Chapter 28

by Upton Sinclair

　　After breakfast Jurgis was driven to the court, which was crowdedwith the prisoners and those who had come out of curiosity or inthe hope of recognizing one of the men and getting a case forblackmail. The men were called up first, and reprimanded in abunch, and then dismissed; but, Jurgis to his terror, was calledseparately, as being a suspicious-looking case. It was in thisvery same court that he had been tried, that time when hissentence had been "suspended"; it was the same judge, and thesame clerk. The latter now stared at Jurgis, as if he halfthought that he knew him; but the judge had no suspicions--justthen his thoughts were upon a telephone message he was expectingfrom a friend of the police captain of the district, telling whatdisposition he should make of the case of "Polly" Simpson, as the"madame" of the house was known. Meantime, he listened to thestory of how Jurgis had been looking for his sister, and advisedhim dryly to keep his sister in a better place; then he let himgo, and proceeded to fine each of the girls five dollars, whichfines were paid in a bunch from a wad of bills which Madame Pollyextracted from her stocking.Jurgis waited outside and walked home with Marija. The policehad left the house, and already there were a few visitors;by evening the place would be running again, exactly as if nothinghad happened. Meantime, Marija took Jurgis upstairs to her room,and they sat and talked. By daylight, Jurgis was able to observethat the color on her cheeks was not the old natural one ofabounding health; her complexion was in reality a parchmentyellow, and there were black rings under her eyes."Have you been sick?" he asked."Sick?" she said. "Hell!" (Marija had learned to scatter herconversation with as many oaths as a longshoreman or a muledriver.) "How can I ever be anything but sick, at this life?"She fell silent for a moment, staring ahead of her gloomily."It's morphine," she said, at last. "I seem to take more of itevery day.""What's that for?" he asked."It's the way of it; I don't know why. If it isn't that, it'sdrink. If the girls didn't booze they couldn't stand it any timeat all. And the madame always gives them dope when they firstcome, and they learn to like it; or else they take it forheadaches and such things, and get the habit that way. I've gotit, I know; I've tried to quit, but I never will while I'm here.""How long are you going to stay?" he asked."I don't know," she said. "Always, I guess. What else could Ido?""Don't you save any money?""Save!" said Marija. "Good Lord, no! I get enough, I suppose,but it all goes. I get a half share, two dollars and a half foreach customer, and sometimes I make twenty-five or thirty dollarsa night, and you'd think I ought to save something out of that!But then I am charged for my room and my meals--and such pricesas you never heard of; and then for extras, and drinks--foreverything I get, and some I don't. My laundry bill is nearlytwenty dollars each week alone--think of that! Yet what can Ido? I either have to stand it or quit, and it would be the sameanywhere else. It's all I can do to save the fifteen dollars Igive Elzbieta each week, so the children can go to school."Marija sat brooding in silence for a while; then, seeing thatJurgis was interested, she went on: "That's the way they keep thegirls--they let them run up debts, so they can't get away. Ayoung girl comes from abroad, and she doesn't know a word ofEnglish, and she gets into a place like this, and when she wantsto go the madame shows her that she is a couple of hundreddollars in debt, and takes all her clothes away, and threatens tohave her arrested if she doesn't stay and do as she's told. Soshe stays, and the longer she stays, the more in debt she gets.Often, too, they are girls that didn't know what they were comingto, that had hired out for housework. Did you notice that littleFrench girl with the yellow hair, that stood next to me in thecourt?"Jurgis answered in the affirmative."Well, she came to America about a year ago. She was a storeclerk, and she hired herself to a man to be sent here to work ina factory. There were six of them, all together, and they werebrought to a house just down the street from here, and this girlwas put into a room alone, and they gave her some dope in herfood, and when she came to she found that she had been ruined.She cried, and screamed, and tore her hair, but she had nothingbut a wrapper, and couldn't get away, and they kept her halfinsensible with drugs all the time, until she gave up. She nevergot outside of that place for ten months, and then they sent heraway, because she didn't suit. I guess they'll put her out ofhere, too--she's getting to have crazy fits, from drinkingabsinthe. Only one of the girls that came out with her got away,and she jumped out of a second-story window