The Jungle

ne of the first things that Jurgis had done after he got a job was to
go and see Marija. She came down into the basement of the house to meet
him, and he stood by the door with his hat in his hand, saying, “I’ve
got work now, and so you can leave here.”

But Marija only shook her head. There was nothing else for her to do,
she said, and nobody to employ her. She could not keep her past a
secret—girls had tried it, and they were always found out. There were
thousands of men who came to this place, and sooner or later she would
meet one of them. “And besides,” Marija added, “I can’t do anything.
I’m no good—I take dope. What could you do with me?”

“Can’t you stop?” Jurgis cried.

“No,” she answered, “I’ll never stop. What’s the use of talking about
it—I’ll stay here till I die, I guess. It’s all I’m fit for.” And that
was all that he could get her to say—there was no use trying. When he
told her he would not let Elzbieta take her money, she answered
indifferently: “Then it’ll be wasted here—that’s all.” Her eyelids
looked heavy and her face was red and swollen; he saw that he was
annoying her, that she only wanted him to go away. So he went,
disappointed and sad.

Poor Jurgis was not very happy in his home-life. Elzbieta was sick a
good deal now, and the boys were wild and unruly, and very much the
worse for their life upon the streets. But he stuck by the family
nevertheless, for they reminded him of his old happiness; and when
things went wrong he could solace himself with a plunge into the
Socialist movement. Since his life had been caught up into the current
of this great stream, things which had before been the whole of life to
him came to seem of relatively slight importance; his interests were
elsewhere, in the world of ideas. His outward life was commonplace and
uninteresting; he was just a hotel-porter, and expected to remain one
while he lived; but meantime, in the realm of thought, his life was a
perpetual adventure. There was so much to know—so many wonders to be
discovered! Never in all his life did Jurgis forget the day before
election, when there came a telephone message from a friend of Harry
Adams, asking him to bring Jurgis to see him that night; and Jurgis
went, and met one of the minds of the movement.

The invitation was from a man named Fisher, a Chicago millionaire who
had given up his life to settlement work, and had a little home in the
heart of the city’s slums. He did not belong to the party, but he was
in sympathy with it; and he said that he was to have as his guest that
night the editor of a big Eastern magazine, who wrote against
Socialism, but really did not know what it was. The millionaire
suggested that Adams bring Jurgis along, and then start up the subject
of “pure food,” in which the editor was interested.

Young Fisher’s home was a little two-story brick house, dingy and
weather-beaten outside, but attractive within. The room that Jurgis saw
was half lined with books, and upon the walls were many pictures, dimly
visible in the soft, yellow light; it was a cold, rainy night, so a log
fire was crackling in the open hearth. Seven or eight people were
gathered about it when Adams and his friend arrived, and Jurgis saw to
his dismay that three of them were ladies. He had never talked to
people of this sort before, and he fell into an agony of embarrassment.
He stood in the doorway clutching his hat tightly in his hands, and
made a deep bow to each of the persons as he was introduced; then, when
he was asked to have a seat, he took a chair in a dark corner, and sat
down upon the edge of it, and wiped the perspiration off his forehead
with his sleeve. He was terrified lest they should expect him to talk.

There was the host himself, a tall, athletic young man, clad in evening
dress, as also was the editor, a dyspeptic-looking gentleman named
Maynard. There was the former’s frail young wife, and also an elderly
lady, who taught kindergarten in the settlement, and a young college
student, a beautiful girl with an intense and earnest face. She only
spoke once or twice while Jurgis was there—the rest of the time she sat
by the table in the center of the room, resting her chin in her hands
and drinking in the conversation. There were two other men, whom young
Fisher had introduced to Jurgis as Mr. Lucas and Mr. Schliemann; he
heard them address Adams as “Comrade,” and so he knew that they were
Socialists.

The one called Lucas was a mild and meek-looking little gentleman of
clerical aspect; he had been an itinerant evangelist, it transpired,
and had seen the light and become a prophet of the new dispensation. He
traveled all over the country, living like the apostles of old, upon
hospitality, and preaching upon street-corners when there was no hall.
The other man had been in the midst of a discussion with the editor
when Adams and Jurgis came in; and at the suggestion of the host they
resumed it after the interruption. Jurgis was soon sitting spellbound,
thinking that here was surely the strangest man that had ever lived in
the world.

