troubles at an end.
  It was arranged that they should leave the following spring, and
meantime Jurgis sold himself to a contractor for a certain time, and
tramped nearly four hundred miles from home with a gang of men to work
upon a railroad in Smolensk. This was a fearful experience, with filth
and bad food and cruelty and overwork; but Jurgis stood it and came
out in fine trim, and with eighty rubles sewed up in his coat. He
did not drink or fight, because he was thinking all the time of Ona;
and for the rest, he was a quiet, steady man, who did what he was told
to, did not lose his temper often, and when he did lose it made the
offender anxious that he should not lose it again. When they paid
him off he dodged the company gamblers and dramshops, and so they
tried to kill him; but he escaped, and tramped it home, working at odd
jobs, and sleeping always with one eye open.
  So in the summertime they had all set out for America. At the last
moment there joined them Marija Berczynskas, who was a cousin of
Ona's. Marija was an orphan, and had worked since childhood for a rich
farmer of Vilna, who beat her regularly. It was only at the age of
twenty that it had occurred to Marija to try her strength, when she
had risen up and nearly murdered the man, and then come away.
  There were twelve in all in the party, five adults and six children-
and Ona, who was a little of both. They had a hard time on the
passage; there was an agent who helped them, but he proved a
scoundrel, and got them into a trap with some officials, and cost them
a good deal of their precious money, which they clung to with such
horrible fear. This happened to them again in New York- for, of
course, they knew nothing about the country, and had no one to tell
them, and it was easy for a man in a blue uniform to lead them away,
and to take them to a hotel and keep them there, and make them pay
enormous charges to get away. The law says that the rate card shall be
on the door of a hotel, but it does not say that it shall be in
Lithuanian.
-
                                                   
  It was in the stockyards that Jonas' friend had gotten rich, and
so to Chicago the party was bound. They knew that one word, Chicago-
and that was all they needed to know, at least, until they reached the
city. Then, tumbled out of the cars without ceremony, they were no
better off than before; they stood staring down the vista of
Dearborn Street, with its big black buildings towering in the
distance, unable to realize that they had arrived, and why, when
they said "Chicago," people no longer pointed in some direction, but
instead looked perplexed, or laughed, or went on without paying any
attention. They were pitiable in their helplessness; above all
things they stood in deadly terror of any sort of person in official
uniform, and so whenever they saw a policeman they would cross the
street and hurry by. For the whole of the first day they wandered
about in the midst of deafening confusion, utterly lost; and it was
only at night that, cowering in the doorway of a house, they were
finally discovered and taken by a policeman to the station. In the
morning an interpreter was found, and they were taken and put upon a
car, and taught a new word- "stockyards." Their delight at discovering
that they were to get out of this adventure without losing another
share of their possessions it would not be possible to describe.
  They sat and stared out of the window. They were on a street which
seemed to run on forever, mile after mile- thirty-four of them, if
they had known it- and each side of it one uninterrupted row of
wretched little two-story frame buildings. Down every side street they
could see, it was the same- never a hill and never a hollow, but
always the same endless vista of ugly and dirty little wooden
buildings. Here and there would be a bridge crossing a filthy creek,
with hard-baked mud shores and dingy sheds and docks along it; here
and there would be a railroad crossing, with a tangle of switches, and
locomotives puffing, and rattling freight cars filing by; here and
there would be a great factory, a dingy building with innumerable
windows in it, and immense volumes of smoke pouring from the chimneys,
darkening the air above and making filthy the earth beneath. But after
each of these interruptions, the desolate procession would begin
again- the procession of dreary little buildings.
  A full hour before the party reached the city they had begun to note
the perplexing changes in the atmosphere. It grew darker all the time,
and upon the earth the grass seemed to grow less green. Every
minute, as the train sped on, the colors of things became dingier; the
fields were grown parched and yellow, the landscape hideous and
bare. And along with the thickening smoke they began to notice another
circumstance, a strange, pungent odor. They were not sure that it
was unpleasant, this odor; some might have called it sickening, but
their taste in odors was not developed, and they were only sure that
it was curious. Now, sitting in the trolley car, they realized that
they were on their way to the home of it- that they had traveled all
the way from Lithuania to it. It was now no longer something far off
and faint, that you caught in whiffs; you could literally taste it, as
well as smell it- you could take hold of it, almost, and examine it at
your leisure. They were divided in their opinions about it. It was
an elemental odor, raw and crude; it was rich, almost rancid, sensual,
and strong. There were some who drank it in as if it were an
intoxicant; there were others who put their handkerchiefs to their
faces. The new emigrants were still tasting it, lost in wonder, when
suddenly the car came to a halt, and the door was flung open, and a
voice shouted- "Stockyards!"
  They were left standing upon the corner, staring; down a side street
there were two rows of brick houses, and between them a vista: half
a dozen chimneys, tall as the tallest of buildings, touching the
very sky- and leaping from them half a dozen columns of smoke,
thick, oily, and black as night. It might have come from the center of
the world, this smoke, where the fires of the ages still smolder. It
came as if self-impelled, driving all before it, a perpetual
explosion. It was inexhaustible; one stared, waiting to see it stop,
but still the great streams rolled out. They spread in vast clouds
overhead, writhing, curling; then, uniting in one giant river, they
streamed away down the sky, stretching a black pall as far as the
eye could reach.
  Then the party became aware of another strange thing. This, too,
like the color, was a thing elemental; it was a sound, a sound made up
of ten thousand little sounds. You scarcely noticed it at first- it
sunk into your consciousness, a vague disturbance, a trouble. It was
like the murmuring of the bees in the spring, the whisperings of the
forest; it suggested endless activity, the rumblings of a world in
motion. It was only by an effort that one could realize that it was
made by animals, that it was the distant lowing of ten thousand
cattle, the distant grunting of ten thousand swine.
                                                   
