The Jungle

hat was the way they did it! There was not half an hour’s warning—the
works were closed! It had happened that way before, said the men, and
it would happen that way forever. They had made all the harvesting
machines that the world needed, and now they had to wait till some wore
out! It was nobody’s fault—that was the way of it; and thousands of men
and women were turned out in the dead of winter, to live upon their
savings if they had any, and otherwise to die. So many tens of
thousands already in the city, homeless and begging for work, and now
several thousand more added to them!

Jurgis walked home-with his pittance of pay in his pocket, heartbroken,
overwhelmed. One more bandage had been torn from his eyes, one more
pitfall was revealed to him! Of what help was kindness and decency on
the part of employers—when they could not keep a job for him, when
there were more harvesting machines made than the world was able to
buy! What a hellish mockery it was, anyway, that a man should slave to
make harvesting machines for the country, only to be turned out to
starve for doing his duty too well!

It took him two days to get over this heart-sickening disappointment.
He did not drink anything, because Elzbieta got his money for
safekeeping, and knew him too well to be in the least frightened by his
angry demands. He stayed up in the garret however, and sulked—what was
the use of a man’s hunting a job when it was taken from him before he
had time to learn the work? But then their money was going again, and
little Antanas was hungry, and crying with the bitter cold of the
garret. Also Madame Haupt, the midwife, was after him for some money.
So he went out once more.

For another ten days he roamed the streets and alleys of the huge city,
sick and hungry, begging for any work. He tried in stores and offices,
in restaurants and hotels, along the docks and in the railroad yards,
in warehouses and mills and factories where they made products that
went to every corner of the world. There were often one or two
chances—but there were always a hundred men for every chance, and his
turn would not come. At night he crept into sheds and cellars and
doorways—until there came a spell of belated winter weather, with a
raging gale, and the thermometer five degrees below zero at sundown and
falling all night. Then Jurgis fought like a wild beast to get into the
big Harrison Street police station, and slept down in a corridor,
crowded with two other men upon a single step.

He had to fight often in these days to fight for a place near the
factory gates, and now and again with gangs on the street. He found,
for instance, that the business of carrying satchels for railroad
passengers was a pre-empted one—whenever he essayed it, eight or ten
men and boys would fall upon him and force him to run for his life.
They always had the policeman “squared,” and so there was no use in
expecting protection.

That Jurgis did not starve to death was due solely to the pittance the
children brought him. And even this was never certain. For one thing
the cold was almost more than the children could bear; and then they,
too, were in perpetual peril from rivals who plundered and beat them.
The law was against them, too—little Vilimas, who was really eleven,
but did not look to be eight, was stopped on the streets by a severe
old lady in spectacles, who told him that he was too young to be
working and that if he did not stop selling papers she would send a
truant officer after him. Also one night a strange man caught little
Kotrina by the arm and tried to persuade her into a dark cellar-way, an
experience which filled her with such terror that she was hardly to be
kept at work.

At last, on a Sunday, as there was no use looking for work, Jurgis went
home by stealing rides on the cars. He found that they had been waiting
for him for three days—there was a chance of a job for him.

It was quite a story. Little Juozapas, who was near crazy with hunger
these days, had gone out on the street to beg for himself. Juozapas had
only one leg, having been run over by a wagon when a little child, but
he had got himself a broomstick, which he put under his arm for a
crutch. He had fallen in with some other children and found the way to
Mike Scully’s dump, which lay three or four blocks away. To this place
there came every day many hundreds of wagon-loads of garbage and trash
from the lake front, where the rich people lived; and in the heaps the
children raked for food—there were hunks of bread and potato peelings
and apple cores and meat bones, all of it half frozen and quite
unspoiled. Little Juozapas gorged himself, and came home with a
newspaper full, which he was feeding to Antanas when his mother came
in. Elzbieta was horrified, for she did not believe that the food out
of the dumps was fit to eat. The next day, however, when no harm came
of it and Juozapas began to cry with hunger, she gave in and said that
he might go again. And that afternoon he came home with a story of how
while he had been digging away with a stick, a lady upon the street had
called him. A real fine lady, the little boy explained, a beautiful
lady; and she wanted to know all about him, and whether he got the
garbage for chickens, and why he walked with a broomstick, and why Ona
had died, and how Jurgis had come to go to jail, and what was the
matter with Marija, and everything. In the end she had asked where he
lived, and said that she was coming to see him, and bring him a new
crutch to walk with. She had on a hat with a bird upon it, Juozapas
added, and a long fur snake around her neck.

