Chapter 1

by Upton Sinclair

　　It was four o'clock when the ceremony was over and the carriages beganto arrive. There had been a crowd following all the way, owing to theexuberance of Marija Berczynskas. The occasion rested heavily uponMarija's broad shoulders--it was her task to see that all things wentin due form, and after the best home traditions; and, flying wildlyhither and thither, bowling every one out of the way, and scolding andexhorting all day with her tremendous voice, Marija was too eager tosee that others conformed to the proprieties to consider them herself.She had left the church last of all, and, desiring to arrive first atthe hall, had issued orders to the coachman to drive faster. When thatpersonage had developed a will of his own in the matter, Marija hadflung up the window of the carriage, and, leaning out, proceeded to tellhim her opinion of him, first in Lithuanian, which he did not understand,and then in Polish, which he did. Having the advantage of her in altitude,the driver had stood his ground and even ventured to attempt to speak;and the result had been a furious altercation, which, continuing all theway down Ashland Avenue, had added a new swarm of urchins to the cortegeat each side street for half a mile. This was unfortunate, for already there was a throng before the door.The music had started up, and half a block away you could hear the dull"broom, broom" of a cello, with the squeaking of two fiddles which viedwith each other in intricate and altitudinous gymnastics. Seeing thethrong, Marija abandoned precipitately the debate concerning the ancestorsof her coachman, and, springing from the moving carriage, plunged in andproceeded to clear a way to the hall. Once within, she turned and beganto push the other way, roaring, meantime, "Eik! Eik! Uzdaryk-duris!"in tones which made the orchestral uproar sound like fairy music."Z. Graiczunas, Pasilinksminimams darzas. Vynas. Sznapsas. Wines andLiquors. Union Headquarters"--that was the way the signs ran. The reader,who perhaps has never held much converse in the language of far-offLithuania, will be glad of the explanation that the place was the rearroom of a saloon in that part of Chicago known as "back of the yards."This information is definite and suited to the matter of fact; but howpitifully inadequate it would have seemed to one who understood that itwas also the supreme hour of ecstasy in the life of one of God's gentlestcreatures, the scene of the wedding feast and the joy-transfigurationof little Ona Lukoszaite!She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless frompushing through the crowd, and in her happiness painful to look upon.There was a light of wonder in her eyes and her lids trembled, and herotherwise wan little face was flushed. She wore a muslin dress,conspicuously white, and a stiff little veil coming to her shoulders.There were five pink paper roses twisted in the veil, and eleven brightgreen rose leaves. There were new white cotton gloves upon her hands,and as she stood staring about her she twisted them together feverishly.It was almost too much for her--you could see the pain of too great emotionin her face, and all the tremor of her form. She was so young--not quitesixteen--and small for her age, a mere child; and she had just beenmarried--and married to Jurgis,* (*Pronounced Yoorghis) of all men,to Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the buttonhole of his newblack suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the giant hands.Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes with beetlingbrows, and thick black hair that curled in waves about his ears--in short,they were one of those incongruous and impossible married couples with whichMother Nature so often wills to confound all prophets, before and after.Jurgis could take up a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound quarter of beef andcarry it into a car without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stoodin a far corner, frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten hislips with his tongue each time before he could answer the congratulationsof his friends.Gradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and theguests--a separation at least sufficiently complete for working purposes.There was no time during the festivities which ensued when there were notgroups of onlookers in the doorways and the corners; and if any one ofthese onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked sufficiently hungry,a chair was offered him, and he was invited to the feast. It was one ofthe laws of the veselija that no one goes hungry; and, while a rule madein the forests of Lithuania is hard to apply in the stockyards district ofChicago, with its quarter of a million inhabitants, still they did theirbest, and the children who ran in from the street, and even the dogs, wentout again happier. A charming informality was one of the characteristicsof this celebration. The men wore their hats, or, if they wished, theytook them off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where theypleased, and moved as often as they pleased. There were to be speechesand singing, but no one had to listen who did not care to; if he wished,meantime, to speak or sing himself, he was perfectly free. The resultingmedley of sound distracted no one, save possibly alone the babies, of whichthere were present