  They would have liked to follow it up, but, alas, they had no time
for adventures just then. The policeman on the corner was beginning to
watch them; and so, as usual, they started up the street. Scarcely had
they gone a block, however, before Jonas was heard to give a cry,
and began pointing excitedly across the street. Before they could
gather the meaning of his breathless ejaculations he had bounded away,
and they saw him enter a shop, over which was a sign: "J. Szedvilas,
Delicatessen." When he came out again it was in company with a very
stout gentleman in shirt sleeves and an apron, clasping Jonas by
both hands and laughing hilariously. Then Teta Elzbieta recollected
suddenly that Szedvilas had been the name of the mythical friend who
had made his fortune in America. To find that he had been making it in
the delicatessen business was an extraordinary piece of good fortune
at this juncture; though it was well on in the morning, they had not
breakfasted, and the children were beginning to whimper.
  Thus was the happy ending to a woeful voyage. The two families
literally fell upon each other's necks- for it had been years since
Jokubas Szedvilas had met a man from his part of Lithuania. Before
half the day they were lifelong friends. Jokubas understood all the
pitfalls of this new world, and could explain all of its mysteries; he
could tell them the things they ought to have done in the different
emergencies- and what was still more to the point, he could tell
them what to do now. He would take them to poni Aniele, who kept a
boardinghouse the other side of the yards; old Mrs. Jukniene, he
explained, had not what one would call choice accommodations, but they
might do for the moment. To this Teta Elzbieta hastened to respond
that nothing could be too cheap to suit them just then; for they
were quite terrified over the sums they had had to expend. A very
few days of practical experience in this land of high wages had been
sufficient to make clear to them the cruel fact that it was also a
land of high prices, and that in it the poor man was almost as poor as
in any other corner of the earth; and so there vanished in a night all
the wonderful dreams of wealth that had been haunting Jurgis. What had
made the discovery all the more painful was that they were spending,
at American prices, money which they had earned at home rates of
wages- and so were really being cheated by the world! The last two
days they had all but starved, themselves- it made them quite sick
to pay the prices that the railroad people asked them for food.
  Yet, when they saw the home of the Widow Jukniene they could not but
recoil, even so. In all their journey they had seen nothing so bad
as this. Poni Aniele had a four-room flat in one of that
wilderness of two-story frame tenements that lie "back of the
yards." There were four such flats in each building, and each of the
four was a "boardinghouse" for the occupancy of foreigners-
Lithuanians, Poles, Slovaks, or Bohemians. Some of these places were
kept by private persons, some were cooperative. There would be an
average of half a dozen boarders to each room- sometimes there were
thirteen or fourteen to one room, fifty or sixty to a flat. Each one
of the occupants furnished his own accommodations- that is, a mattress
and some bedding. The mattresses would be spread upon the floor in
rows- and there would be nothing else in the place except a stove.
It was by no means unusual for two men to own the same mattress in
common, one working by day and using it by night, and the other
working at night and using it in the daytime. Very frequently a
lodginghouse keeper would rent the same beds to double shifts of men.
  Mrs. Jukniene was a wizened-up little woman, with a wrinkled face.
Her home was unthinkably filthy; you could not enter by the front door
at all, owing to the mattresses, and when you tried to go up the
backstairs you found that she had walled up most of the porch with old
boards to make a place to keep her chickens. It was a standing jest of
the boarders that Aniele cleaned house by letting the chickens loose
in the rooms. Undoubtedly this did keep down the vermin, but it seemed
probable, in view of all the circumstances, that the old lady regarded
it rather as feeding the chickens than as cleaning the rooms. The
truth was that she had definitely given up the idea of cleaning
anything, under pressure of an attack of rheumatism, which had kept
her doubled up in one corner of her room for over a week; during which
time eleven of her boarders, heavily in her debt, had concluded to try
their chances of employment in Kansas City. This was July, and the
fields were green. One never saw the fields, nor any green thing
whatever, in Packingtown; but one could go out on the road and "hobo
it," as the men phrased it, and see the country, and have a long rest,
and an easy time riding on the freight cars.
-
                                                   
  Such was the home to which the new arrivals were welcomed. There was
nothing better to be had- they might not do so well by looking
further, for Mrs. Jukniene had at least kept one room for herself
and her little children, and now offered to share this with the
women and the girls of the party. They could get bedding at a
secondhand store, she explained; and they would not need any, while
the weather was so hot- doubtless they would all sleep on the sidewalk
such nights as this, as did nearly all of her guests. "Tomorrow,"
Jurgis said, when they were left alone, "tomorrow I will get a job,
and perhaps Jonas will get one also; and then we can get a place of
our own."
  Later that afternoon he and Ona went out to take a walk and look
about them, to see more of this district which was to be their home.
In back of the yards the dreary two-story frame houses were
scattered farther apart, and there were great spaces bare- that
seemingly had been overlooked by the great sore of a city as it spread
itself over the surface of the prairie. These bare places were grown
up with dingy, yellow weeds, hiding innumerable tomato cans;
innumerable children played upon them, chasing one another here and
there, screaming and fighting. The most uncanny thing about this
neighborhood was the number of the children; you thought there must be
a school just out, and it was only after long acquaintance that you
were able to realize that there was no school, but that these were the
children of the neighborhood- that there were so many children to
the block in Packingtown that nowhere on its streets could a horse and
buggy move faster than a walk!
  It could not move faster anyhow, on account of the state of the
streets. Those through which Jurgis and Ona were walking resembled
streets less than they did a miniature topographical map. The
roadway was commonly several feet lower than the level of the
houses, which were sometimes joined by high board walks; there were no
pavements- there were mountains and valleys and rivers, gullies and
ditches, and great hollows full of stinking green water. In these
pools the children played, and rolled about in the mud of the streets;
here and there one noticed them digging in it, after trophies which
they had stumbled on. One wondered about this, as also about the
swarms of flies which hung about the scene, literally blackening the
air, and the strange, fetid odor which assailed one's nostrils, a
ghastly odor, of all the dead things of the universe. It impelled
the visitor to questions- and then the residents would explain,
quietly, that all this was "made" land, and that it had been "made" by
using it as a dumping ground for the city garbage. After a few years
the unpleasant effect of this would pass away, it was said; but
meantime, in hot weather- and especially when it rained- the flies
were apt to be annoying. Was it not unhealthful? the stranger would
ask, and the residents would answer, "Perhaps; but there is no
telling."
  A little way farther on, and Jurgis and Ona, staring open-eyed and
wondering, came to the place where this "made" ground was in process
of making. Here was a great hole, perhaps two city blocks square,
and with long files of garbage wagons creeping into it. The place
had an odor for which there are no polite words; and it was
sprinkled over with children, who raked in it from dawn till dark.
Sometimes visitors from the packing houses would wander out to see
this "dump," and they would stand by and debate as to whether the
children were eating the food they got, or merely collecting it for
the chickens at home. Apparently none of them ever went down to find
out.
  Beyond this dump there stood a great brickyard, with smoking
chimneys. First they took out the soil to make bricks, and then they
filled it up again with garbage, which seemed to Jurgis and Ona a
felicitous arrangement, characteristic of an enterprising country like
America. A little way beyond was another great hole, which they had
emptied and not yet filled up. This held water, and all summer it
stood there, with the near-by soil draining into it, festering and
stewing in the sun; and then, when winter came, somebody cut the ice
on it, and sold it to the people of the city. This, too, seemed to the
newcomers an economical arrangement; for they did not read the
newspapers, and their heads were not full of troublesome thoughts
about "germs."
                                                   