Nicholas Schliemann was a Swede, a tall, gaunt person, with hairy hands
and bristling yellow beard; he was a university man, and had been a
professor of philosophy—until, as he said, he had found that he was
selling his character as well as his time. Instead he had come to
America, where he lived in a garret room in this slum district, and
made volcanic energy take the place of fire. He studied the composition
of food-stuffs, and knew exactly how many proteids and carbohydrates
his body needed; and by scientific chewing he said that he tripled the
value of all he ate, so that it cost him eleven cents a day. About the
first of July he would leave Chicago for his vacation, on foot; and
when he struck the harvest fields he would set to work for two dollars
and a half a day, and come home when he had another year’s supply—a
hundred and twenty-five dollars. That was the nearest approach to
independence a man could make “under capitalism,” he explained; he
would never marry, for no sane man would allow himself to fall in love
until after the revolution.

He sat in a big arm-chair, with his legs crossed, and his head so far
in the shadow that one saw only two glowing lights, reflected from the
fire on the hearth. He spoke simply, and utterly without emotion; with
the manner of a teacher setting forth to a group of scholars an axiom
in geometry, he would enunciate such propositions as made the hair of
an ordinary person rise on end. And when the auditor had asserted his
non-comprehension, he would proceed to elucidate by some new
proposition, yet more appalling. To Jurgis the Herr Dr. Schliemann
assumed the proportions of a thunderstorm or an earthquake. And yet,
strange as it might seem, there was a subtle bond between them, and he
could follow the argument nearly all the time. He was carried over the
difficult places in spite of himself; and he went plunging away in mad
career—a very Mazeppa-ride upon the wild horse Speculation.

Nicholas Schliemann was familiar with all the universe, and with man as
a small part of it. He understood human institutions, and blew them
about like soap bubbles. It was surprising that so much destructiveness
could be contained in one human mind. Was it government? The purpose of
government was the guarding of property-rights, the perpetuation of
ancient force and modern fraud. Or was it marriage? Marriage and
prostitution were two sides of one shield, the predatory man’s
exploitation of the sex-pleasure. The difference between them was a
difference of class. If a woman had money she might dictate her own
terms: equality, a life contract, and the legitimacy—that is, the
property-rights—of her children. If she had no money, she was a
proletarian, and sold herself for an existence. And then the subject
became Religion, which was the Archfiend’s deadliest weapon. Government
oppressed the body of the wage-slave, but Religion oppressed his mind,
and poisoned the stream of progress at its source. The working-man was
to fix his hopes upon a future life, while his pockets were picked in
this one; he was brought up to frugality, humility, obedience—in short
to all the pseudo-virtues of capitalism. The destiny of civilization
would be decided in one final death struggle between the Red
International and the Black, between Socialism and the Roman Catholic
Church; while here at home, “the stygian midnight of American
evangelicalism—”

And here the ex-preacher entered the field, and there was a lively
tussle. “Comrade” Lucas was not what is called an educated man; he knew
only the Bible, but it was the Bible interpreted by real experience.
And what was the use, he asked, of confusing Religion with men’s
perversions of it? That the church was in the hands of the merchants at
the moment was obvious enough; but already there were signs of
rebellion, and if Comrade Schliemann could come back a few years from
now—

“Ah, yes,” said the other, “of course, I have no doubt that in a
hundred years the Vatican will be denying that it ever opposed
Socialism, just as at present it denies that it ever tortured Galileo.”

“I am not defending the Vatican,” exclaimed Lucas, vehemently. “I am
defending the word of God—which is one long cry of the human spirit for
deliverance from the sway of oppression. Take the twenty-fourth chapter
of the Book of Job, which I am accustomed to quote in my addresses as
‘the Bible upon the Beef Trust’; or take the words of Isaiah—or of the
Master himself! Not the elegant prince of our debauched and vicious
art, not the jeweled idol of our society churches—but the Jesus of the
awful reality, the man of sorrow and pain, the outcast, despised of the
world, who had nowhere to lay his head—”

“I will grant you Jesus,” interrupted the other.

