The Jungle

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—and married to Jurgis,[1] 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.

[1] 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 the 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
snow-clad hills. They behold home landscapes and childhood scenes
returning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old joys and
griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some
beat upon the table. Now and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for
this song or that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius’ eyes,
and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away they
go in mad career. The company takes up the choruses, and men and women
cry out like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the
floor, lifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long it
occurs to some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the
beauty of the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of this
masterpiece Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables,
making his way toward the head, where sits the bride. There is not a
foot of space between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so
short that he pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the
low notes; but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his
companions must follow. During their progress, needless to say, the
sounds of the cello are pretty well extinguished; but at last the three
are at the head, and Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of
the bride and begins to pour out his soul in melting strains.

Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little
something, when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but,
for the most part, she sits gazing with the same fearful eyes of
wonder. Teta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a hummingbird; her
sisters, too, keep running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But
Ona seems scarcely to hear them—the music keeps calling, and the
far-off look comes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together
over her heart. Then the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she
is ashamed to wipe them away, and ashamed to let them run down her
cheeks, she turns and shakes her head a little, and then flushes red
when she sees that Jurgis is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius
Kuszleika has reached her side, and is waving his magic wand above her,
Ona’s cheeks are scarlet, and she looks as if she would have to get up
and run away.

In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom the
muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers’
parting; she wishes to hear it, and, as the musicians do not know it,
she has risen, and is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but
powerful in build. She works in a canning factory, and all day long she
handles cans of beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad Slavic
face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it is
tragical, but you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue
flannel shirt-waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing
her brawny arms; she has a carving fork in her hand, with which she
pounds on the table to mark the time. As she roars her song, in a voice
of which it is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room
vacant, the three musicians follow her, laboriously and note by note,
but averaging one note behind; thus they toil through stanza after
stanza of a lovesick swain’s lamentation:—

“Sudiev’ kvietkeli, tu brangiausis;
Sudiev’ ir laime, man biednam,
Matau—paskyre teip Aukszcziausis,
Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!”

When the song is over, it is time for the speech, and old Dede Antanas
rises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis’ father, is not more
than sixty years of age, but you would think that he was eighty. He has
been only six months in America, and the change has not done him good.
In his manhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing fell
upon him, and he had to leave; out in the country the trouble
disappeared, but he has been working in the pickle rooms at Durham’s,
and the breathing of the cold, damp air all day has brought it back.
Now as he rises he is seized with a coughing fit, and holds himself by
his chair and turns away his wan and battered face until it passes.

Generally it is the custom for the speech at a veselija to be taken
out of one of the books and learned by heart; but in his youthful days
Dede Antanas used to be a scholar, and really make up all the love
letters of his friends. Now it is understood that he has composed an
original speech of congratulation and benediction, and this is one of
the events of the day. Even the boys, who are romping about the room,
draw near and listen, and some of the women sob and wipe their aprons
in their eyes. It is very solemn, for Antanas Rudkus has become
possessed of the idea that he has not much longer to stay with his
children. His speech leaves them all so tearful that one of the guests,
Jokubas Szedvilas, who keeps a delicatessen store on Halsted Street,
and is fat and hearty, is moved to rise and say that things may not be
as bad as that, and then to go on and make a little speech of his own,
in which he showers congratulations and prophecies of happiness upon
the bride and groom, proceeding to particulars which greatly delight
the young men, but which cause Ona to blush more furiously than ever.
Jokubas possesses what his wife complacently describes as “poetiszka
vaidintuve”—a poetical imagination.

Now a good many of the guests have finished, and, since there is no
pretense of ceremony, the banquet begins to break up. Some of the men
gather about the bar; some wander about, laughing and singing; here and
there will be a little group, chanting merrily, and in sublime
indifference to the others and to the orchestra as well. Everybody is
more or less restless—one would guess that something is on their minds.
And so it proves. The last tardy diners are scarcely given time to
finish, before the tables and the debris are shoved into the corner,
and the chairs and the babies piled out of the way, and the real
celebration of the evening begins. Then Tamoszius Kuszleika, after
replenishing himself with a pot of beer, returns to his platform, and,
standing up, reviews the scene; he taps authoritatively upon the side
of his violin, then tucks it carefully under his chin, then waves his
bow in an elaborate flourish, and finally smites the sounding strings
and closes his eyes, and floats away in spirit upon the wings of a
dreamy waltz. His companion follows, but with his eyes open, watching
where he treads, so to speak; and finally Valentinavyczia, after
waiting for a little and beating with his foot to get the time, casts
up his eyes to the ceiling and begins to saw—“Broom! broom! broom!”