  They stood there while the sun went down upon this scene, and the
sky in the west turned blood-red, and the tops of the houses shone
like fire. Jurgis and Ona were not thinking of the sunset, however-
their backs were turned to it, and all their thoughts were of
Packingtown, which they could see so plainly in the distance. The line
of the buildings stood clear-cut and black against the sky; here and
there out of the mass rose the great chimneys, with the river of smoke
streaming away to the end of the world. It was a study in colors
now, this smoke; in the sunset light it was black and brown and gray
and purple. All the sordid suggestions of the place were gone- in
the twilight it was a vision of power. To the two who stood watching
while the darkness swallowed it up, it seemed a dream of wonder,
with its tale of human energy, of things being done, of employment for
thousands upon thousands of men, of opportunity and freedom, of life
and love and joy. When they came away, arm in arm, Jurgis was
saying, "Tomorrow I shall go there and get a job!"


                              Chapter 3
-
  In his capacity as delicatessen vender, Jokubas Szedvilas had many
acquaintances. Among these was one of the special policemen employed
by Durham, whose duty it frequently was to pick out men for
employment. Jokubas had never tried it, but he expressed a certainty
that he could get some of his friends a job through this man. It was
agreed, after consultation, that he should make the effort with old
Antanas and with Jonas. Jurgis was confident of his ability to get
work for himself, unassisted by any one.
  As we have said before, he was not mistaken in this. He had gone
to Brown's and stood there not more than half an hour before one of
the bosses noticed his form towering above the rest, and signaled to
him. The colloquy which followed was brief and to the point:
  "Speak English?"
  "No; Lit-uanian." (Jurgis had studied this word carefully.)
  "Job?"
                                                    
  "Je." (A nod.)
  "Worked here before?"
  "No 'stand."
  (Signals and gesticulations on the part of the boss. Vigorous shakes
of the head by Jurgis.)
  "Shovel guts?"
                                                   
  "No 'stand." (More shakes of the head.)
  "Zarnos. Pagaiksztis. Szluota!" (Imitative motions.)
  "Je."
  "See door. Durys?" (Pointing.)
  "Je."
                                                   
  "Tomorrow, seven o'clock. Understand? Rytoj! Prieszpietys!
Septyni!"
  "Dekui, tamistai!" (Thank you, sir.) And that was all. Jurgis
turned away, and then in a sudden rush the full realization of his
triumph swept over him, and he gave a yell and a jump, and started off
on a run. He had a job! He had a job! And he went all the way home
as if upon wings, and burst into the house like a cyclone, to the rage
of the numerous lodgers who had just turned in for their daily sleep.
  Meantime Jokubas had been to see his friend the policeman, and
received encouragement, so it was a happy party. There being no more
to be done that day, the shop was left under the care of Lucija, and
her husband sallied forth to show his friends the sights of
Packingtown. Jokubas did this with the air of a country gentleman
escorting a party of visitors over his estate; he was an old-time
resident, and all these wonders had grown up under his eyes, and he
had a personal pride in them. The packers might own the land, but he
claimed the landscape, and there was no one to say nay to this.
-
  They passed down the busy street that led to the yards. It was still
early morning, and everything was at its high tide of activity. A
steady stream of employees was pouring through the gate- employees
of the higher sort, at this hour, clerks and stenographers and such.
For the women there were waiting big two-horse wagons, which set off
at a gallop as fast as they were filled. In the distance there was
heard again the lowing of the cattle, a sound as of a far-off ocean
calling. They followed it, this time, as eager as children in sight of
a circus menagerie- which, indeed, the scene a good deal resembled.
They crossed the railroad tracks, and then on each side of the
street were the pens full of cattle; they would have stopped to
look, but Jokubas hurried them on, to where there was a stairway and a
raised gallery, from which everything could be seen. Here they
stood, staring, breathless with wonder.
                                                   