a number equal to the total possessed by all the guestsinvited. There was no other place for the babies to be, and so part ofthe preparations for the evening consisted of a collection of cribs andcarriages in one corner. In these the babies slept, three or four together,or wakened together, as the case might be. Those who were still older,and could reach the tables, marched about munching contentedly at meat bonesand bologna sausages.The room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed walls, bare save fora calendar. a picture of a race horse, and a family tree in a gilded frame.To the right there is a door from the saloon, with a few loafers in thedoorway, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a presiding genius cladin soiled white, with waxed black mustaches and a carefully oiled curlplastered against one side of his forehead. In the opposite corner aretwo tables, filling a third of the room and laden with dishes and coldviands, which a few of the hungrier guests are already munching. At thehead, where sits the bride, is a snow-white cake, with an Eiffel tower ofconstructed decoration, with sugar roses and two angels upon it, and agenerous sprinkling of pink and green and yellow candies. Beyond opensa door into the kitchen, where there is a glimpse to be had of a range withmuch steam ascending from it, and many women, old and young, rushing hitherand thither. In the corner to the left are the three musicians, upon alittle platform, toiling heroically to make some impression upon the hubbub;also the babies, similarly occupied, and an open window whence the populaceimbibes the sights and sounds and odors.Suddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and, peering through it,you discern Aunt Elizabeth, Ona's stepmother--Teta Elzbieta, as they callher--bearing aloft a great platter of stewed duck. Behind her is Kotrina,making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a similar burden; and half aminute later there appears old Grandmother Majauszkiene, with a big yellowbowl of smoking potatoes, nearly as big as herself. So, bit by bit, thefeast takes form--there is a ham and a dish of sauerkraut, boiled rice,macaroni, bologna sausages, great piles of penny buns, bowls of milk, andfoaming pitchers of beer. There is also, not six feet from your back,the bar, where you may order all you please and do not have to pay for it."Eiksz! Graicziau!" screams Marija Berczynskas, and falls to work herself--for there is more upon the stove inside that will be spoiled if it benot eaten.So, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage and merriment, the gueststake their places. The young men, who for the most part have been huddlednear the door, summon their resolution and advance; and the shrinkingJurgis is poked and scolded by the old folks until he consents to seathimself at the right hand of the bride. The two bridesmaids, whoseinsignia of office are paper wreaths, come next, and after them the restof the guests, old and young, boys and girls. The spirit of the occasiontakes hold of the stately bartender, who condescends to a plate of stewedduck; even the fat policeman--whose duty it will be, later in the evening,to break up the fights--draws up a chair to the foot of the table. And thechildren shout and the babies yell, and every one laughs and sings andchatters--while above all the deafening clamor Cousin Marija shouts ordersto the musicians.The musicians--how shall one begin to describe them? All this time theyhave been there, playing in a mad frenzy--all of this scene must be read,or said, or sung, to music. It is the music which makes it what it is;it is the music which changes the place from the rear room of a saloonin back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little comer ofthe high mansions of the sky.The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man. His fiddle isout of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an inspiredman--the hands of the muses have been laid upon him. He plays like onepossessed by a demon, by a whole horde of demons. You can feel them inthe air round about him, capering frenetically; with their invisible feetthey set the pace, and the hair of the leader of the orchestra rises on end,and his eyeballs start from their sockets, as he toils to keep up with them.Tamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught himself to play theviolin by practicing all night, after working all day on the "killing beds."He is in his shirt sleeves, with a vest figured with faded gold horseshoes,and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of peppermint candy. A pair ofmilitary trousers, light blue with a yellow stripe, serve to give thatsuggestion of authority proper to the leader of a band. He is only aboutfive feet high, but even so these trousers are about eight inches shortof the ground. You wonder where he can have gotten them or rather youwould wonder, if the excitement of being in his presence left you time tothink of such things.For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired--you mightalmost say inspired separately. He stamps with his feet, he tosses hishead, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up little face,irresistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flourish, his browsknit and his lips work and his eyelids wink--the very ends of his necktiebristle out. And every