The company pairs off quickly, and the whole room is soon in motion.
Apparently nobody knows how to waltz, but that is nothing of any
consequence—there is music, and they dance, each as he pleases, just as
before they sang. Most of them prefer the “two-step,” especially the
young, with whom it is the fashion. The older people have dances from
home, strange and complicated steps which they execute with grave
solemnity. Some do not dance anything at all, but simply hold each
other’s hands and allow the undisciplined joy of motion to express
itself with their feet. Among these are Jokubas Szedvilas and his wife,
Lucija, who together keep the delicatessen store, and consume nearly as
much as they sell; they are too fat to dance, but they stand in the
middle of the floor, holding each other fast in their arms, rocking
slowly from side to side and grinning seraphically, a picture of
toothless and perspiring ecstasy.

Of these older people many wear clothing reminiscent in some detail of
home—an embroidered waistcoat or stomacher, or a gaily colored
handkerchief, or a coat with large cuffs and fancy buttons. All these
things are carefully avoided by the young, most of whom have learned to
speak English and to affect the latest style of clothing. The girls
wear ready-made dresses or shirt waists, and some of them look quite
pretty. Some of the young men you would take to be Americans, of the
type of clerks, but for the fact that they wear their hats in the room.
Each of these younger couples affects a style of its own in dancing.
Some hold each other tightly, some at a cautious distance. Some hold
their hands out stiffly, some drop them loosely at their sides. Some
dance springily, some glide softly, some move with grave dignity. There
are boisterous couples, who tear wildly about the room, knocking every
one out of their way. There are nervous couples, whom these frighten,
and who cry, “Nusfok! Kas yra?” at them as they pass. Each couple is
paired for the evening—you will never see them change about. There is
Alena Jasaityte, for instance, who has danced unending hours with
Juozas Raczius, to whom she is engaged. Alena is the beauty of the
evening, and she would be really beautiful if she were not so proud.
She wears a white shirtwaist, which represents, perhaps, half a week’s
labor painting cans. She holds her skirt with her hand as she dances,
with stately precision, after the manner of the grandes dames. Juozas
is driving one of Durham’s wagons, and is making big wages. He affects
a “tough” aspect, wearing his hat on one side and keeping a cigarette
in his mouth all the evening. Then there is Jadvyga Marcinkus, who is
also beautiful, but humble. Jadvyga likewise paints cans, but then she
has an invalid mother and three little sisters to support by it, and so
she does not spend her wages for shirtwaists. Jadvyga is small and
delicate, with jet-black eyes and hair, the latter twisted into a
little knot and tied on the top of her head. She wears an old white
dress which she has made herself and worn to parties for the past five
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 places—and 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 thrown off the track, so to speak, by the
stupidity of those thrice accursed musicians. Each time, Marija would
emit a howl and fly at them, shaking her fists in their faces, stamping
upon the floor, purple and incoherent with rage. In vain the frightened
Tamoszius would attempt to speak, to plead the limitations of the
flesh; in vain would the puffing and breathless ponas Jokubas insist,
in vain would Teta Elzbieta implore. “Szalin!” Marija would scream.
“Palauk! isz kelio! What are you paid for, children of hell?” And so,
in sheer terror, the orchestra would strike up again, and Marija would
return to her place and take up her task.

She bore all the burden of the festivities now. Ona was kept up by her
excitement, but all of the women and most of the men were tired—the
soul of Marija was alone unconquered. She drove on the dancers—what had
once been the ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at the
stem, pulling one way and pushing the other, shouting, stamping,
singing, a very volcano of energy. Now and then some one coming in or
out would leave the door open, and the night air was chill; Marija as
she passed would stretch out her foot and kick the doorknob, and slam
would go the door! Once this procedure was the cause of a calamity of
which Sebastijonas Szedvilas was the hapless victim. Little
Sebastijonas, aged three, had been wandering about oblivious to all
things, holding turned up over his mouth a bottle of liquid known as
“pop,” pink-colored, ice-cold, and delicious. Passing through the
doorway the door smote him full, and the shriek which followed brought
the dancing to a halt. Marija, who threatened horrid murder a hundred
times a day, and would weep over the injury of a fly, seized little
Sebastijonas in her arms and bid fair to smother him with kisses. There
was a long rest for the orchestra, and plenty of refreshments, while
Marija was making her peace with her victim, seating him upon the bar,
and standing beside him and holding to his lips a foaming schooner of
beer.