She really came, the very next morning, and climbed the ladder to the
garret, and stood and stared about her, turning pale at the sight of
the blood stains on the floor where Ona had died. She was a “settlement
worker,” she explained to Elzbieta—she lived around on Ashland Avenue.
Elzbieta knew the place, over a feed store; somebody had wanted her to
go there, but she had not cared to, for she thought that it must have
something to do with religion, and the priest did not like her to have
anything to do with strange religions. They were rich people who came
to live there to find out about the poor people; but what good they
expected it would do them to know, one could not imagine. So spoke
Elzbieta, naïvely, and the young lady laughed and was rather at a loss
for an answer—she stood and gazed about her, and thought of a cynical
remark that had been made to her, that she was standing upon the brink
of the pit of hell and throwing in snowballs to lower the temperature.

Elzbieta was glad to have somebody to listen, and she told all their
woes—what had happened to Ona, and the jail, and the loss of their
home, and Marija’s accident, and how Ona had died, and how Jurgis could
get no work. As she listened the pretty young lady’s eyes filled with
tears, and in the midst of it she burst into weeping and hid her face
on Elzbieta’s shoulder, quite regardless of the fact that the woman had
on a dirty old wrapper and that the garret was full of fleas. Poor
Elzbieta was ashamed of herself for having told so woeful a tale, and
the other had to beg and plead with her to get her to go on. The end of
it was that the young lady sent them a basket of things to eat, and
left a letter that Jurgis was to take to a gentleman who was
superintendent in one of the mills of the great steelworks in South
Chicago. “He will get Jurgis something to do,” the young lady had said,
and added, smiling through her tears—“If he doesn’t, he will never
marry me.”

The steel-works were fifteen miles away, and as usual it was so
contrived that one had to pay two fares to get there. Far and wide the
sky was flaring with the red glare that leaped from rows of towering
chimneys—for it was pitch dark when Jurgis arrived. The vast works, a
city in themselves, were surrounded by a stockade; and already a full
hundred men were waiting at the gate where new hands were taken on.
Soon after daybreak whistles began to blow, and then suddenly thousands
of men appeared, streaming from saloons and boardinghouses across the
way, leaping from trolley cars that passed—it seemed as if they rose
out of the ground, in the dim gray light. A river of them poured in
through the gate—and then gradually ebbed away again, until there were
only a few late ones running, and the watchman pacing up and down, and
the hungry strangers stamping and shivering.

Jurgis presented his precious letter. The gatekeeper was surly, and put
him through a catechism, but he insisted that he knew nothing, and as
he had taken the precaution to seal his letter, there was nothing for
the gatekeeper to do but send it to the person to whom it was
addressed. A messenger came back to say that Jurgis should wait, and so
he came inside of the gate, perhaps not sorry enough that there were
others less fortunate watching him with greedy eyes. The great mills
were getting under way—one could hear a vast stirring, a rolling and
rumbling and hammering. Little by little the scene grew plain:
towering, black buildings here and there, long rows of shops and sheds,
little railways branching everywhere, bare gray cinders underfoot and
oceans of billowing black smoke above. On one side of the grounds ran a
railroad with a dozen tracks, and on the other side lay the lake, where
steamers came to load.

Jurgis had time enough to stare and speculate, for it was two hours
before he was summoned. He went into the office building, where a
company timekeeper interviewed him. The superintendent was busy, he
said, but he (the timekeeper) would try to find Jurgis a job. He had
never worked in a steel mill before? But he was ready for anything?
Well, then, they would go and see.

So they began a tour, among sights that made Jurgis stare amazed. He
wondered if ever he could get used to working in a place like this,
where the air shook with deafening thunder, and whistles shrieked
warnings on all sides of him at once; where miniature steam engines
came rushing upon him, and sizzling, quivering, white-hot masses of
metal sped past him, and explosions of fire and flaming sparks dazzled
him and scorched his face. The men in these mills were all black with
soot, and hollow-eyed and gaunt; they worked with fierce intensity,
rushing here and there, and never lifting their eyes from their tasks.
Jurgis clung to his guide like a scared child to its nurse, and while
the latter hailed one foreman after another to ask if they could use
another unskilled man, he stared about him and marveled.