now and then he turns upon his companions, nodding,signaling, beckoning frantically--with every inch of him appealing,imploring, in behalf of the muses and their call.For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two members of theorchestra. The second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with black-rimmed spectacles and the mute and patient look of an overdriven mule;he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls back into hisold rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red, sentimental nose,and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a look of infiniteyearning. He is playing a bass part upon his cello, and so the excitementis nothing to him; no matter what happens in the treble, it is his task tosaw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note after another, from four o'clockin the afternoon until nearly the same hour next morning, for his third ofthe total income of one dollar per hour.Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleikahas risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he isbeginning to edge over toward the tables. His nostrils are dilated andhis breath comes fast--his demons are driving him. He nods and shakeshis head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, until at lastthe long form of the second violinist also rises up. In the end all threeof them begin advancing, step by step, upon the banqueters, Valentinavyczia,he cellist, bumping along with his instrument between notes. Finally allthree are gathered at the foot of the tables, and there Tamoszius mountsupon a stool.Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people areeating, some are laughing and talking--but you will make a great mistakeif you think there is one of them who does not hear him. His notes arenever true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks andscratches on the high; but these things they heed no more than they heedthe dirt and noise and squalor about them--it is out of this material thatthey have to build their lives, with it that they have to utter their souls.And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous, or mournful and wailing,or passionate and rebellious, this music is their music, music of home.It stretches out its arms to them, they have only to give themselves up.Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade away--there are green meadowsand sunlit rivers, mighty forests and snowclad hills. They behold homelandscapes and childhood scenes returning; old loves and friendships beginto waken, old joys and griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall back and closetheir eyes, some beat upon the table. Now and then one leaps up with a cryand calls for this song or that; and then the fire leaps brighter inTamoszius' eyes, and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions,and away they go in mad career. The company takes up the choruses, and menand women cry out like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp uponthe floor, lifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long itoccurs to some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates thebeauty of the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of thismasterpiece Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables,making his way toward the head, where sits the bride. There is not a footof space between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so short thathe pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low notes;but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his companionsmust follow. During their progress, needless to say, the sounds of thecello are pretty well extinguished; but at last the three are at the head,and Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of the bride and beginsto pour out his soul in melting strains.Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a littlesomething, when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but, forthe most part, she sits gazing with the same fearful eyes of wonder.Teta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a hummingbird; her sisters, too,keep running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But Ona seemsscarcely to hear them--the music keeps calling, and the far-off lookcomes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together over her heart.Then the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she is ashamed to wipethem away, and ashamed to let them run down her cheeks, she turns andshakes her head a little, and then flushes red when she sees that Jurgisis watching her. When in the end Tamoszius Kuszleika has reached her side,and is waving his magic wand above her, Ona's cheeks are scarlet, and shelooks as if she would have to get up and run away.In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom themuses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers' parting;she wishes to hear it, and, as the musicians do not know it, she has risen,and is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but powerful in build.She works in a canning factory, and all day long she handles cans of beefthat weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad Slavic face, with prominentred cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it is tragical, but you cannot helpthinking of a horse. She wears a blue flannel