In the meantime there was going on in another corner of the room an
anxious conference between Teta Elzbieta and Dede Antanas, and a few of
the more intimate friends of the family. A trouble was come upon them.
The veselija is a compact, a compact not expressed, but therefore
only the more binding upon all. Every one’s share was different—and yet
every one knew perfectly well what his share was, and strove to give a
little more. Now, however, since they had come to the new country, all
this was changing; it seemed as if there must be some subtle poison in
the air that one breathed here—it was affecting all the young men at
once. They would come in crowds and fill themselves with a fine dinner,
and then sneak off. One would throw another’s hat out of the window,
and both would go out to get it, and neither could be seen again. Or
now and then half a dozen of them would get together and march out
openly, staring at you, and making fun of you to your face. Still
others, worse yet, would crowd about the bar, and at the expense of the
host drink themselves sodden, paying not the least attention to any
one, and leaving it to be thought that either they had danced with the
bride already, or meant to later on.

All these things were going on now, and the family was helpless with
dismay. So long they had toiled, and such an outlay they had made! Ona
stood by, her eyes wide with terror. Those frightful bills—how they had
haunted her, each item gnawing at her soul all day and spoiling her
rest at night. How often she had named them over one by one and figured
on them as she went to work—fifteen dollars for the hall, twenty-two
dollars and a quarter for the ducks, twelve dollars for the musicians,
five dollars at the church, and a blessing of the Virgin besides—and so
on without an end! Worst of all was the frightful bill that was still
to come from Graiczunas for the beer and liquor that might be consumed.
One could never get in advance more than a guess as to this from a
saloon-keeper—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 saloon-keeper
stood in with all the big politics men in the district; and when you
had once found out what it meant to get into trouble with such people,
you would know enough to pay what you were told to pay and shut up.

What made all this the more painful was that it was so hard on the few
that had really done their best. There was poor old ponas Jokubas, for
instance—he had already given five dollars, and did not every one know
that Jokubas Szedvilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for
two hundred dollars to meet several months’ overdue rent? And then
there was withered old poni Aniele—who was a widow, and had three
children, and the rheumatism besides, and did washing for the
tradespeople on Halsted Street at prices it would break your heart to
hear named. Aniele had given the entire profit of her chickens for
several months. Eight of them she owned, and she kept them in a little
place fenced around on her backstairs. All day long the children of
Aniele were raking in the dump for food for these chickens; and
sometimes, when the competition there was too fierce, you might see
them on Halsted Street walking close to the gutters, and with their
mother following to see that no one robbed them of their finds. Money
could not tell the value of these chickens to old Mrs. Jukniene—she
valued them differently, for she had a feeling that she was getting
something for nothing by means of them—that with them she was getting
the better of a world that was getting the better of her in so many
other ways. So she watched them every hour of the day, and had learned
to see like an owl at night to watch them then. One of them had been
stolen long ago, and not a month passed that some one did not try to
steal another. As the frustrating of this one attempt involved a score
of false alarms, it will be understood what a tribute old Mrs. Jukniene
brought, just because Teta Elzbieta had once loaned her some money for
a few days and saved her from being turned out of her house.

More and more friends gathered round while the lamentation about these
things was going on. Some drew nearer, hoping to overhear the
conversation, who were themselves among the guilty—and surely that was
a thing to try the patience of a saint. Finally there came Jurgis,
urged by some one, and the story was retold to him. Jurgis listened in
silence, with his great black eyebrows knitted. Now and then there
would come a gleam underneath them and he would glance about the room.
Perhaps he would have liked to go at some of those fellows with his big
clenched fists; but then, doubtless, he realized how little good it
would do him. No bill would be any less for turning out any one at this
time; and then there would be the scandal—and Jurgis wanted nothing
except to get away with Ona and to let the world go its own way. So his
hands relaxed and he merely said quietly: “It is done, and there is no
use in weeping, Teta Elzbieta.” Then his look turned toward Ona, who
stood close to his side, and he saw the wide look of terror in her
eyes. “Little one,” he said, in a low voice, “do not worry—it will not
matter to us. We will pay them all somehow. I will work harder.” That
was always what Jurgis said. Ona had grown used to it as the solution
of all difficulties—“I will work harder!” He had said that in Lithuania
when one official had taken his passport from him, and another had
arrested him for being without it, and the two had divided a third of
his belongings. He had said it again in New York, when the
smooth-spoken agent had taken them in hand and made them pay such high
prices, and almost prevented their leaving his place, in spite of their
paying. Now he said it a third time, and Ona drew a deep breath; it was
so wonderful to have a husband, just like a grown woman—and a husband
who could solve all problems, and who was so big and strong!