“Well, then,” cried Lucas, “and why should Jesus have nothing to do
with his church—why should his words and his life be of no authority
among those who profess to adore him? Here is a man who was the world’s
first revolutionist, the true founder of the Socialist movement; a man
whose whole being was one flame of hatred for wealth, and all that
wealth stands for,—for the pride of wealth, and the luxury of wealth,
and the tyranny of wealth; who was himself a beggar and a tramp, a man
of the people, an associate of saloon-keepers and women of the town;
who again and again, in the most explicit language, denounced wealth
and the holding of wealth: ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures on
earth!’—‘Sell that ye have and give alms!’—‘Blessed are ye poor, for
yours is the kingdom of Heaven!’—‘Woe unto you that are rich, for ye
have received your consolation!’—‘Verily, I say unto you, that a rich
man shall hardly enter into the kingdom of Heaven!’ Who denounced in
unmeasured terms the exploiters of his own time: ‘Woe unto you, scribes
and pharisees, hypocrites!’—‘Woe unto you also, you lawyers!’—‘Ye
serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of
hell?’ Who drove out the business men and brokers from the temple with
a whip! Who was crucified—think of it—for an incendiary and a disturber
of the social order! And this man they have made into the high priest
of property and smug respectability, a divine sanction of all the
horrors and abominations of modern commercial civilization! Jeweled
images are made of him, sensual priests burn incense to him, and modern
pirates of industry bring their dollars, wrung from the toil of
helpless women and children, and build temples to him, and sit in
cushioned seats and listen to his teachings expounded by doctors of
dusty divinity—”

“Bravo!” cried Schliemann, laughing. But the other was in full
career—he had talked this subject every day for five years, and had
never yet let himself be stopped. “This Jesus of Nazareth!” he cried.
“This class-conscious working-man! This union carpenter! This agitator,
law-breaker, firebrand, anarchist! He, the sovereign lord and master of
a world which grinds the bodies and souls of human beings into
dollars—if he could come into the world this day and see the things
that men have made in his name, would it not blast his soul with
horror? Would he not go mad at the sight of it, he the Prince of Mercy
and Love! That dreadful night when he lay in the Garden of Gethsemane
and writhed in agony until he sweat blood—do you think that he saw
anything worse than he might see tonight upon the plains of Manchuria,
where men march out with a jeweled image of him before them, to do
wholesale murder for the benefit of foul monsters of sensuality and
cruelty? Do you not know that if he were in St. Petersburg now, he
would take the whip with which he drove out the bankers from his
temple—”

Here the speaker paused an instant for breath. “No, comrade,” said the
other, dryly, “for he was a practical man. He would take pretty little
imitation lemons, such as are now being shipped into Russia, handy for
carrying in the pockets, and strong enough to blow a whole temple out
of sight.”

Lucas waited until the company had stopped laughing over this; then he
began again: “But look at it from the point of view of practical
politics, comrade. Here is an historical figure whom all men reverence
and love, whom some regard as divine; and who was one of us—who lived
our life, and taught our doctrine. And now shall we leave him in the
hands of his enemies—shall we allow them to stifle and stultify his
example? We have his words, which no one can deny; and shall we not
quote them to the people, and prove to them what he was, and what he
taught, and what he did? No, no, a thousand times no!—we shall use his
authority to turn out the knaves and sluggards from his ministry, and
we shall yet rouse the people to action!—”

Lucas halted again; and the other stretched out his hand to a paper on
the table. “Here, comrade,” he said, with a laugh, “here is a place for
you to begin. A bishop whose wife has just been robbed of fifty
thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds! And a most unctuous and oily of
bishops! An eminent and scholarly bishop! A philanthropist and friend
of labor bishop—a Civic Federation decoy duck for the chloroforming of
the wage-working-man!”