He was taken to the Bessemer furnace, where they made billets of
steel—a dome-like building, the size of a big theater. Jurgis stood
where the balcony of the theater would have been, and opposite, by the
stage, he saw three giant caldrons, big enough for all the devils of
hell to brew their broth in, full of something white and blinding,
bubbling and splashing, roaring as if volcanoes were blowing through
it—one had to shout to be heard in the place. Liquid fire would leap
from these caldrons and scatter like bombs below—and men were working
there, seeming careless, so that Jurgis caught his breath with fright.
Then a whistle would toot, and across the curtain of the theater would
come a little engine with a carload of something to be dumped into one
of the receptacles; and then another whistle would toot, down by the
stage, and another train would back up—and suddenly, without an
instant’s warning, one of the giant kettles began to tilt and topple,
flinging out a jet of hissing, roaring flame. Jurgis shrank back
appalled, for he thought it was an accident; there fell a pillar of
white flame, dazzling as the sun, swishing like a huge tree falling in
the forest. A torrent of sparks swept all the way across the building,
overwhelming everything, hiding it from sight; and then Jurgis looked
through the fingers of his hands, and saw pouring out of the caldron a
cascade of living, leaping fire, white with a whiteness not of earth,
scorching the eyeballs. Incandescent rainbows shone above it, blue,
red, and golden lights played about it; but the stream itself was
white, ineffable. Out of regions of wonder it streamed, the very river
of life; and the soul leaped up at the sight of it, fled back upon it,
swift and resistless, back into far-off lands, where beauty and terror
dwell. Then the great caldron tilted back again, empty, and Jurgis saw
to his relief that no one was hurt, and turned and followed his guide
out into the sunlight.

They went through the blast furnaces, through rolling mills where bars
of steel were tossed about and chopped like bits of cheese. All around
and above giant machine arms were flying, giant wheels were turning,
great hammers crashing; traveling cranes creaked and groaned overhead,
reaching down iron hands and seizing iron prey—it was like standing in
the center of the earth, where the machinery of time was revolving.

By and by they came to the place where steel rails were made; and
Jurgis heard a toot behind him, and jumped out of the way of a car with
a white-hot ingot upon it, the size of a man’s body. There was a sudden
crash and the car came to a halt, and the ingot toppled out upon a
moving platform, where steel fingers and arms seized hold of it,
punching it and prodding it into place, and hurrying it into the grip
of huge rollers. Then it came out upon the other side, and there were
more crashings and clatterings, and over it was flopped, like a pancake
on a gridiron, and seized again and rushed back at you through another
squeezer. So amid deafening uproar it clattered to and fro, growing
thinner and flatter and longer. The ingot seemed almost a living thing;
it did not want to run this mad course, but it was in the grip of fate,
it was tumbled on, screeching and clanking and shivering in protest. By
and by it was long and thin, a great red snake escaped from purgatory;
and then, as it slid through the rollers, you would have sworn that it
was alive—it writhed and squirmed, and wriggles and shudders passed out
through its tail, all but flinging it off by their violence. There was
no rest for it until it was cold and black—and then it needed only to
be cut and straightened to be ready for a railroad.

It was at the end of this rail’s progress that Jurgis got his chance.
They had to be moved by men with crowbars, and the boss here could use
another man. So he took off his coat and set to work on the spot.

It took him two hours to get to this place every day and cost him a
dollar and twenty cents a week. As this was out of the question, he
wrapped his bedding in a bundle and took it with him, and one of his
fellow workingmen introduced him to a Polish lodging-house, where he
might have the privilege of sleeping upon the floor for ten cents a
night. He got his meals at free-lunch counters, and every Saturday
night he went home—bedding and all—and took the greater part of his
money to the family. Elzbieta was sorry for this arrangement, for she
feared that it would get him into the habit of living without them, and
once a week was not very often for him to see his baby; but there was
no other way of arranging it. There was no chance for a woman at the
steelworks, and Marija was now ready for work again, and lured on from
day to day by the hope of finding it at the yards.

In a week Jurgis got over his sense of helplessness and bewilderment in
the rail mill. He learned to find his way about and to take all the
miracles and terrors for granted, to work without hearing the rumbling
and crashing. From blind fear he went to the other extreme; he became
reckless and indifferent, like all the rest of the men, who took but
little thought of themselves in the ardor of their work. It was
wonderful, when one came to think of it, that these men should have
taken an interest in the work they did—they had no share in it—they
were paid by the hour, and paid no more for being interested. Also they
knew that if they were hurt they would be flung aside and forgotten—and
still they would hurry to their task by dangerous short cuts, would use
methods that were quicker and more effective in spite of the fact that
they were also risky. His fourth day at his work Jurgis saw a man
stumble while running in front of a car, and have his foot mashed off,
and before he had been there three weeks he was witness of a yet more
dreadful accident. There was a row of brick furnaces, shining white
through every crack with the molten steel inside. Some of these were
bulging dangerously, yet men worked before them, wearing blue glasses
when they opened and shut the doors. One morning as Jurgis was passing,
a furnace blew out, spraying two men with a shower of liquid fire. As
they lay screaming and rolling upon the ground in agony, Jurgis rushed
to help them, and as a result he lost a good part of the skin from the
inside of one of his hands. The company doctor bandaged it up, but he
got no other thanks from any one, and was laid up for eight working
days without any pay.