  There is over a square mile of space in the yards, and more than
half of it is occupied by cattle pens; north and south as far as the
eye can reach there stretches a sea of pens. And they were all filled-
so many cattle no one had ever dreamed existed in the world. Red
cattle, black, white, and yellow cattle; old cattle and young
cattle; great bellowing bulls and little calves not an hour born;
meek-eyed milch cows and fierce, long-horned Texas steers. The sound
of them here was as of all the barnyards of the universe; and as for
counting them- it would have taken all day simply to count the pens.
Here and there ran long alleys, blocked at intervals by gates; and
Jokubas told them that the number of these gates was twenty-five
thousand. Jokubas had recently been reading a newspaper article
which was full of statistics such as that, and he was very proud as he
repeated them and made his guests cry out with wonder. Jurgis too
had a little of this sense of pride. Had he not just gotten a job, and
become a sharer in all this activity, a cog in this marvelous machine?
  Here and there about the alleys galloped men upon horseback, booted,
and carrying long whips; they were very busy, calling to each other,
and to those who were driving the cattle. They were drovers and
stock raisers, who had come from far states, and brokers and
commission merchants, and buyers for all the big packing houses.
Here and there they would stop to inspect a bunch of cattle, and there
would be a parley, brief and business-like. The buyer would nod or
drop his whip, and that would mean a bargain; and he would note it
in his little book, along with hundreds of others he had made that
morning. Then Jokubas pointed out the place where the cattle were
driven to be weighed, upon a great scale that would weigh a hundred
thousand pounds at once and record it automatically. It was near to
the east entrance that they stood, and all along this east side of the
yards ran the railroad tracks, into which the cars were run, loaded
with cattle. All night long this had been going on, and now the pens
were full; by tonight they would all be empty, and the same thing
would be done again.
  "And what will become of all these creatures?" cried Teta Elzbieta.
  "By tonight," Jokubas answered, "they will all be killed and cut up;
and over there on the other side of the packing houses are more
railroad tracks, where the cars come to take them away."
  There were two hundred and fifty miles of track within the yards,
their guide went on to tell them. They brought about ten thousand head
of cattle every day, and as many hogs, and half as many sheep- which
meant some eight or ten million live creatures turned into food
every year. One stood and watched, and little by little caught the
drift of the tide, as it set in the direction of the packing houses.
There were groups of cattle being driven to the chutes, which were
roadways about fifteen feet wide, raised high above the pens. In these
chutes the stream of animals was continuous; it was quite uncanny to
watch them, pressing on to their fate, all unsuspicious- a very
river of death. Our friends were not poetical, and the sight suggested
to them no metaphors of human destiny; they thought only of the
wonderful efficiency of it all. The chutes into which the hogs went
climbed high up- to the very top of the distant buildings; and Jokubas
explained that the hogs went up by the power of their own legs, and
then their weight carried them back through all the processes
necessary to make them into pork.
                                                   
  "They don't waste anything here," said the guide, and then he
laughed and added a witticism, which he was pleased that his
unsophisticated friends should take to be his own: "They use
everything about the hog except the squeal." In front of Brown's
General Office building there grows a tiny plot of grass, and this,
you may learn, is the only bit of green thing in Packingtown; likewise
this jest about the hog and his squeal, the stock in trade of all
the guides, is the one gleam of humor that you will find there.
  After they had seen enough of the pens, the party went up the
street, to the mass of buildings which occupy the center of the yards.
These buildings, made of brick and stained with innumerable layers
of Packingtown smoke, were painted all over with advertising signs,
from which the visitor realized suddenly that he had come to the
home of many of the torments of his life. It was here that they made
those products with the wonders of which they pestered him so- by
placards that defaced the landscape when he traveled, and by staring
advertisements in the newspapers and magazines- by silly little
jingles that he could not get out of his mind, and gaudy pictures that
lurked for him around every street corner. Here was where they made
Brown's Imperial Hams and Bacon, Brown's Dressed Beef, Brown's
Excelsior Sausages! Here was the headquarters of Durham's Pure Leaf
Lard, of Durham's Breakfast Bacon, Durham's Canned Beef, Potted Ham,
Deviled Chicken, Peerless Fertilizer!
  Entering one of the Durham buildings, they found a number of other
visitors waiting; and before long there came a guide, to escort them
through the place. They make a great feature of showing strangers
through the packing plants, for it is a good advertisement. But
ponas Jokubas whispered maliciously that the visitors did not see
any more than the packers wanted them to.
  They climbed a long series of stairways outside of the building,
to the top of its five or six stories. Here was the chute, with its
river of hogs, all patiently toiling upward; there was a place for
them to rest to cool off, and then through another passage-way they
went into a room from which there is no returning for hogs.
  It was a long, narrow room, with a gallery along it for visitors. At
the head there was a great iron wheel, about twenty feet in
circumference, with rings here and there along its edge. Upon both
sides of this wheel there was a narrow space, into which came the hogs
at the end of their journey; in the midst of them stood a great
burly Negro, bare-armed and bare-chested. He was resting for the
moment, for the wheel had stopped while men were cleaning up. In a
minute or two, however, it began slowly to revolve, and then the men
upon each side of it sprang to work. They had chains which they
fastened about the leg of the nearest hog, and the other end of the
chain they hooked into one of the rings upon the wheel. So, as the
wheel turned, a hog was suddenly jerked off his feet and borne aloft.
                                                   