shirt-waist, which is nowrolled up at the sleeves, disclosing her brawny arms; she has a carvingfork in her hand, with which she pounds on the table to mark the time.As she roars her song, in a voice of which it is enough to say that itleaves no portion of the room vacant, the three musicians follow her,laboriously and note by note, but averaging one note behind; thus theytoil through stanza after stanza of a lovesick swain's lamentation: -- "Sudiev' kvietkeli, tu brangiausis;Sudiev' ir laime, man biednam,Matau--paskyre teip Aukszcziausis,Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!" When the song is over, it is time for the speech, and old Dede Antanasrises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis' father, is not more thansixty years of age, but you would think that he was eighty. He has beenonly six months in America, and the change has not done him good. In hismanhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing fell upon him,and he had to leave; out in the country the trouble disappeared, but hehas been working in the pickle rooms at Durham's, and the breathing ofthe cold, damp air all day has brought it back. Now as he rises he isseized with a coughing fit, and holds himself by his chair and turns awayhis wan and battered face until it passes.Generally it is the custom for the speech at a veselija to be taken outof one of the books and learned by heart; but in his youthful days DedeAntanas used to be a scholar, and really make up all the love lettersof his friends. Now it is understood that he has composed an originalspeech of congratulation and benediction, and this is one of the eventsof the day. Even the boys, who are romping about the room, draw near andlisten, and some of the women sob and wipe their aprons in their eyes.It is very solemn, for Antanas Rudkus has become possessed of the ideathat he has not much longer to stay with his children. His speech leavesthem all so tearful that one of the guests, Jokubas Szedvilas, who keepsa delicatessen store on Halsted Street, and is fat and hearty, is movedto rise and say that things may not be as bad as that, and then to go onand make a little speech of his own, in which he showers congratulationsand prophecies of happiness upon the bride and groom, proceeding toparticulars which greatly delight the young men, but which cause Onato blush more furiously than ever. Jokubas possesses what his wifecomplacently describes as "poetiszka vaidintuve"--a poetical imagination.Now a good many of the guests have finished, and, since there is nopretense of ceremony, the banquet begins to break up. Some of the mengather about the bar; some wander about, laughing and singing; here andthere will be a little group, chanting merrily, and in sublime indifferenceto the others and to the orchestra as well. Everybody is more or lessrestless--one would guess that something is on their minds. And so itproves. The last tardy diners are scarcely given time to finish, beforethe tables and the debris are shoved into the corner, and the chairs andthe babies piled out of the way, and the real celebration of the eveningbegins. Then Tamoszius Kuszleika, after replenishing himself with a potof beer, returns to his platform, and, standing up, reviews the scene;he taps authoritatively upon the side of his violin, then tucks itcarefully under his chin, then waves his bow in an elaborate flourish,and finally smites the sounding strings and closes his eyes, and floatsaway in spirit upon the wings of a dreamy waltz. His companion follows,but with his eyes open, watching where he treads, so to speak; and finallyValentinavyczia, after waiting for a little and beating with his foot toget the time, casts up his eyes to the ceiling and begins to saw--"Broom!broom! broom!"The company pairs off quickly, and the whole room is soon in motion.Apparently nobody knows how to waltz, but that is nothing of anyconsequence--there is music, and they dance, each as he pleases, justas before they sang. Most of them prefer the "two-step," especiallythe young, with whom it is the fashion. The older people have dancesfrom home, strange and complicated steps which they execute with gravesolemnity. Some do not dance anything at all, but simply hold each other'shands and allow the undisciplined joy of motion to express itself withtheir feet. Among these are Jokubas Szedvilas and his wife, Lucija, whotogether keep the delicatessen store, and consume nearly as much as theysell; they are too fat to dance, but they stand in the middle of the floor,holding each other fast in their arms, rocking slowly from side to side andgrinning seraphically, a picture of toothless and perspiring ecstasy.Of these older people many wear clothing reminiscent in some detailof home--an embroidered waistcoat or stomacher, or a gaily coloredhandkerchief, or a coat with large cuffs and fancy buttons. All thesethings are carefully avoided by the young, most of whom have learned tospeak English and to affect the latest style of clothing. The girls wearready-made dresses or shirt waists, and some of them look quite pretty.Some of the young men you would take to be Americans, of the type ofclerks, but for the fact that they wear their hats in the room. Each ofthese younger couples affects a style of its own in dancing. Some holdeach other tightly, some at a cautious distance. Some hold their handsout stiffly, some drop them loosely