one night. There wasa great fuss about that--maybe you heard of it.""I did," said Jurgis, "I heard of it afterward." (It had happenedin the place where he and Duane had taken refuge from their"country customer." The girl had become insane, fortunately forthe police.)"There's lots of money in it," said Marija--"they get as much asforty dollars a head for girls, and they bring them from allover. There are seventeen in this place, and nine differentcountries among them. In some places you might find even more.We have half a dozen French girls--I suppose it's because themadame speaks the language. French girls are bad, too, the worstof all, except for the Japanese. There's a place next doorthat's full of Japanese women, but I wouldn't live in the samehouse with one of them."Marija paused for a moment or two, and then she added: "Most ofthe women here are pretty decent--you'd be surprised. I used tothink they did it because they liked to; but fancy a womanselling herself to every kind of man that comes, old or young,black or white--and doing it because she likes to!""Some of them say they do," said Jurgis."I know," said she; "they say anything. They're in, and theyknow they can't get out. But they didn't like it when theybegan--you'd find out--it's always misery! There's a littleJewish girl here who used to run errands for a milliner, and gotsick and lost her place; and she was four days on the streetswithout a mouthful of food, and then she went to a place justaround the corner and offered herself, and they made her give upher clothes before they would give her a bite to eat!"Marija sat for a minute or two, brooding somberly. "Tell meabout yourself, Jurgis," she said, suddenly. "Where have youbeen?"So he told her the long story of his adventures since his flightfrom home; his life as a tramp, and his work in the freighttunnels, and the accident; and then of Jack Duane, and of hispolitical career in the stockyards, and his downfall andsubsequent failures. Marija listened with sympathy; it was easyto believe the tale of his late starvation, for his face showedit all. "You found me just in the nick of time," she said."I'll stand by you--I'll help you till you can get some work.""I don't like to let you--" he began."Why not? Because I'm here?""No, not that," he said. "But I went off and left you--""Nonsense!" said Marija. "Don't think about it. I don't blameyou.""You must be hungry," she said, after a minute or two. "You stayhere to lunch--I'll have something up in the room."She pressed a button, and a colored woman came to the door andtook her order. "It's nice to have somebody to wait on you,"she observed, with a laugh, as she lay back on the bed.As the prison breakfast had not been liberal, Jurgis had a goodappetite, and they had a little feast together, talking meanwhileof Elzbieta and the children and old times. Shortly before theywere through, there came another colored girl, with the messagethat the "madame" wanted Marija--"Lithuanian Mary," as theycalled her here."That means you have to go," she said to Jurgis.So he got up, and she gave him the new address of the family, atenement over in the Ghetto district. "You go there," she said."They'll be glad to see you."But Jurgis stood hesitating."I--I don't like to," he said. "Honest, Marija, why don't youjust give me a little money and let me look for work first?""How do you need money?" was her reply. "All you want issomething to eat and a place to sleep, isn't it?""Yes," he said; "but then I don't like to go there after I leftthem--and while I have nothing to do, and while you--you--""Go on!" said Marija, giving him a push. "What are youtalking?--I won't give you money," she added, as she followed himto the door, "because you'll drink it up, and do yourself harm.Here's a quarter for you now, and go along, and they'll be soglad to have you back, you won't have time to feel ashamed.Good-by!"So Jurgis went out, and walked down the street to think it over.He decided that he would first try to get work, and so he put inthe rest of the day wandering here and there among factories andwarehouses without success. Then, when it was nearly dark,he concluded to go home, and set out; but he came to a restaurant,and went in and spent his quarter for a meal; and when he cameout he changed his mind--the night was pleasant, and he wouldsleep somewhere outside, and put in the morrow hunting, and sohave one more chance of a job. So he started away again, whensuddenly he chanced to look about him, and found that he waswalking down the same street and past the same hall where he hadlistened to the political speech the night 'before. There was nored fire and no band now, but there was a sign out, announcing ameeting, and a stream of people pouring in through the entrance.In a flash Jurgis had decided that he would chance it once more,and sit down and rest while making up his mind what to do. Therewas no one taking tickets, so it must be a free show again.He entered. There were no decorations in the hall this time;but there was quite a crowd upon the platform, and almost every seatin the place was filled. He took one of the last, far in therear, and straightway forgot all about his surroundings. WouldElzbieta think that he had come to sponge off her, or would sheunderstand that he meant to get to work again and do his share?Would she be decent to him, or would she scold him? If only hecould get some sort of a job before he went--if that last bosshad only been willing to try him!