  At the same instant the car was assailed by a most terrifying
shriek; the visitors started in alarm, the women turned pale and
shrank back. The shriek was followed by another, louder and yet more
agonizing- for once started upon that journey, the hog never came
back; at the top of the wheel he was shunted off upon a trolley, and
went sailing down the room. And meantime another was swung up, and
then another, and another, until there was a double line of them, each
dangling by a foot and kicking in frenzy- and squealing. The uproar
was appalling, perilous to the eardrums; one feared there was too much
sound for the room to hold- that the walls must give way or the
ceiling crack. There were high squeals and low squeals, grunts, and
wails of agony; there would come a momentary lull, and then a fresh
outburst, louder than ever, surging up to a deafening climax. It was
too much for some of the visitors- the men would look at each other,
laughing nervously, and the women would stand with hands clenched, and
the blood rushing to their faces, and the tears starting in their
eyes.
  Meantime, heedless of all these things, the men upon the floor
were going about their work. Neither squeals of hogs nor tears of
visitors made any difference to them; one by one they hooked up the
hogs, and one by one with a swift stroke they slit their throats.
There was a long line of hogs, with squeals and lifeblood ebbing
away together; until at last each started again, and vanished with a
splash into a huge vat of boiling water.
  It was all so very businesslike that one watched it fascinated. It
was porkmaking by machinery, porkmaking by applied mathematics. And
yet somehow the most matter-of-fact person could not help thinking
of the hogs; they were so innocent, they came so very trustingly;
and they were so very human in their protests- and so perfectly within
their rights! They had done nothing to deserve it; and it was adding
insult to injury, as the thing was done here, swinging them up in this
cold-blooded, impersonal way, without a pretense of apology, without
the homage of a tear. Now and then a visitor wept, to be sure; but
this slaughtering machine ran on, visitors or no visitors. It was like
some horrible crime committed in a dungeon, all unseen and unheeded,
buried out of sight and of memory.
  One could not stand and watch very long without becoming
philosophical, without beginning to deal in symbols and similes, and
to hear the hog squeal of the universe. Was it permitted to believe
that there was nowhere upon the earth, or above the earth, a heaven
for hogs, where they were requited for all this suffering? Each one of
these hogs was a separate creature. Some were white hogs, some were
black; some were brown, some were spotted; some were old, some
young; some were long and lean, some were monstrous. And each of
them had an individuality of his own, a will of his own, a hope and
a heart's desire; each was full of self-confidence, of
self-importance, and a sense of dignity. And trusting and strong in
faith he had gone about his business, the while a black shadow hung
over him and a horrid Fate waited in his pathway. Now suddenly it
had swooped upon him, and had seized him by the leg. Relentless,
remorseless, it was; all his protests, his screams, were nothing to
it- it did its cruel will with him, as if his wishes, his feelings,
had simply no existence at all; it cut his throat and watched him gasp
out his life. And now was one to believe that there was nowhere a
god of hogs, to whom this hog personality was precious, to whom
these hog squeals and agonies had a meaning? Who would take this hog
into his arms and comfort him, reward him for his work well done,
and show him the meaning of his sacrifice? Perhaps some glimpse of all
this was in the thoughts of our humble-minded Jurgis, as he turned
to go on with the rest of the party, and muttered: "Dieve- but I'm
glad I'm not a hog!"
  The carcass hog was scooped out of the vat by machinery, and then it
fell to the second floor, passing on the way through a wonderful
machine with numerous scrapers, which adjusted themselves to the
size and shape of the animal, and sent it out at the other end with
nearly all of its bristles removed. It was then again strung up by
machinery, and sent upon another trolley ride; this time passing
between two lines of men, who sat upon a raised platform, each doing a
certain single thing to the carcass as it came to him. One scraped the
outside of a leg; another scraped the inside of the same leg. One with
a swift stroke cut the throat; another with two swift strokes
severed the head, which fell to the floor and vanished through a hole.
Another made a slit down the body; a second opened the body wider; a
third with a saw cut the breastbone; a fourth loosened the entrails; a
fifth pulled them out- and they also slid through a hole in the floor.
There were men to scrape each side and men to scrape the back; there
were men to clean the carcass inside, to trim it and wash it.
Looking down this room, one saw, creeping slowly, a line of dangling
hogs a hundred yards in length; and for every yard there was a man,
working as if a demon were after him. At the end of this hog's
progress every inch of the carcass had been gone over several times;
and then it was rolled into the chilling room, where it stayed for
twenty-four hours, and where a stranger might lose himself in a forest
of freezing hogs.
                                                   
  Before the carcass was admitted here, however, it had to pass a
government inspector, who sat in the doorway and felt of the glands in
the neck for tuberculosis. This government inspector did not have
the manner of a man who was worked to death; he was apparently not
haunted by a fear that the hog might get by him before he had finished
his testing. If you were a sociable person, he was quite willing to
enter into conversation with you, and to explain to you the deadly
nature of the ptomaines which are found in tubercular pork; and
while he was talking with you you could hardly be so ungrateful as
to notice that a dozen carcasses were passing him untouched. This
inspector wore a blue uniform, with brass buttons, and he gave an
atmosphere of authority to the scene, and, as it were, put the stamp
of official approval upon the things which were done in Durham's.
  Jurgis went down the line with the rest of the visitors, staring
open-mouthed, lost in wonder. He had dressed hogs himself in the
forest of Lithuania; but he had never expected to live to see one
hog dressed by several hundred men. It was like a wonderful poem to
him, and he took it all in guilelessly- even to the conspicuous
signs demanding immaculate cleanliness of the employees. Jurgis was
vexed when the cynical Jokubas translated these signs with sarcastic
comments, offering to take them to the secret rooms where the
spoiled meats went to be doctored.
  The party descended to the next floor, where the various waste
materials were treated. Here came the entrails, to be scraped and
washed clean for sausage casings; men and women worked here in the
midst of a sickening stench, which caused the visitors to hasten by,
gasping. To another room came all the scraps to be "tanked," which
meant boiling and pumping off the grease to make soap and lard;
below they took out the refuse, and this, too, was a region in which
the visitors did not linger. In still other places men were engaged in
cutting up the carcasses that had been through the chilling rooms.
First there were the "splitters," the most expert workmen in the
plant, who earned as high as fifty cents an hour, and did not a
thing all day except chop hogs down the middle. Then there were
"cleaver men," great giants with muscles of iron; each had two men
to attend him- to slide the half carcass in front of him on the table,
and hold it while he chopped it, and then turn each piece so that he
might chop it once more. His cleaver had a blade about two feet
long, and he never made but one cut; he made it so neatly, too, that
his implement did not smite through and dull itself- there was just
enough force for a perfect cut, and no more. So through various
yawning holes there slipped to the floor below- to one room hams, to
another forequarters, to another sides of pork. One might go down to
this floor and see the pickling rooms, where the hams were put into
vats, and the great smoke rooms, with their airtight iron doors. In
other rooms they prepared salt pork- there were whole cellars full
of it, built up in great towers to the ceiling. In yet other rooms
they were putting up meats in boxes and barrels, and wrapping hams and
bacon in oiled paper, sealing and labeling and sewing them. From the
doors of these rooms went men with loaded trucks, to the platform
where freight cars were waiting to be filled; and one went out there
and realized with a start that he had come at last to the ground floor
of this enormous building.
  Then the party went across the street to where they did the
killing of beef- where every hour they turned four or five hundred
cattle into meat. Unlike the place they had left, all this work was
done on one floor; and instead of there being one line of carcasses
which moved to the workmen, there were fifteen or twenty lines, and
the men moved from one to another of these. This made a scene of
intense activity, a picture of human power wonderful to watch. It
was all in one great room, like a circus amphitheater, with a
gallery for visitors running over the center.
  Along one side of the room ran a narrow gallery, a few feet from the
floor; into which gallery the cattle were driven by men with goads
which gave them electric shocks. Once crowded in here, the creatures
were prisoned, each in a separate pen, by gates that shut, leaving
them no room to turn around; and while they stood bellowing and
plunging, over the top of the pen there leaned one of the
"knockers," armed with a sledge hammer, and watching for a chance to
deal a blow. The room echoed with the thuds in quick succession, and
the stamping and kicking of the steers. The instant the animal had
fallen, the "knocker" passed on to another; while a second man
raised a lever, and the side of the pen was raised, and the animal,
still kicking and struggling, slid out to the "killing bed." Here a
man put shackles about one leg, and pressed another lever, and the
body was jerked up into the air. There were fifteen or twenty such
pens, and it was a matter of only a couple of minutes to knock fifteen
or twenty cattle and roll them out. Then once more the gates were
opened, and another lot rushed in; and so out of each pen there rolled
a steady stream of carcasses, which the men upon the killing beds
had to get out of the way.
                                                   