at their sides. Some dance springily,some glide softly, some move with grave dignity. There are boisterouscouples, who tear wildly about the room, knocking every one out oftheir way. There are nervous couples, whom these frighten, and who cry,"Nusfok! Kas yra?" at them as they pass. Each couple is paired for theevening--you will never see them change about. There is Alena Jasaityte,for instance, who has danced unending hours with Juozas Raczius, to whomshe is engaged. Alena is the beauty of the evening, and she would be reallybeautiful if she were not so proud. She wears a white shirtwaist, whichrepresents, perhaps, half a week's labor painting cans. She holds her skirtwith her hand as she dances, with stately precision, after the manner of thegrandes dames. Juozas is driving one of Durham's wagons, and is making bigwages. He affects a "tough" aspect, wearing his hat on one side and keepinga cigarette in his mouth all the evening. Then there is Jadvyga Marcinkus,who is also beautiful, but humble. Jadvyga likewise paints cans, but thenshe has an invalid mother and three little sisters to support by it, andso she does not spend her wages for shirtwaists. Jadvyga is small anddelicate, with jet-black eyes and hair, the latter twisted into a littleknot and tied on the top of her head. She wears an old white dress whichshe has made herself and worn to parties for the past five years; it ishigh-waisted--almost under her arms, and not very becoming,--but thatdoes not trouble Jadvyga, who is dancing with her Mikolas. She is small,while he is big and powerful; she nestles in his arms as if she would hideherself from view, and leans her head upon his shoulder. He in turn hasclasped his arms tightly around her, as if he would carry her away; and soshe dances, and will dance the entire evening, and would dance forever,in ecstasy of bliss. You would smile, perhaps, to see them--but you wouldnot smile if you knew all the story. This is the fifth year, now, thatJadvyga has been engaged to Mikolas, and her heart is sick. They wouldhave been married in the beginning, only Mikolas has a father who is drunkall day, and he is the only other man in a large family. Even so they mighthave managed it (for Mikolas is a skilled man) but for cruel accidents whichhave almost taken the heart out of them. He is a beef-boner, and that isa dangerous trade, especially when you are on piecework and trying to earna bride. Your hands are slippery, and your knife is slippery, and you aretoiling like mad, when somebody happens to speak to you, or you strike abone. Then your hand slips up on the blade, and there is a fearful gash.And that would not be so bad, only for the deadly contagion. The cut mayheal, but you never can tell. Twice now; within the last three years,Mikolas has been lying at home with blood poisoning--once for three monthsand once for nearly seven. The last time, too, he lost his job, and thatmeant six weeks more of standing at the doors of the packing houses, at sixo'clock on bitter winter mornings, with a foot of snow on the ground andmore in the air. There are learned people who can tell you out of thestatistics that beef-boners make forty cents an hour, but, perhaps, thesepeople have never looked into a beef-boner's hands.When Tamoszius and his companions stop for a rest, as perforce theymust, now and then, the dancers halt where they are and wait patiently.They never seem to tire; and there is no place for them to sit down ifthey did. It is only for a minute, anyway, for the leader starts upagain, in spite of all the protests of the other two. This time itis another sort of a dance, a Lithuanian dance. Those who prefer to,go on with the two-step, but the majority go through an intricate seriesof motions, resembling more fancy skating than a dance. The climax ofit is a furious prestissimo, at which the couples seize hands and begina mad whirling. This is quite irresistible, and every one in the roomjoins in, until the place becomes a maze of flying skirts and bodiesquite dazzling to look upon. But the sight of sights at this momentis Tamoszius Kuszleika. The old fiddle squeaks and shrieks in protest,but Tamoszius has no mercy. The sweat starts out on his forehead, and hebends over like a cyclist on the last lap of a race. His body shakes andthrobs like a runaway steam engine, and the ear cannot follow the flyingshowers of notes--there is a pale blue mist where you look to see hisbowing arm. With a most wonderful rush he comes to the end of the tune,and flings up his hands and staggers back exhausted; and with a finalshout of delight the dancers fly apart, reeling here and there, bringingup against the walls of the room.After this there is beer for every one, the musicians included, and therevelers take a long breath and prepare for the great event of theevening, which is the acziavimas. The acziavimas is a ceremony which,once begun, will continue for three or four hours, and it involves oneuninterrupted dance. The guests form a great ring, locking hands, and,when the music starts up, begin to move around in a circle. In the centerstands the bride, and, one by one, the men step into the enclosure anddance with her. Each dances for several minutes--as long as he pleases;it is a very merry proceeding, with laughter and singing, and when theguest has finished, he finds himself face to face with Teta Elzbieta,who holds the hat. Into it he drops