--Then suddenly Jurgis looked up. A tremendous roar had burstfrom the throats of the crowd, which by this time had packed thehall to the very doors. Men and women were standing up, wavinghandkerchiefs, shouting, yelling. Evidently the speaker hadarrived, thought Jurgis; what fools they were making ofthemselves! What were they expecting to get out of itanyhow--what had they to do with elections, with governing thecountry? Jurgis had been behind the scenes in politics.He went back to his thoughts, but with one further fact to reckonwith--that he was caught here. The hall was now filled to thedoors; and after the meeting it would be too late for him to gohome, so he would have to make the best of it outside. Perhapsit would be better to go home in the morning, anyway, for thechildren would be at school, and he and Elzbieta could have aquiet explanation. She always had been a reasonable person;and he really did mean to do right. He would manage to persuade herof it--and besides, Marija was willing, and Marija was furnishingthe money. If Elzbieta were ugly, he would tell her that in somany words.So Jurgis went on meditating; until finally, when he had been anhour or two in the hall, there began to prepare itself arepetition of the dismal catastrophe of the night before.Speaking had been going on all the time, and the audience wasclapping its hands and shouting, thrilling with excitement;and little by little the sounds were beginning to blur in Jurgis'sears, and his thoughts were beginning to run together, and hishead to wobble and nod. He caught himself many times, as usual,and made desperate resolutions; but the hall was hot and close,and his long walk and is dinner were too much for him--in the endhis head sank forward and he went off again.And then again someone nudged him, and he sat up with his oldterrified start! He had been snoring again, of course! And nowwhat? He fixed his eyes ahead of him, with painful intensity,staring at the platform as if nothing else ever had interestedhim, or ever could interest him, all his life. He imagined theangry exclamations, the hostile glances; he imagined thepoliceman striding toward him--reaching for his neck. Or was heto have one more chance? Were they going to let him alone thistime? He sat trembling; waiting--And then suddenly came a voice in his ear, a woman's voice,gentleand sweet, "If you would try to listen, comrade, perhaps youwould be interested."Jurgis was more startled by that than he would have been by thetouch of a policeman. He still kept his eyes fixed ahead, anddid not stir; but his heart gave a great leap. Comrade! Who wasit that called him "comrade"?He waited long, long; and at last, when he was sure that he wasno longer watched, he stole a glance out of the corner of hiseyes at the woman who sat beside him. She was young andbeautiful; she wore fine clothes, and was what is called a"lady." And she called him "comrade"!He turned a little, carefully, so that he could see her better;then he began to watch her, fascinated. She had apparentlyforgotten all about him, and was looking toward the platform.A man was speaking there--Jurgis heard his voice vaguely; but allhis thoughts were for this woman's face. A feeling of alarmstole over him as he stared at her. It made his flesh creep.What was the matter with her, what could be going on, to affectany one like that? She sat as one turned to stone, her handsclenched tightly in her lap, so tightly that he could see thecords standing out in her wrists. There was a look of excitementupon her face, of tense effort, as of one struggling mightily,or witnessing a struggle. There was a faint quivering of hernostrils; and now and then she would moisten her lips withfeverish haste. Her bosom rose and fell as she breathed, and herexcitement seemed to mount higher and higher, and then to sinkaway again, like a boat tossing upon ocean surges. What was it?What was the matter? It must be something that the man wassaying, up there on the platform. What sort of a man was he?And what sort of thing was this, anyhow?"