The last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled, and the orchestra
has once more been reminded of its duty. The ceremony begins again—but
there are few now left to dance with, and so very soon the collection
is over and promiscuous dances once more begin. It is now after
midnight, however, and things are not as they were before. The dancers
are dull and heavy—most of them have been drinking hard, and have long
ago passed the stage of exhilaration. They dance in monotonous measure,
round after round, hour after hour, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, as if
they were only half conscious, in a constantly growing stupor. The men
grasp the women very tightly, but there will be half an hour together
when neither will see the other’s face. Some couples do not care to
dance, and have retired to the corners, where they sit with their arms
enlaced. Others, who have been drinking still more, wander about the
room, bumping into everything; some are in groups of two or three,
singing, each group its own song. As time goes on there is a variety of
drunkenness, among the younger men especially. Some stagger about in
each other’s arms, whispering maudlin words—others start quarrels upon
the slightest pretext, and come to blows and have to be pulled apart.
Now the fat policeman wakens definitely, and feels of his club to see
that it is ready for business. He has to be prompt—for these
two-o’clock-in-the-morning fights, if they once get out of hand, are
like a forest fire, and may mean the whole reserves at the station. The
thing to do is to crack every fighting head that you see, before there
are so many fighting heads that you cannot crack any of them. There is
but scant account kept of cracked heads in back of the yards, for men
who have to crack the heads of animals all day seem to get into the
habit, and to practice on their friends, and even on their families,
between times. This makes it a cause for congratulation that by modern
methods a very few men can do the painfully necessary work of
head-cracking for the whole of the cultured world.

There is no fight that night—perhaps because Jurgis, too, is
watchful—even more so than the policeman. Jurgis has drunk a great
deal, as any one naturally would on an occasion when it all has to be
paid for, whether it is drunk or not; but he is a very steady man, and
does not easily lose his temper. Only once there is a tight shave—and
that is the fault of Marija Berczynskas. Marija has apparently
concluded about two hours ago that if the altar in the corner, with the
deity in soiled white, be not the true home of the muses, it is, at any
rate, the nearest substitute on earth attainable. And Marija is just
fighting drunk when there come to her ears the facts about the villains
who have not paid that night. Marija goes on the warpath straight off,
without even the preliminary of a good cursing, and when she is pulled
off it is with the coat collars of two villains in her hands.
Fortunately, the policeman is disposed to be reasonable, and so it is
not Marija who is flung out of the place.

All this interrupts the music for not more than a minute or two. Then
again the merciless tune begins—the tune that has been played for the
last half-hour without one single change. It is an American tune this
time, one which they have picked up on the streets; all seem to know
the words of it—or, at any rate, the first line of it, which they hum
to themselves, over and over again without rest: “In the good old
summertime—in the good old summertime! In the good old summertime—in
the good old summertime!” There seems to be something hypnotic about
this, with its endlessly recurring dominant. It has put a stupor upon
every one who hears it, as well as upon the men who are playing it. No
one can get away from it, or even think of getting away from it; it is
three o’clock in the morning, and they have danced out all their joy,
and danced out all their strength, and all the strength that unlimited
drink can lend them—and still there is no one among them who has the
power to think of stopping. Promptly at seven o’clock this same Monday
morning they will every one of them have to be in their places at
Durham’s or Brown’s or Jones’s, each in his working clothes. If one of
them be a minute late, he will be docked an hour’s pay, and if he be
many minutes late, he will be apt to find his brass check turned to the
wall, which will send him out to join the hungry mob that waits every
morning at the gates of the packing houses, from six o’clock until
nearly half-past eight. There is no exception to this rule, not even
little Ona—who has asked for a holiday the day after her wedding day, a
holiday without pay, and been refused. While there are so many who are
anxious to work as you wish, there is no occasion for incommoding
yourself with those who must work otherwise.

Little Ona is nearly ready to faint—and half in a stupor herself,
because of the heavy scent in the room. She has not taken a drop, but
every one else there is literally burning alcohol, as the lamps are
burning oil; some of the men who are sound asleep in their chairs or on
the floor are reeking of it so that you cannot go near them. Now and
then Jurgis gazes at her hungrily—he has long since forgotten his
shyness; but then the crowd is there, and he still waits and watches
the door, where a carriage is supposed to come. It does not, and
finally he will wait no longer, but comes up to Ona, who turns white
and trembles. He puts her shawl about her and then his own coat. They
live only two blocks away, and Jurgis does not care about the carriage.

There is almost no farewell—the dancers do not notice them, and all of
the children and many of the old folks have fallen asleep of sheer
exhaustion. Dede Antanas is asleep, and so are the Szedvilases, husband
and wife, the former snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and
Marija, sobbing loudly; and then there is only the silent night, with
the stars beginning to pale a little in the east. Jurgis, without a
word, lifts Ona in his arms, and strides out with her, and she sinks
her head upon his shoulder with a moan. When he reaches home he is not
sure whether she has fainted or is asleep, but when he has to hold her
with one hand while he unlocks the door, he sees that she has opened
her eyes.

“You shall not go to Brown’s today, little one,” he whispers, as he
climbs the stairs; and she catches his arm in terror, gasping: “No! No!
I dare not! It will ruin us!”

But he answers her again: “Leave it to me; leave it to me. I will earn
more money—I will work harder.”