a sum of money--a dollar, or perhapsfive dollars, according to his power, and his estimate of the value ofthe privilege. The guests are expected to pay for this entertainment;if they be proper guests, they will see that there is a neat sum left overfor the bride and bridegroom to start life upon.Most fearful they are to contemplate, the expenses of this entertainment.They will certainly be over two hundred dollars and maybe three hundred;and three hundred dollars is more than the year's income of many a personin this room. There are able-bodied men here who work from early morninguntil late at night, in ice-cold cellars with a quarter of an inch ofwater on the floor--men who for six or seven months in the year neversee the sunlight from Sunday afternoon till the next Sunday morning--and who cannot earn three hundred dollars in a year. There are littlechildren here, scarce in their teens, who can hardly see the top of thework benches--whose parents have lied to get them their places--and whodo not make the half of three hundred dollars a year, and perhaps noteven the third of it. And then to spend such a sum, all in a single dayof your life, at a wedding feast! (For obviously it is the same thing,whether you spend it at once for your own wedding, or in a long time,at the weddings of all your friends.)It is very imprudent, it is tragic--but, ah, it is so beautiful! Bit bybit these poor people have given up everything else; but to this theycling with all the power of their souls--they cannot give up theveselija! To do that would mean, not merely to be defeated, but toacknowledge defeat--and the difference between these two things is whatkeeps the world going. The veselija has come down to them from a far-offtime; and the meaning of it was that one might dwell within the cave andgaze upon shadows, provided only that once in his lifetime he could breakhis chains, and feel his wings, and behold the sun; provided that once inhis lifetime he might testify to the fact that life, with all its caresand its terrors, is no such great thing after all, but merely a bubbleupon the surface of a river, a thing that one may toss about and playwith as a juggler tosses his golden balls, a thing that one may quaff,like a goblet of rare red wine. Thus having known himself for the masterof things, a man could go back to his toil and live upon the memory allhis days. Endlessly the dancers swung round and round--when they were dizzy theyswung the other way. Hour after hour this had continued--the darknesshad fallen and the room was dim from the light of two smoky oil lamps.The musicians had spent all their fine frenzy by now, and played onlyone tune, wearily, ploddingly. There were twenty bars or so of it, andwhen they came to the end they began again. Once every ten minutes orso they would fail to begin again, but instead would sink back exhausted;a circumstance which invariably brought on a painful and terrifying scene,that made the fat policeman stir uneasily in his sleeping place behindthe door.It was all Marija Berczynskas. Marija was one of those hungry souls whocling with desperation to the skirts of the retreating muse. All day longshe had been in a state of wonderful exaltation; and now it was leaving--and she would not let it go. Her soul cried out in the words of Faust,"Stay, thou art fair!" Whether it was by beer, or by shouting, or by music,or by motion, she meant that it should not go. And she would go back tothe chase of it--and no sooner be fairly started than her chariot wouldbe thrown off the track, so to speak, by the stupidity of those thriceaccursed musicians. Each time, Marija would emit a howl and fly at them,shaking her fists in their faces, stamping upon the floor, purple andincoherent with rage. In vain the frightened Tamoszius would attemptto speak, to plead the limitations of the flesh; in vain would the puffingand breathless ponas Jokubas insist, in vain would Teta Elzbieta implore."Szalin!" Marija would scream. "Palauk! isz kelio! What are you paid for,children of hell?" And so, in sheer terror, the orchestra would strike upagain, and Marija would return to her place and take up her task.She bore all the burden of the festivities now. Ona was kept up by herexcitement, but all of the women and most of the men were tired--the soulof Marija was alone unconquered. She drove on the dancers--what had oncebeen the ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at the stem, pullingone way and pushing the other. shouting, stamping, singing, a very volcanoof energy. Now and then some one coming in or out would leave the dooropen, and the night air was chill; Marija as she passed would stretch outher foot and kick the doorknob, and slam would go the door! Once thisprocedure was the cause of a calamity of which Sebastijonas Szedvilas wasthe hapless victim. Little Sebastijonas, aged three, had been wanderingabout oblivious to all things, holding turned up over his mouth a bottleof liquid known as "pop," pink-colored, ice-cold, and delicious. Passingthrough the doorway the door smote him full, and the shriek which followedbrought the dancing to a halt. Marija, who threatened horrid murder ahundred times a day, and would weep over the injury of a fly, seizedlittle Sebastijonas in her arms and bid fair to smother him with kisses.There was a long rest for the orchestra, and plenty of refreshments, whileMarija was making her peace