--So all at once itoccurred to Jurgis to look at the speaker.It was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of nature--amountain forest lashed by a tempest, a ship tossed about upon astormy sea. Jurgis had an unpleasant sensation, a sense ofconfusion, of disorder, of wild and meaningless uproar. The manwas tall and gaunt, as haggard as his auditor himself; a thinblack beard covered half of his face, and one could see only twoblack hollows where the eyes were. He was speaking rapidly, ingreat excitement; he used many gestures--he spoke he moved hereand there upon the stage, reaching with his long arms as if toseize each person in his audience. His voice was deep, like anorgan; it was some time, however, before Jurgis thought of thevoice--he was too much occupied with his eyes to think of whatthe man was saying. But suddenly it seemed as if the speaker hadbegun pointing straight at him, as if he had singled him outparticularly for his remarks; and so Jurgis became suddenly awareof his voice, trembling, vibrant with emotion, with pain andlonging, with a burden of things unutterable, not to be compassedby words. To hear it was to be suddenly arrested, to be gripped,transfixed."You listen to these things," the man was saying, "and you say,'Yes, they are true, but they have been that way always.' Or yousay, 'Maybe it will come, but not in my time--it will not helpme.' And so you return to your daily round of toil, you go backto be ground up for profits in the world-wide mill of economicmight! To toil long hours for another's advantage; to live inmean and squalid homes, to work in dangerous and unhealthfulplaces; to wrestle with the specters of hunger and privation,to take your chances of accident, disease, and death. And each daythe struggle becomes fiercer, the pace more cruel; each day youhave to toil a little harder, and feel the iron hand ofcircumstance close upon you a little tighter. Months pass, yearsmaybe--and then you come again; and again I am here to plead withyou, to know if want and misery have yet done their work withyou, if injustice and oppression have yet opened your eyes! Ishall still be waiting--there is nothing else that I can do.There is no wilderness where I can hide from these things, thereis no haven where I can escape them; though I travel to the endsof the earth, I find the same accursed system--I find that allthe fair and noble impulses of humanity, the dreams of poets andthe agonies of martyrs, are shackled and bound in the service oforganized and predatory Greed! And therefore I cannot rest, Icannot be silent; therefore I cast aside comfort and happiness,health and good repute--and go out into the world and cry out thepain of my spirit! Therefore I am not to be silenced by povertyand sickness, not by hatred and obloquy, by threats andridicule--not by prison and persecution, if they should come--notby any power that is upon the earth or above the earth, that was,or is, or ever can be created. If I fail tonight, I can only trytomorrow; knowing that the fault must be mine--that if once thevision of my soul were spoken upon earth, if once the anguish ofits defeat were uttered in human speech, it would break thestoutest barriers of prejudice, it would shake the most sluggishsoul to action! It would abash the most cynical, it wouldterrify the most selfish; and the voice of mockery would besilenced, and fraud and falsehood would slink back into theirdens, and the truth would stand forth alone! For I speak withthe voice of the millions who are voiceless! Of them that areoppressed and have no comforter! Of the disinherited of life,for whom there is no respite and no deliverance, to whom theworld is a prison, a dungeon of torture, a tomb! With the voiceof the little child who toils tonight in a Southern cotton mill,staggering with exhaustion, numb with agony, and knowing no hopebut the grave! Of the mother who sews by candlelight in hertenement garret, weary and weeping, smitten with the mortalhunger of her babes! Of the man who lies upon a bed of rags,wrestling in his last sickness and leaving his loved ones toperish! Of the young girl who, somewhere at this moment, iswalking the streets of this horrible city, beaten and starving,and making her choice between the brothel and the lake! With thevoice of those, whoever and wherever they may be, who are caughtbeneath the wheels of the Juggernaut of Greed! With the voice ofhumanity, calling for deliverance! Of the everlasting soul ofMan, arising from the dust; breaking its way out of itsprison--rending the bands of oppression and ignorance--gropingits way to the light!"The speaker paused. There was an instant of silence, while mencaught their breaths, and then like a single sound there came acry from a thousand people. Through it all Jurgis sat still,motionless and rigid, his eyes fixed upon the speaker; he wastrembling, smitten with wonder.Suddenly the man raised his hands, and silence fell, and he beganagain."I plead with you," he said, "whoever you may