  The manner in which they did this was something to be seen and never
forgotten. They worked with furious intensity, literally upon the run-
at a pace with which there is nothing to be compared except a football
game. It was all highly specialized labor, each man having his task to
do; generally this would consist of only two or three specific cuts,
and he would pass down the line of fifteen or twenty carcasses, making
these cuts upon each. First there came the "butcher," to bleed them;
this meant one swift stroke, so swift that you could not see it-
only the flash of the knife; and before you could realize it, the
man had darted on to the next line, and a stream of bright red was
pouring out upon the floor. This floor was half an inch deep with
blood, in spite of the best efforts of men who kept shoveling it
through holes; it must have made the floor slippery, but no one
could have guessed this by watching the men at work.
  The carcass hung for a few minutes to bleed; there was no time lost,
however, for there were several hanging in each line, and one was
always ready. It was let down to the ground, and there came the
"headsman," whose task it was to sever the head, with two or three
swift strokes. Then came the "floorsman," to make the first cut in the
skin; and then another to finish ripping the skin down the center; and
then half a dozen more in swift succession, to finish the skinning.
After they were through, the carcass was again swung up; and while a
man with a stick examined the skin, to make sure that it had not
been cut, and another rolled it up and tumbled it through one of the
inevitable holes in the floor, the beef proceeded on its journey.
There were men to cut it, and men to split it, and men to gut it and
scrape it clean inside. There were some with hose which threw jets
of boiling water upon it, and others who removed the feet and added
the final touches. In the end, as with the hogs, the finished beef was
run into the chilling room, to hang its appointed time.
  The visitors were taken there and shown them, all neatly hung in
rows, labeled conspicuously with the tags of the government
inspectors- and some, which had been killed by a special process,
marked with the sign of the kosher rabbi, certifying that it was fit
for sale to the orthodox. And then the visitors were taken to the
other parts of the building, to see what became of each particle of
the waste material that had vanished through the floor; and to the
pickling rooms, and the salting rooms, the canning rooms, and the
packing rooms, where choice meat was prepared for shipping in
refrigerator cars, destined to be eaten in all the four corners of
civilization. Afterward they went outside, wandering about among the
mazes of buildings in which was done the work auxiliary to this
great industry. There was scarcely a thing needed in the business that
Durham and Company did not make for themselves. There was a great
steam power plant and an electricity plant. There was a barrel
factory, and a boiler-repair shop. There was a building to which the
grease was piped, and made into soap and lard; and then there was a
factory for making lard cans, and another for making soap boxes. There
was a building in which the bristles were cleaned and dried, for the
making of hair cushions and such things; there was a building where
the skins were dried and tanned, there was another where heads and
feet were made into glue, and another where bones were made into
fertilizer. No tiniest particle of organic matter was wasted in
Durham's. Out of the horns of the cattle they made combs, buttons,
hairpins, and imitation ivory; out of the shinbones and other big
bones they cut knife and toothbrush handles, and mouthpieces for
pipes; out of the hoofs they cut hairpins and buttons, before they
made the rest into glue. From such things as feet, knuckles, hide
clippings, and sinews came such strange and unlikely products as
gelatin, isinglass, and phosphorus, bone black, shoe blacking, and
bone oil. They had curled-hair works for the cattle tails, and a "wool
pullery" for the sheepskins; they made pepsin from the stomachs of the
pigs, and albumen from the blood, and violin strings from the
ill-smelling entrails. When there was nothing else to be done with a
thing, they first put it into a tank and got out of it all the
tallow and grease, and then they made it into fertilizer. All these
industries were gathered into buildings near by, connected by
galleries and railroads with the main establishment; and it was
estimated that they had handled nearly a quarter of a billion of
animals since the founding of the plant by the elder Durham a
generation and more ago. If you counted with it the other big
plants- and they were now really all one- it was, so Jokubas
informed them, the greatest aggregation of labor and capital ever
gathered in one place. It employed thirty thousand men; it supported
directly two hundred and fifty thousand people in its neighborhood,
and indirectly it supported half a million. It sent its products to
every country in the civilized world, and it furnished the food for no
less than thirty million people!
  To all of these things our friends would listen open-mouthed- it
seemed to them impossible of belief that anything so stupendous
could have been devised by mortal man. That was why to Jurgis it
seemed almost profanity to speak about the place as did Jokubas,
skeptically; it was a thing as tremendous as the universe- the laws
and ways of its working no more than the universe to be questioned
or understood. All that a mere man could do, it seemed to Jurgis,
was to take a thing like this as he found it, and do as he was told;
to be given a place in it and a share in its wonderful activities
was a blessing to be grateful for, as one was grateful for the
sunshine and the rain. Jurgis was even glad that he had not seen the
place before meeting with his triumph, for he felt that the size of it
would have overwhelmed him. But now he had been admitted- he was a
part of it all! He had the feeling that this whole huge
establishment had taken him under its protection, and had become
responsible for his welfare. So guileless was he, and ignorant of
the nature of business, that he did not even realize that he had
become an employee of Brown's, and that Brown and Durham were supposed
by all the world to be deadly rivals- were even required to be
deadly rivals by the law of the land, and ordered to try to ruin
each other under penalty of fine and imprisonment!