To this little passage of arms the rest of the company sat as
spectators. But now Mr. Maynard, the editor, took occasion to remark,
somewhat naïvely, that he had always understood that Socialists had a
cut-and-dried program for the future of civilization; whereas here were
two active members of the party, who, from what he could make out, were
agreed about nothing at all. Would the two, for his enlightenment, try
to ascertain just what they had in common, and why they belonged to the
same party? This resulted, after much debating, in the formulating of
two carefully worded propositions: First, that a Socialist believes in
the common ownership and democratic management of the means of
producing the necessities of life; and, second, that a Socialist
believes that the means by which this is to be brought about is the
class conscious political organization of the wage-earners. Thus far
they were at one; but no farther. To Lucas, the religious zealot, the
co-operative commonwealth was the New Jerusalem, the kingdom of Heaven,
which is “within you.” To the other, Socialism was simply a necessary
step toward a far-distant goal, a step to be tolerated with impatience.
Schliemann called himself a “philosophic anarchist”; and he explained
that an anarchist was one who believed that the end of human existence
was the free development of every personality, unrestricted by laws
save those of its own being. Since the same kind of match would light
every one’s fire and the same-shaped loaf of bread would fill every
one’s stomach, it would be perfectly feasible to submit industry to the
control of a majority vote. There was only one earth, and the quantity
of material things was limited. Of intellectual and moral things, on
the other hand, there was no limit, and one could have more without
another’s having less; hence “Communism in material production,
anarchism in intellectual,” was the formula of modern proletarian
thought. As soon as the birth agony was over, and the wounds of society
had been healed, there would be established a simple system whereby
each man was credited with his labor and debited with his purchases;
and after that the processes of production, exchange, and consumption
would go on automatically, and without our being conscious of them, any
more than a man is conscious of the beating of his heart. And then,
explained Schliemann, society would break up into independent,
self-governing communities of mutually congenial persons; examples of
which at present were clubs, churches, and political parties. After the
revolution, all the intellectual, artistic, and spiritual activities of
men would be cared for by such “free associations”; romantic novelists
would be supported by those who liked to read romantic novels, and
impressionist painters would be supported by those who liked to look at
impressionist pictures—and the same with preachers and scientists,
editors and actors and musicians. If any one wanted to work or paint or
pray, and could find no one to maintain him, he could support himself
by working part of the time. That was the case at present, the only
difference being that the competitive wage system compelled a man to
work all the time to live, while, after the abolition of privilege and
exploitation, any one would be able to support himself by an hour’s
work a day. Also the artist’s audience of the present was a small
minority of people, all debased and vulgarized by the effort it had
cost them to win in the commercial battle, of the intellectual and
artistic activities which would result when the whole of mankind was
set free from the nightmare of competition, we could at present form no
conception whatever.

And then the editor wanted to know upon what ground Dr. Schliemann
asserted that it might be possible for a society to exist upon an
hour’s toil by each of its members. “Just what,” answered the other,
“would be the productive capacity of society if the present resources
of science were utilized, we have no means of ascertaining; but we may
be sure it would exceed anything that would sound reasonable to minds
inured to the ferocious barbarities of capitalism. After the triumph of
the international proletariat, war would of course be inconceivable;
and who can figure the cost of war to humanity—not merely the value of
the lives and the material that it destroys, not merely the cost of
keeping millions of men in idleness, of arming and equipping them for
battle and parade, but the drain upon the vital energies of society by
the war attitude and the war terror, the brutality and ignorance, the
drunkenness, prostitution, and crime it entails, the industrial
impotence and the moral deadness? Do you think that it would be too
much to say that two hours of the working time of every efficient
member of a community goes to feed the red fiend of war?”

And then Schliemann went on to outline some of the wastes of
competition: the losses of industrial warfare; the ceaseless worry and
friction; the vices—such as drink, for instance, the use of which had
nearly doubled in twenty years, as a consequence of the intensification
of the economic struggle; the idle and unproductive members of the
community, the frivolous rich and the pauperized poor; the law and the
whole machinery of repression; the wastes of social ostentation, the
milliners and tailors, the hairdressers, dancing masters, chefs and
lackeys. “You understand,” he said, “that in a society dominated by the
fact of commercial competition, money is necessarily the test of
prowess, and wastefulness the sole criterion of power. So we have, at
the present moment, a society with, say, thirty per cent of the
population occupied in producing useless articles, and one per cent
occupied in destroying them. And this is not all; for the servants and
panders of the parasites are also parasites, the milliners and the
jewelers and the lackeys have also to be supported by the useful
members of the community. And bear in mind also that this monstrous
disease affects not merely the idlers and their menials, its poison
penetrates the whole social body. Beneath the hundred thousand women of
the elite are a million middle-class women, miserable because they are
not of the elite, and trying to appear of it in public; and beneath
them, in turn, are five million farmers’ wives reading ‘fashion papers’
and trimming bonnets, and shop-girls and serving-maids selling
themselves into brothels for cheap jewelry and imitation seal-skin
robes. And then consider that, added to this competition in display,
you have, like oil on the flames, a whole system of competition in
selling! You have manufacturers contriving tens of thousands of
catchpenny devices, storekeepers displaying them, and newspapers and
magazines filled up with advertisements of them!”