be, provided thatyou care about the truth; but most of all I plead with working-man, with those to whom the evils I portray are not mere mattersof sentiment, to be dallied and toyed with, and then perhaps putaside and forgotten--to whom they are the grim and relentlessrealities of the daily grind, the chains upon their limbs, thelash upon their backs, the iron in their souls. To you, working-men! To you, the toilers, who have made this land, and have novoice in its councils! To you, whose lot it is to sow thatothers may reap, to labor and obey, and ask no more than thewages of a beast of burden, the food and shelter to keep youalive from day to day. It is to you that I come with my messageof salvation, it is to you that I appeal. I know how much it isto ask of you--I know, for I have been in your place, I havelived your life, and there is no man before me here tonight whoknows it better. I have known what it is to be a street-waif,a bootblack, living upon a crust of bread and sleeping in cellarstairways and under empty wagons. I have known what it is todare and to aspire, to dream mighty dreams and to see themperish--to see all the fair flowers of my spirit trampled intothe mire by the wild-beast powers of my life. I know what is theprice that a working-man pays for knowledge--I have paid for itwith food and sleep, with agony of body and mind, with health,almost with life itself; and so, when I come to you with a storyof hope and freedom, with the vision of a new earth to becreated, of a new labor to be dared, I am not surprised that Ifind you sordid and material, sluggish and incredulous. That Ido not despair is because I know also the forces that are drivingbehind you--because I know the raging lash of poverty, the stingof contempt and mastership, 'the insolence of office and thespurns.' Because I feel sure that in the crowd that has come tome tonight, no matter how many may be dull and heedless, nomatter how many may have come out of idle curiosity, or in orderto ridicule--there will be some one man whom pain and sufferinghave made desperate, whom some chance vision of wrong and horrorhas startled and shocked into attention. And to him my wordswill come like a sudden flash of lightning to one who travels indarkness--revealing the way before him, the perils and theobstacles--solving all problems, making all difficulties clear!The scales will fall from his eyes, the shackles will be tornfrom his limbs--he will leap up with a cry of thankfulness, hewill stride forth a free man at last! A man delivered from hisself-created slavery! A man who will never more be trapped--whomno blandishments will cajole, whom no threats will frighten; whofrom tonight on will move forward, and not backward, who willstudy and understand, who will gird on his sword and take hisplace in the army of his comrades and brothers. Who will carrythe good tidings to others, as I have carried them tohim--priceless gift of liberty and light that is neither mine norhis, but is the heritage of the soul of man! Working-men,working-men--comrades! open your eyes and look about you! Youhave lived so long in the toil and heat that your senses aredulled, your souls are numbed; but realize once in your livesthis world in which you dwell--tear off the rags of its customsand conventions--behold it as it is, in all its hideousnakedness! Realize it, realize it! Realize that out upon theplains of Manchuria tonight two hostile armies are facing eachother--that now, while we are seated here, a million human beingsmay be hurled at each other's throats, striving with the fury ofmaniacs to tear each other to pieces! And this in the twentiethcentury, nineteen hundred years since the Prince of Peace wasborn on earth! Nineteen hundred years that his words have beenpreached as divine, and here two armies of men are rending andtearing each other like the wild beasts of the forest!Philosophers have reasoned, prophets have denounced, poets havewept and pleaded--and still this hideous Monster roams at large!We have schools and colleges, newspapers and books; we havesearched the heavens and the earth, we have weighed and probedand reasoned--and all to equip men to destroy each other! Wecall it War, and pass it by--but do not put me off withplatitudes and conventions--come with me, come with me--realizeit! See the bodies of men pierced by bullets, blown into piecesby bursting shells! Hear the crunching of the bayonet, plungedinto human flesh; hear the groans and shrieks of agony, see thefaces of men crazed by pain, turned into fiends by fury and hate!Put your hand upon that piece of flesh--it is hot andquivering--just now it was a part of a man! This blood is stillsteaming--it was driven by a human heart! Almighty God! andthis goes on--it is systematic, organized, premeditated! And weknow it, and read of it, and take it for granted; our