Most fortunately, at this juncture, Elzbieta got the long-awaited
chance to go at five o’clock in the morning and help scrub the office
floors of one of the packers. Jurgis came home and covered himself with
blankets to keep warm, and divided his time between sleeping and
playing with little Antanas. Juozapas was away raking in the dump a
good part of the time, and Elzbieta and Marija were hunting for more
work.

Antanas was now over a year and a half old, and was a perfect talking
machine. He learned so fast that every week when Jurgis came home it
seemed to him as if he had a new child. He would sit down and listen
and stare at him, and give vent to delighted exclamations—“Palauk!
Muma! Tu mano szirdele!” The little fellow was now really the one
delight that Jurgis had in the world—his one hope, his one victory.
Thank God, Antanas was a boy! And he was as tough as a pine knot, and
with the appetite of a wolf. Nothing had hurt him, and nothing could
hurt him; he had come through all the suffering and deprivation
unscathed—only shriller-voiced and more determined in his grip upon
life. He was a terrible child to manage, was Antanas, but his father
did not mind that—he would watch him and smile to himself with
satisfaction. The more of a fighter he was the better—he would need to
fight before he got through.

Jurgis had got the habit of buying the Sunday paper whenever he had the
money; a most wonderful paper could be had for only five cents, a whole
armful, with all the news of the world set forth in big headlines, that
Jurgis could spell out slowly, with the children to help him at the
long words. There was battle and murder and sudden death—it was
marvelous how they ever heard about so many entertaining and thrilling
happenings; the stories must be all true, for surely no man could have
made such things up, and besides, there were pictures of them all, as
real as life. One of these papers was as good as a circus, and nearly
as good as a spree—certainly a most wonderful treat for a workingman,
who was tired out and stupefied, and had never had any education, and
whose work was one dull, sordid grind, day after day, and year after
year, with never a sight of a green field nor an hour’s entertainment,
nor anything but liquor to stimulate his imagination. Among other
things, these papers had pages full of comical pictures, and these were
the main joy in life to little Antanas. He treasured them up, and would
drag them out and make his father tell him about them; there were all
sorts of animals among them, and Antanas could tell the names of all of
them, lying upon the floor for hours and pointing them out with his
chubby little fingers. Whenever the story was plain enough for Jurgis
to make out, Antanas would have it repeated to him, and then he would
remember it, prattling funny little sentences and mixing it up with
other stories in an irresistible fashion. Also his quaint pronunciation
of words was such a delight—and the phrases he would pick up and
remember, the most outlandish and impossible things! The first time
that the little rascal burst out with “God damn,” his father nearly
rolled off the chair with glee; but in the end he was sorry for this,
for Antanas was soon “God-damning” everything and everybody.

And then, when he was able to use his hands, Jurgis took his bedding
again and went back to his task of shifting rails. It was now April,
and the snow had given place to cold rains, and the unpaved street in
front of Aniele’s house was turned into a canal. Jurgis would have to
wade through it to get home, and if it was late he might easily get
stuck to his waist in the mire. But he did not mind this much—it was a
promise that summer was coming. Marija had now gotten a place as
beef-trimmer in one of the smaller packing plants; and he told himself
that he had learned his lesson now, and would meet with no more
accidents—so that at last there was prospect of an end to their long
agony. They could save money again, and when another winter came they
would have a comfortable place; and the children would be off the
streets and in school again, and they might set to work to nurse back
into life their habits of decency and kindness. So once more Jurgis
began to make plans and dream dreams.

And then one Saturday night he jumped off the car and started home,
with the sun shining low under the edge of a bank of clouds that had
been pouring floods of water into the mud-soaked street. There was a
rainbow in the sky, and another in his breast—for he had thirty-six
hours’ rest before him, and a chance to see his family. Then suddenly
he came in sight of the house, and noticed that there was a crowd
before the door. He ran up the steps and pushed his way in, and saw
Aniele’s kitchen crowded with excited women. It reminded him so vividly
of the time when he had come home from jail and found Ona dying, that
his heart almost stood still. “What’s the matter?” he cried.

A dead silence had fallen in the room, and he saw that every one was
staring at him. “What’s the matter?” he exclaimed again.

And then, up in the garret, he heard sounds of wailing, in Marija’s
voice. He started for the ladder—and Aniele seized him by the arm. “No,
no!” she exclaimed. “Don’t go up there!”

“What is it?” he shouted.

And the old woman answered him weakly: “It’s Antanas. He’s dead. He was
drowned out in the street!”