“And don’t forget the wastes of fraud,” put in young Fisher.

“When one comes to the ultra-modern profession of advertising,”
responded Schliemann—“the science of persuading people to buy what they
do not want—he is in the very center of the ghastly charnel house of
capitalist destructiveness, and he scarcely knows which of a dozen
horrors to point out first. But consider the waste in time and energy
incidental to making ten thousand varieties of a thing for purposes of
ostentation and snobbishness, where one variety would do for use!
Consider all the waste incidental to the manufacture of cheap qualities
of goods, of goods made to sell and deceive the ignorant; consider the
wastes of adulteration,—the shoddy clothing, the cotton blankets, the
unstable tenements, the ground-cork life-preservers, the adulterated
milk, the aniline soda water, the potato-flour sausages—”

“And consider the moral aspects of the thing,” put in the ex-preacher.

“Precisely,” said Schliemann; “the low knavery and the ferocious
cruelty incidental to them, the plotting and the lying and the bribing,
the blustering and bragging, the screaming egotism, the hurrying and
worrying. Of course, imitation and adulteration are the essence of
competition—they are but another form of the phrase ‘to buy in the
cheapest market and sell in the dearest.’ A government official has
stated that the nation suffers a loss of a billion and a quarter
dollars a year through adulterated foods; which means, of course, not
only materials wasted that might have been useful outside of the human
stomach, but doctors and nurses for people who would otherwise have
been well, and undertakers for the whole human race ten or twenty years
before the proper time. Then again, consider the waste of time and
energy required to sell these things in a dozen stores, where one would
do. There are a million or two of business firms in the country, and
five or ten times as many clerks; and consider the handling and
rehandling, the accounting and reaccounting, the planning and worrying,
the balancing of petty profit and loss. Consider the whole machinery of
the civil law made necessary by these processes; the libraries of
ponderous tomes, the courts and juries to interpret them, the lawyers
studying to circumvent them, the pettifogging and chicanery, the
hatreds and lies! Consider the wastes incidental to the blind and
haphazard production of commodities—the factories closed, the workers
idle, the goods spoiling in storage; consider the activities of the
stock manipulator, the paralyzing of whole industries, the
overstimulation of others, for speculative purposes; the assignments
and bank failures, the crises and panics, the deserted towns and the
starving populations! Consider the energies wasted in the seeking of
markets, the sterile trades, such as drummer, solicitor, bill-poster,
advertising agent. Consider the wastes incidental to the crowding into
cities, made necessary by competition and by monopoly railroad rates;
consider the slums, the bad air, the disease and the waste of vital
energies; consider the office buildings, the waste of time and material
in the piling of story upon story, and the burrowing underground! Then
take the whole business of insurance, the enormous mass of
administrative and clerical labor it involves, and all utter waste—”

“I do not follow that,” said the editor. “The Cooperative Commonwealth
is a universal automatic insurance company and savings bank for all its
members. Capital being the property of all, injury to it is shared by
all and made up by all. The bank is the universal government
credit-account, the ledger in which every individual’s earnings and
spendings are balanced. There is also a universal government bulletin,
in which are listed and precisely described everything which the
commonwealth has for sale. As no one makes any profit by the sale,
there is no longer any stimulus to extravagance, and no
misrepresentation; no cheating, no adulteration or imitation, no
bribery or ‘grafting.’”

“How is the price of an article determined?”

“The price is the labor it has cost to make and deliver it, and it is
determined by the first principles of arithmetic. The million workers
in the nation’s wheat fields have worked a hundred days each, and the
total product of the labor is a billion bushels, so the value of a
bushel of wheat is the tenth part of a farm labor-day. If we employ an
arbitrary symbol, and pay, say, five dollars a day for farm work, then
the cost of a bushel of wheat is fifty cents.”

“You say ‘for farm work,’” said Mr. Maynard. “Then labor is not to be
paid alike?”