                              Chapter 4
-
  Promptly at seven the next morning Jurgis reported for work. He came
to the door that had been pointed out to him, and there he waited
for nearly two hours. The boss had meant for him to enter, but had not
said this, and so it was only when on his way out to hire another
man that he came upon Jurgis. He gave him a good cursing, but as
Jurgis did not understand a word of it he did not object. He
followed the boss, who showed him where to put his street clothes, and
waited while he donned the working clothes he had bought in a
secondhand shop and brought with him in a bundle; then he led him to
the "killing beds." The work which Jurgis was to do here was very
simple, and it took him but a few minutes to learn it. He was provided
with a stiff besom, such as is used by street sweepers, and it was his
place to follow down the line the man who drew out the smoking
entrails from the carcass of the steer; this mass was to be swept into
a trap, which was then closed, so that no one might slip into it. As
Jurgis came in, the first cattle of the morning were just making their
appearance; and so, with scarcely time to look about him, and none
to speak to any one, he fell to work. It was a sweltering day in July,
and the place ran with steaming hot blood- one waded in it on the
floor. The stench was almost overpowering, but to Jurgis it was
nothing. His whole soul was dancing with joy- he was at work at
last! He was at work and earning money! All day long he was figuring
to himself. He was paid the fabulous sum of seventeen and a half cents
an hour; and as it proved a rush day and he worked until nearly
seven o'clock in the evening, he went home to the family with the
tidings that he had earned more than a dollar and a half in a single
day!
  At home, also, there was more good news; so much of it at once
that there was quite a celebration in Aniele's hall bedroom. Jonas had
been to have an interview with the special policeman to whom Szedvilas
had introduced him, and had been taken to see several of the bosses,
with the result that one had promised him a job the beginning of the
next week. And then there was Marija Berczynskas, who, fired with
jealousy by the success of Jurgis, had set out upon her own
responsibility to get a place. Marija had nothing to take with her
save her two brawny arms and the word "job," laboriously learned;
but with these she had marched about Packingtown all day, entering
every door where there were signs of activity. Out of some she had
been ordered with curses; but Marija was not afraid of man or devil,
and asked every one she saw- visitors and strangers, or workpeople
like herself, and once or twice even high and lofty office personages,
who stared at her as if they thought she was crazy. In the end,
however, she had reaped her reward. In one of the smaller plants she
had stumbled upon a room where scores of women and girls were
sitting at long tables preparing smoked beef in cans; and wandering
through room after room, Marija came at last to the place where the
sealed cans were being painted and labeled, and here she had the
good fortune to encounter the "forelady." Marija did not understand
then, as she was destined to understand later, what there was
attractive to a "forelady" about the combination of a face full of
boundless good nature and the muscles of a dray horse; but the woman
had told her to come the next day and she would perhaps give her a
chance to learn the trade of painting cans. The painting of cans being
skilled piecework, and paying as much as two dollars a day, Marija
burst in upon the family with the yell of a Comanche Indian, and
fell to capering about the room so as to frighten the baby almost into
convulsions.
  Better luck than all this could hardly have been hoped for; there
was only one of them left to seek a place. Jurgis was determined
that Teta Elzbieta should stay at home to keep house, and that Ona
should help her. He would not have Ona working- he was not that sort
of a man, he said, and she was not that sort of a woman. It would be a
strange thing if a man like him could not support the family, with the
help of the board of Jonas and Marija. He would not even hear of
letting the children go to work- there were schools here in America
for children, Jurgis had heard, to which they could go for nothing.
That the priest would object to these schools was something of which
he had as yet no idea, and for the present his mind was made up that
the children of Teta Elzbieta should have as fair a chance as any
other children. The oldest of them, little Stanislovas, was but
thirteen, and small for his age at that; and while the oldest son of
Szedvilas was only twelve, and had worked for over a year at
Jones's, Jurgis would have it that Stanislovas should learn to speak
English, and grow up to be a skilled man.
  So there was only old Dede Antanas; Jurgis would have had him rest
too, but he was forced to acknowledge that this was not possible, and,
besides, the old man would not hear it spoken of- it was his whim to
insist that he was as lively as any boy. He had come to America as
full of hope as the best of them; and now he was the chief problem
that worried his son. For every one that Jurgis spoke to assured him
that it was a waste of time to seek employment for the old man in
Packingtown. Szedvilas told him that the packers did not even keep the
men who had grown old in their own service- to say nothing of taking
on new ones. And not only was it the rule here, it was the rule
everywhere in America, so far as he knew. To satisfy Jurgis he had
asked the policeman, and brought back the message that the thing was
not to be thought of. They had not told this to old Anthony, who had
consequently spent the two days wandering about from one part of the
yards to another, and had now come home to hear about the triumph of
the others, smiling bravely and saying that it would be his turn
another day.
  Their good luck, they felt, had given them the right to think
about a home; and sitting out on the doorstep that summer evening,
they held consultation about it, and Jurgis took occasion to broach
a weighty subject. Passing down the avenue to work that morning he had
seen two boys leaving an advertisement from house to house; and seeing
that there were pictures upon it, Jurgis had asked for one, and had
rolled it up and tucked it into his shirt. At noontime a man with whom
he had been talking had read it to him and told him a little about it,
with the result that Jurgis had conceived a wild idea.
                                                    