papers tellof it, and the presses are not stopped--our churches know of it,and do not close their doors--the people behold it, and do notrise up in horror and revolution!"Or perhaps Manchuria is too far away for you--come home with methen, come here to Chicago. Here in this city to-night tenthousand women are shut up in foul pens, and driven by hunger tosell their bodies to live. And we know it, we make it a jest!And these women are made in the image of your mothers, they maybe your sisters, your daughters; the child whom you left at hometonight, whose laughing eyes will greet you in the morning--thatfate may be waiting for her! To-night in Chicago there are tenthousand men, homeless and wretched, willing to work and beggingfor a chance, yet starving, and fronting in terror the awfulwinter cold! Tonight in Chicago there are a hundred thousandchildren wearing out their strength and blasting their lives inthe effort to earn their bread! There are a hundred thousandmothers who are living in misery and squalor, struggling to earnenough to feed their little ones! There are a hundred thousandold people, cast off and helpless, waiting for death to take themfrom their torments! There are a million people, men and womenand children, who share the curse of the wage-slave; who toilevery hour they can stand and see, for just enough to keep themalive; who are condemned till the end of their days to monotonyand weariness, to hunger and misery, to heat and cold, to dirtand disease, to ignorance and drunkenness and vice! And thenturn over the page with me, and gaze upon the other side of thepicture. There are a thousand--ten thousand, maybe--who are themasters of these slaves, who own their toil. They do nothing toearn what they receive, they do not even have to ask for it--itcomes to them of itself, their only care is to dispose of it.They live in palaces, they riot in luxury and extravagance--suchas no words can describe, as makes the imagination reel andstagger, makes the soul grow sick and faint. They spend hundredsof dollars for a pair of shoes, a handkerchief, a garter; theyspend millions for horses and automobiles and yachts, for palacesand banquets, for little shiny stones with which to deck theirbodies. Their life is a contest among themselves for supremacyin ostentation and recklessness, in the destroying of useful andnecessary things, in the wasting of the labor and the lives oftheir fellow creatures, the toil and anguish of the nations,the sweat and tears and blood of the human race! It is alltheirs--it comes to them; just as all the springs pour intostreamlets, and the streamlets into rivers, and the rivers intothe oceans--so, automatically and inevitably, all the wealth ofsociety comes to them. The farmer tills the soil, the miner digsin the earth, the weaver tends the loom, the mason carves thestone; the clever man invents, the shrewd man directs, the wiseman studies, the inspired man sings--and all the result, theproducts of the labor of brain and muscle, are gathered into onestupendous stream and poured into their laps! The whole ofsociety is in their grip, the whole labor of the world lies attheir mercy--and like fierce wolves they rend and destroy, likeravening vultures they devour and tear! The whole power ofmankind belongs to them, forever and beyond recall--do what itcan, strive as it will, humanity lives for them and dies forthem! They own not merely the labor of society, they have boughtthe governments; and everywhere they use their raped and stolenpower to intrench themselves in their privileges, to dig widerand deeper the channels through which the river of profits flowsto them!--And you, workingmen, workingmen! You have been broughtup to it, you plod on like beasts of burden, thinking only of theday and its pain--yet is there a man among you who can believethat such a system will continue forever--is there a man here inthis audience tonight so hardened and debased that he dare riseup before me and say that he believes it can continue forever;that the product of the labor of society, the means of existenceof the human race, will always belong to idlers and parasites, tobe spent for the gratification of vanity and lust--to be spentfor any purpose whatever, to be at the disposal of any individualwill whatever--that somehow, somewhere, the labor of humanitywill not belong to humanity, to be used for the purposes ofhumanity, to be controlled by the will of humanity? And if thisis ever to be, how is it to be--what power is there that willbring it about? Will it be the task of your masters, do youthink--will they write the charter of your liberties? Will theyforge you the sword of your deliverance, will they marshal youthe army and lead it to the fray? Will their wealth be spent forthe purpose--will they build colleges and churches to teach you,will they print papers to