“Manifestly not, since some work is easy and some hard, and we should
have millions of rural mail carriers, and no coal miners. Of course the
wages may be left the same, and the hours varied; one or the other will
have to be varied continually, according as a greater or less number of
workers is needed in any particular industry. That is precisely what is
done at present, except that the transfer of the workers is
accomplished blindly and imperfectly, by rumors and advertisements,
instead of instantly and completely, by a universal government
bulletin.”

“How about those occupations in which time is difficult to calculate?
What is the labor cost of a book?”

“Obviously it is the labor cost of the paper, printing, and binding of
it—about a fifth of its present cost.”

“And the author?”

“I have already said that the state could not control intellectual
production. The state might say that it had taken a year to write the
book, and the author might say it had taken thirty. Goethe said that
every bon mot of his had cost a purse of gold. What I outline here is
a national, or rather international, system for the providing of the
material needs of men. Since a man has intellectual needs also, he will
work longer, earn more, and provide for them to his own taste and in
his own way. I live on the same earth as the majority, I wear the same
kind of shoes and sleep in the same kind of bed; but I do not think the
same kind of thoughts, and I do not wish to pay for such thinkers as
the majority selects. I wish such things to be left to free effort, as
at present. If people want to listen to a certain preacher, they get
together and contribute what they please, and pay for a church and
support the preacher, and then listen to him; I, who do not want to
listen to him, stay away, and it costs me nothing. In the same way
there are magazines about Egyptian coins, and Catholic saints, and
flying machines, and athletic records, and I know nothing about any of
them. On the other hand, if wage slavery were abolished, and I could
earn some spare money without paying tribute to an exploiting
capitalist, then there would be a magazine for the purpose of
interpreting and popularizing the gospel of Friedrich Nietzsche, the
prophet of Evolution, and also of Horace Fletcher, the inventor of the
noble science of clean eating; and incidentally, perhaps, for the
discouraging of long skirts, and the scientific breeding of men and
women, and the establishing of divorce by mutual consent.”

Dr. Schliemann paused for a moment. “That was a lecture,” he said with
a laugh, “and yet I am only begun!”

“What else is there?” asked Maynard.

“I have pointed out some of the negative wastes of competition,”
answered the other. “I have hardly mentioned the positive economies of
co-operation. Allowing five to a family, there are fifteen million
families in this country; and at least ten million of these live
separately, the domestic drudge being either the wife or a wage slave.
Now set aside the modern system of pneumatic house-cleaning, and the
economies of co-operative cooking; and consider one single item, the
washing of dishes. Surely it is moderate to say that the dish-washing
for a family of five takes half an hour a day; with ten hours as a
day’s work, it takes, therefore, half a million able-bodied
persons—mostly women to do the dish-washing of the country. And note
that this is most filthy and deadening and brutalizing work; that it is
a cause of anemia, nervousness, ugliness, and ill-temper; of
prostitution, suicide, and insanity; of drunken husbands and degenerate
children—for all of which things the community has naturally to pay.
And now consider that in each of my little free communities there would
be a machine which would wash and dry the dishes, and do it, not merely
to the eye and the touch, but scientifically—sterilizing them—and do it
at a saving of all the drudgery and nine-tenths of the time! All of
these things you may find in the books of Mrs. Gilman; and then take
Kropotkin’s Fields, Factories, and Workshops, and read about the new
science of agriculture, which has been built up in the last ten years;
by which, with made soils and intensive culture, a gardener can raise
ten or twelve crops in a season, and two hundred tons of vegetables
upon a single acre; by which the population of the whole globe could be
supported on the soil now cultivated in the United States alone! It is
impossible to apply such methods now, owing to the ignorance and
poverty of our scattered farming population; but imagine the problem of
providing the food supply of our nation once taken in hand
systematically and rationally, by scientists! All the poor and rocky
land set apart for a national timber reserve, in which our children
play, and our young men hunt, and our poets dwell! The most favorable
climate and soil for each product selected; the exact requirements of
the community known, and the acreage figured accordingly; the most
improved machinery employed, under the direction of expert agricultural
chemists! I was brought up on a farm, and I know the awful deadliness
of farm work; and I like to picture it all as it will be after the
revolution. To picture the great potato-planting machine, drawn by four
horses, or an electric motor, ploughing the furrow, cutting and
dropping and covering the potatoes, and planting a score of acres a
day! To picture the great potato-digging machine, run by electricity,
perhaps, and moving across a thousand-acre field, scooping up earth and
potatoes, and dropping the latter into sacks! To every other kind of
vegetable and fruit handled in the same way—apples and oranges picked
by machinery, cows milked by electricity—things which are already done,
as you may know. To picture the harvest fields of the future, to which
millions of happy men and women come for a summer holiday, brought by
special trains, the exactly needful number to each place! And to
contrast all this with our present agonizing system of independent
small farming,—a stunted, haggard, ignorant man, mated with a yellow,
lean, and sad-eyed drudge, and toiling from four o’clock in the morning
until nine at night, working the children as soon as they are able to
walk, scratching the soil with its primitive tools, and shut out from
all knowledge and hope, from all their benefits of science and
invention, and all the joys of the spirit—held to a bare existence by
competition in labor, and boasting of his freedom because he is too
blind to see his chains!”