with her victim, seating him upon the bar,and standing beside him and holding to his lips a foaming schooner of beer.In the meantime there was going on in another corner of the room ananxious conference between Teta Elzbieta and Dede Antanas, and a few ofthe more intimate friends of the family. A trouble was come upon them.The veselija is a compact, a compact not expressed, but therefore only themore binding upon all. Every one's share was different--and yet every oneknew perfectly well what his share was, and strove to give a little more.Now, however, since they had come to the new country, all this was changing;it seemed as if there must be some subtle poison in the air that onebreathed here--it was affecting all the young men at once. They wouldcome in crowds and fill themselves with a fine dinner, and then sneak off.One would throw another's hat out of the window, and both would go out toget it, and neither could be seen again. Or now and then half a dozen ofthem would get together and march out openly, staring at you, and making funof you to your face. Still others, worse yet, would crowd about the bar,and at the expense of the host drink themselves sodden, paying not theleast attention to any one, and leaving it to be thought that either theyhad danced with the bride already, or meant to later on.All these things were going on now, and the family was helpless withdismay. So long they had toiled, and such an outlay they had made!Ona stood by, her eyes wide with terror. Those frightful bills--how theyhad haunted her, each item gnawing at her soul all day and spoiling herrest at night. How often she had named them over one by one and figuredon them as she went to work--fifteen dollars for the hall, twenty-twodollars and a quarter for the ducks, twelve dollars for the musicians,five dollars at the church, and a blessing of the Virgin besides--and soon without an end! Worst of all was the frightful bill that was stillto come from Graiczunas for the beer and liquor that might be consumed.One could never get in advance more than a guess as to this from asaloonkeeper--and then, when the time came he always came to you scratchinghis head and saying that he had guessed too low, but that he had done hisbest--your guests had gotten so very drunk. By him you were sure to becheated unmercifully, and that even though you thought yourself the dearestof the hundreds of friends he had. He would begin to serve your guestsout of a keg that was half full, and finish with one that was half empty,and then you would be charged for two kegs of beer. He would agree toserve a certain quality at a certain price, and when the time came youand your friends would be drinking some horrible poison that could not bedescribed. You might complain, but you would get nothing for your painsbut a ruined evening; while, as for going to law about it, you might aswell go to heaven at once. The saloonkeeper stood in with all the bigpolitics men in the district; and when you had once found out what itmeant to get into trouble with such people, you would know enough to paywhat you were told to pay and shut up. What made all this the more painful was that it was so hard on the fewthat had really done their best. There was poor old ponas Jokubas, forinstance--he had already given five dollars, and did not every one knowthat Jokubas Szedvilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for twohundred dollars to meet several months' overdue rent? And then there waswithered old poni Aniele--who was a widow, and had three children, and therheumatism besides, and did washing for the tradespeople on Halsted Streetat prices it would break your heart to hear named. Aniele had given theentire profit of her chickens for several months. Eight of them she owned,and she kept them in a little place fenced around on her backstairs.All day long the children of Aniele were raking in the dump for food forthese chickens; and sometimes, when the competition there was too fierce,you might see them on Halsted Street walking close to the gutters, and withtheir mother following to see that no one robbed them of their finds.Money could not tell the value of these chickens to old Mrs. Jukniene--she valued them differently, for she had a feeling that she was gettingsomething for nothing by means of them--that with them she was getting thebetter of a world that was getting the better of her in so many other ways.So she watched them every hour of the day, and had learned to see like anowl at night to watch them then. One of them had been stolen long ago,and not a month passed that some one did not try to steal another. As thefrustrating of this one attempt involved a score of false alarms, it willbe understood what a tribute old Mrs. Jukniene brought, just because TetaElzbieta had once loaned her some money for a few days and saved her frombeing turned out of her house.More and more friends gathered round while the lamentation about thesethings was going on. Some drew nearer, hoping to overhear the conversation,who were themselves among the guilty--and surely that was a thing to trythe patience of a saint. Finally there came Jurgis, urged by some one,and the story was retold to him. Jurgis listened in silence, with hisgreat black eyebrows knitted. Now and then there would come a gleamunderneath them and he would glance about the room. Perhaps he would haveliked to go at some of those