  He brought out the placard, which was quite a work of art. It was
nearly two feet long, printed on calendered paper, with a selection of
colors so bright that they shone even in the moonlight. The center
of the placard was occupied by a house, brilliantly painted, new,
and dazzling. The roof of it was of a purple hue, and trimmed with
gold; the house itself was silvery, and the doors and windows red.
It was a two-story building, with a porch in front, and a very fancy
scrollwork around the edges; it was complete in every tiniest
detail, even the doorknob, and there was a hammock on the porch and
white lace curtains in the windows. Underneath this, in one corner,
was a picture of a husband and wife in loving embrace; in the opposite
corner was a cradle, with fluffy curtains drawn over it, and a smiling
cherub hovering upon silver-colored wings. For fear that the
significance of all this should be lost, there was a label, in Polish,
Lithuanian, and German- "Dom. Namai. Heim." "Why pay rent?" the
linguistic circular went on to demand. "Why not own your own home?
Do you know that you can buy one for less than your rent? We have
built thousands of homes which are now occupied by happy families."-
So it became eloquent, picturing the blissfulness of married life in a
house with nothing to pay. It even quoted "Home, Sweet Home," and made
bold to translate it into Polish- though for some reason it omitted
the Lithuanian of this. Perhaps the translator found it a difficult
matter to be sentimental in a language in which a sob is known as a
gukcziojimas and a smile as a nusiszypsojimas.
  Over this document the family pored long, while Ona spelled out
its contents. It appeared that this house contained four rooms,
besides a basement, and that it might be bought for fifteen hundred
dollars, the lot and all. Of this, only three hundred dollars- had
to be paid down, the balance being paid at the rate of twelve
dollars a month. These were frightful sums, but then they were in
America, where people talked about such without fear. They had learned
that they would have to pay a rent of nine dollars a month for a flat,
and there was no way of doing better, unless the family of twelve
was to exist in one or two rooms, as at present. If they paid rent, of
course, they might pay forever, and be no better off, whereas, if they
could only meet the extra expense in the beginning, there would at
last come a time when they would not have any rent to pay for the rest
of their lives.
  They figured it up. There was a little left of the money belonging
to Teta Elzbieta, and there was a little left to Jurgis. Marija had
about fifty dollars pinned up somewhere in her stockings, and
Grandfather Anthony had part of the money he had gotten for his
farm. If they all combined, they would have enough to make the first
payment; and if they had employment, so that they could be sure of the
future, it might really prove the best plan. It was, of course, not
a thing even to be talked of lightly; it was a thing they would have
to sift to the bottom. And yet, on the other hand, if they were
going to make the venture, the sooner they did it the better, for were
they not paying rent all the time, and living in a most horrible way
besides? Jurgis was used to dirt- there was nothing could scare a
man who had been with a railroad gang, where one could gather up the
fleas off the floor of the sleeping room by the handful. But that sort
of thing would not do for Ona. They must have a better place of some
sort soon- Jurgis said it with all the assurance of a man who had just
made a dollar and fifty-seven cents in a single day. Jurgis was at a
loss to understand why, with wages as they were, so many of the people
of this district should live the way they did.
  The next day Marija went to see her "forelady," and was told to
report the first of the week, and learn the business of can-painter.
Marija went home, singing out loud all the way, and was just in time
to join Ona and her stepmother as they were setting out to go and make
inquiry concerning the house. That evening the three made their report
to the men- the thing was altogether as represented in the circular,
or at any rate so the agent had said. The houses lay to the south,
about a mile and a half from the yards; they were wonderful
bargains, the gentleman had assured them- personally, and for their
own good. He could do this, so he explained to them, for the reason
that he had himself no interest in their sale- he was merely the agent
for a company that had built them. These were the last, and the
company was going out of business, so if any one wished to take
advantage of this wonderful no-rent plan, he would have to be very
quick. As a matter of fact there was just a little uncertainty as to
whether there was a single house left; for the agent had taken so many
people to see them, and for all he knew the company might have
parted with the last. Seeing Teta Elzbieta's evident grief at this
news, he added, after some hesitation, that if they really intended to
make a purchase, he would send a telephone message at his own expense,
and have one of the houses kept. So it had finally been arranged-
and they were to go and make an inspection the following Sunday
morning.
  That was Thursday; and all the rest of the week the killing gang
at Brown's worked at full pressure, and Jurgis cleared a dollar
seventy-five every day. That was at the rate of ten and one-half
dollars a week, or forty-five a month. Jurgis was not able to
figure, except it was a very simple sum, but Ona was like lightning at
such things, and she worked out the problem for the family. Marija and
Jonas were each to pay sixteen dollars a month board, and the old
man insisted that he could do the same as soon as he got a place-
which might be any day now. That would make ninety-three dollars. Then
Marija and Jonas were between them to take a third share in the house,
which would leave only eight dollars a month for Jurgis to
contribute to the payment. So they would have eighty-five dollars a
month- or, supposing that Dede Antanas did not get work at once,
seventy dollars a month- which ought surely to be sufficient for the
support of a family of twelve.
                                                   
  An hour before the time on Sunday morning the entire party set
out. They had the address written on a piece of paper, which they
showed to some one now and then. It proved to be a long mile and a
half, but they walked it, and half an hour or so later the agent put
in an appearance. He was a smooth and florid personage, elegantly
dressed, and he spoke their language freely, which gave him a great
advantage in dealing with them. He escorted them to the house, which
was one of a long row of the typical frame dwellings of the
neighborhood, where architecture is a luxury that is dispensed with.
Ona's heart sank, for the house was not as it was shown in the
picture; the color scheme was different, for one thing, and then it
did not seem quite so big. Still, it was freshly painted, and made a
considerable show. It was all brand-new, so the agent told them, but
he talked so incessantly that they were quite confused, and did not
have time to ask many questions. There were all sorts of things they
had made up their minds to inquire about, but when the time came, they
either forgot them or lacked the courage. The other houses in the
row did not seem to be new, and few of them seemed to be occupied.
When they ventured to hint at this, the agent's reply was that the
purchasers would b