Dr. Schliemann paused a moment. “And then,” he continued, “place beside
this fact of an unlimited food supply, the newest discovery of
physiologists, that most of the ills of the human system are due to
overfeeding! And then again, it has been proven that meat is
unnecessary as a food; and meat is obviously more difficult to produce
than vegetable food, less pleasant to prepare and handle, and more
likely to be unclean. But what of that, so long as it tickles the
palate more strongly?”

“How would Socialism change that?” asked the girl-student, quickly. It
was the first time she had spoken.

“So long as we have wage slavery,” answered Schliemann, “it matters not
in the least how debasing and repulsive a task may be, it is easy to
find people to perform it. But just as soon as labor is set free, then
the price of such work will begin to rise. So one by one the old,
dingy, and unsanitary factories will come down—it will be cheaper to
build new; and so the steamships will be provided with stoking
machinery, and so the dangerous trades will be made safe, or
substitutes will be found for their products. In exactly the same way,
as the citizens of our Industrial Republic become refined, year by year
the cost of slaughterhouse products will increase; until eventually
those who want to eat meat will have to do their own killing—and how
long do you think the custom would survive then?—To go on to another
item—one of the necessary accompaniments of capitalism in a democracy
is political corruption; and one of the consequences of civic
administration by ignorant and vicious politicians, is that preventable
diseases kill off half our population. And even if science were allowed
to try, it could do little, because the majority of human beings are
not yet human beings at all, but simply machines for the creating of
wealth for others. They are penned up in filthy houses and left to rot
and stew in misery, and the conditions of their life make them ill
faster than all the doctors in the world could heal them; and so, of
course, they remain as centers of contagion, poisoning the lives of all
of us, and making happiness impossible for even the most selfish. For
this reason I would seriously maintain that all the medical and
surgical discoveries that science can make in the future will be of
less importance than the application of the knowledge we already
possess, when the disinherited of the earth have established their
right to a human existence.”

And here the Herr Doctor relapsed into silence again. Jurgis had
noticed that the beautiful young girl who sat by the center-table was
listening with something of the same look that he himself had worn, the
time when he had first discovered Socialism. Jurgis would have liked to
talk to her, he felt sure that she would have understood him. Later on
in the evening, when the group broke up, he heard Mrs. Fisher say to
her, in a low voice, “I wonder if Mr. Maynard will still write the same
things about Socialism”; to which she answered, “I don’t know—but if he
does we shall know that he is a knave!”

And only a few hours after this came election day—when the long
campaign was over, and the whole country seemed to stand still and hold
its breath, awaiting the issue. Jurgis and the rest of the staff of
Hinds’s Hotel could hardly stop to finish their dinner, before they
hurried off to the big hall which the party had hired for that evening.