herald your progress, and organizepolitical parties to guide and carry on the struggle? Can younot see that the task is your task--yours to dream, yours toresolve, yours to execute? That if ever it is carried out, itwill be in the face of every obstacle that wealth and mastershipcan oppose--in the face of ridicule and slander, of hatred andpersecution, of the bludgeon and the jail? That it will be bythe power of your naked bosoms, opposed to the rage ofoppression! By the grim and bitter teaching of blind andmerciless affliction! By the painful gropings of the untutoredmind, by the feeble stammerings of the uncultured voice! By thesad and lonely hunger of the spirit; by seeking and striving andyearning, by heartache and despairing, by agony and sweat ofblood! It will be by money paid for with hunger, by knowledgestolen from sleep, by thoughts communicated under the shadow ofthe gallows! It will be a movement beginning in the far-offpast, a thing obscure and unhonored, a thing easy to ridicule,easy to despise; a thing unlovely, wearing the aspect ofvengeance and hate--but to you, the working-man, the wage-slave,calling with a voice insistent, imperious--with a voice that youcannot escape, wherever upon the earth you may be! With thevoice of all your wrongs, with the voice of all your desires;with the voice of your duty and your hope--of everything in theworld that is worth while to you! The voice of the poor,demanding that poverty shall cease! The voice of the oppressed,pronouncing the doom of oppression! The voice of power, wroughtout of suffering--of resolution, crushed out of weakness--of joyand courage, born in the bottomless pit of anguish and despair!The voice of Labor, despised and outraged; a mighty giant, lyingprostrate--mountainous, colossal, but blinded, bound, andignorant of his strength. And now a dream of resistance hauntshim, hope battling with fear; until suddenly he stirs, and afetter snaps--and a thrill shoots through him, to the farthestends of his huge body, and in a flash the dream becomes an act!He starts, he lifts himself; and the bands are shattered, theburdens roll off him--he rises--towering, gigantic; he springs tohis feet, he shouts in his newborn exultation--"And the speaker's voice broke suddenly, with the stress of hisfeelings; he stood with his arms stretched out above him, and thepower of his vision seemed to lift him from the floor. Theaudience came to its feet with a yell; men waved their arms,laughing aloud in their excitement. And Jurgis was with them, hewas shouting to tear his throat; shouting because he could nothelp it, because the stress of his feeling was more than he couldbear. It was not merely the man's words, the torrent of hiseloquence. It was his presence, it was his voice: a voice withstrange intonations that rang through the chambers of the soullike the clanging of a bell--that gripped the listener like amighty hand about his body, that shook him and startled him withsudden fright, with a sense of things not of earth, of mysteriesnever spoken before, of presences of awe and terror! There wasan unfolding of vistas before him, a breaking of the groundbeneath him, an upheaving, a stirring, a trembling; he felthimself suddenly a mere man no longer--there were powers withinhim undreamed of, there were demon forces contending, agelongwonders struggling to be born; and he sat oppressed with pain andjoy, while a tingling stole down into his finger tips, and hisbreath came hard and fast. The sentences of this man were toJurgis like the crashing of thunder in his soul; a flood ofemotions surged up in him--all his old hopes and longings, hisold griefs and rages and despairs. All that he had ever felt inhis whole life seemed to come back to him at once, and with onenew emotion, hardly to be described. That he should havesuffered such oppressions and such horrors was bad enough;but that he should have been crushed and beaten by them, that heshould have submitted, and forgotten, and lived in peace--ah,truly that was a thing not to be put into words, a thing not tobe borne by a human creature, a thing of terror and madness!"What," asks the prophet, "is the murder of them that kill thebody, to the murder of them that kill the soul?" And Jurgis was aman whose soul had been murdered, who had ceased to hope and tostruggle--who had made terms with degradation and despair; andnow, suddenly, in one awful convulsion, the black and hideousfact was made plain to him! There was a falling in of all thepillars of his soul, the sky seemed to split above him--he stoodthere, with his clenched hands upraised, his eyes bloodshot, andthe veins standing out purple in his face, roaring in the voiceof a wild beast, frantic, incoherent, maniacal. And when hecould shout no more he still stood there, gasping, and whisperinghoarsely to himself: "By God! By God! By God!"