But already there were people waiting, and already the telegraph
instrument on the stage had begun clicking off the returns. When the
final accounts were made up, the Socialist vote proved to be over four
hundred thousand—an increase of something like three hundred and fifty
per cent in four years. And that was doing well; but the party was
dependent for its early returns upon messages from the locals, and
naturally those locals which had been most successful were the ones
which felt most like reporting; and so that night every one in the hall
believed that the vote was going to be six, or seven, or even eight
hundred thousand. Just such an incredible increase had actually been
made in Chicago, and in the state; the vote of the city had been 6,700
in 1900, and now it was 47,000; that of Illinois had been 9,600, and
now it was 69,000! So, as the evening waxed, and the crowd piled in,
the meeting was a sight to be seen. Bulletins would be read, and the
people would shout themselves hoarse—and then some one would make a
speech, and there would be more shouting; and then a brief silence, and
more bulletins. There would come messages from the secretaries of
neighboring states, reporting their achievements; the vote of Indiana
had gone from 2,300 to 12,000, of Wisconsin from 7,000 to 28,000; of
Ohio from 4,800 to 36,000! There were telegrams to the national office
from enthusiastic individuals in little towns which had made amazing
and unprecedented increases in a single year: Benedict, Kansas, from 26
to 260; Henderson, Kentucky, from 19 to 111; Holland, Michigan, from 14
to 208; Cleo, Oklahoma, from 0 to 104; Martin’s Ferry, Ohio, from 0 to
296—and many more of the same kind. There were literally hundreds of
such towns; there would be reports from half a dozen of them in a
single batch of telegrams. And the men who read the despatches off to
the audience were old campaigners, who had been to the places and
helped to make the vote, and could make appropriate comments: Quincy,
Illinois, from 189 to 831—that was where the mayor had arrested a
Socialist speaker! Crawford County, Kansas, from 285 to 1,975; that was
the home of the “Appeal to Reason”! Battle Creek, Michigan, from 4,261
to 10,184; that was the answer of labor to the Citizens’ Alliance
Movement!

And then there were official returns from the various precincts and
wards of the city itself! Whether it was a factory district or one of
the “silk-stocking” wards seemed to make no particular difference in
the increase; but one of the things which surprised the party leaders
most was the tremendous vote that came rolling in from the stockyards.
Packingtown comprised three wards of the city, and the vote in the
spring of 1903 had been 500, and in the fall of the same year, 1,600.
Now, only one year later, it was over 6,300—and the Democratic vote
only 8,800! There were other wards in which the Democratic vote had
been actually surpassed, and in two districts, members of the state
legislature had been elected. Thus Chicago now led the country; it had
set a new standard for the party, it had shown the workingmen the way!

—So spoke an orator upon the platform; and two thousand pairs of eyes
were fixed upon him, and two thousand voices were cheering his every
sentence. The orator had been the head of the city’s relief bureau in
the stockyards, until the sight of misery and corruption had made him
sick. He was young, hungry-looking, full of fire; and as he swung his
long arms and beat up the crowd, to Jurgis he seemed the very spirit of
the revolution. “Organize! Organize! Organize!”—that was his cry. He
was afraid of this tremendous vote, which his party had not expected,
and which it had not earned. “These men are not Socialists!” he cried.
“This election will pass, and the excitement will die, and people will
forget about it; and if you forget about it, too, if you sink back and
rest upon your oars, we shall lose this vote that we have polled
to-day, and our enemies will laugh us to scorn! It rests with you to
take your resolution—now, in the flush of victory, to find these men
who have voted for us, and bring them to our meetings, and organize
them and bind them to us! We shall not find all our campaigns as easy
as this one. Everywhere in the country tonight the old party
politicians are studying this vote, and setting their sails by it; and
nowhere will they be quicker or more cunning than here in our own city.
Fifty thousand Socialist votes in Chicago means a municipal-ownership
Democracy in the spring! And then they will fool the voters once more,
and all the powers of plunder and corruption will be swept into office
again! But whatever they may do when they get in, there is one thing
they will not do, and that will be the thing for which they were
elected! They will not give the people of our city municipal
ownership—they will not mean to do it, they will not try to do it; all
that they will do is give our party in Chicago the greatest opportunity
that has ever come to Socialism in America! We shall have the sham
reformers self-stultified and self-convicted; we shall have the radical
Democracy left without a lie with which to cover its nakedness! And
then will begin the rush that will never be checked, the tide that will
never turn till it has reached its flood—that will be irresistible,
overwhelming—the rallying of the outraged workingmen of Chicago to our
standard! And we shall organize them, we shall drill them, we shall
marshal them for the victory! We shall bear down the opposition, we
shall sweep if before us—and Chicago will be ours! Chicago will be
ours! CHICAGO WILL BE OURS!”

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