fellows with his big clenched fists; but then,doubtless, he realized how little good it would do him. No bill would beany less for turning out any one at this time; and then there would be thescandal--and Jurgis wanted nothing except to get away with Ona and to letthe world go its own way. So his hands relaxed and he merely said quietly:"It is done, and there is no use in weeping, Teta Elzbieta." Then his lookturned toward Ona, who stood close to his side, and he saw the wide lookof terror in her eyes. "Little one," he said, in a low voice, "do notworry--it will not matter to us. We will pay them all somehow. I willwork harder." That was always what Jurgis said. Ona had grown used toit as the solution of all difficulties--"I will work harder!" He hadsaid that in Lithuania when one official had taken his passport from him,and another had arrested him for being without it, and the two had divideda third of his belongings. He had said it again in New York, when thesmooth-spoken agent had taken them in hand and made them pay such highprices, and almost prevented their leaving his place, in spite of theirpaying. Now he said it a third time, and Ona drew a deep breath; it wasso wonderful to have a husband, just like a grown woman--and a husband whocould solve all problems, and who was so big and strong! The last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled, and the orchestrahas once more been reminded of its duty. The ceremony begins again--butthere are few now left to dance with, and so very soon the collection isover and promiscuous dances once more begin. It is now after midnight,however, and things are not as they were before. The dancers are dulland heavy--most of them have been drinking hard, and have long ago passedthe stage of exhilaration. They dance in monotonous measure, round afterround, hour after hour, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, as if they wereonly half conscious, in a constantly growing stupor. The men grasp thewomen very tightly, but there will be half an hour together when neitherwill see the other's face. Some couples do not care to dance, and haveretired to the corners, where they sit with their arms enlaced. Others,who have been drinking still more, wander about the room, bumping intoeverything; some are in groups of two or three, singing, each groupits own song. As time goes on there is a variety of drunkenness, amongthe younger men especially. Some stagger about in each other's arms,whispering maudlin words--others start quarrels upon the slightest pretext,and come to blows and have to be pulled apart. Now the fat policeman wakensdefinitely, and feels of his club to see that it is ready for business.He has to be prompt--for these two-o'clock-in-the-morning fights, if theyonce get out of hand, are like a forest fire, and may mean the wholereserves at the station. The thing to do is to crack every fighting headthat you see, before there are so many fighting heads that you cannotcrack any of them. There is but scant account kept of cracked heads inback of the yards, for men who have to crack the heads of animals all dayseem to get into the habit, and to practice on their friends, and even ontheir families, between times. This makes it a cause for congratulationthat by modern methods a very few men can do the painfully necessary workof head-cracking for the whole of the cultured world.There is no fight that night--perhaps because Jurgis, too, is watchful--even more so than the policeman. Jurgis has drunk a great deal, as anyone naturally would on an occasion when it all has to be paid for, whetherit is drunk or not; but he is a very steady man, and does not easily losehis temper. Only once there is a tight shave--and that is the fault ofMarija Berczynskas. Marija has apparently concluded about two hours agothat if the altar in the corner, with the deity in soiled white, be notthe true home of the muses, it is, at any rate, the nearest substitute onearth attainable. And Marija is just fighting drunk when there come to herears the facts about the villains who have not paid that night. Marija goeson the warpath straight off, without even the preliminary of a good cursing,and when she is pulled off it is with the coat collars of two villains inher hands. Fortunately, the policeman is disposed to be reasonable, and soit is not Marija who is flung out of the place.All this interrupts the music for not more than a minute or two. Then againthe merciless tune begins--the tune that has been played for the lasthalf-hour without one single change. It is an American tune this time,one which they have picked up on the streets; all seem to know the wordsof it--or, at any rate, the first line of it, which they hum to themselves,over and over again without rest: "In the good old summertime--in the goodold summertime! In the good old summertime--in the good old summertime!"There seems to be something hypnotic about this, with its endlesslyrecurring dominant. It has put a stupor upon every one who hears it,as well as upon the men who are playing it. No one can get away from it,or even think of getting away from it; it is three o'clock in the morning,and they have danced out all their joy, and danced out all their strength,and all the strength that unlimited drink can lend them--and still thereis no one among them who has the power to think of stopping. Promptly atseven o'clock this same Monday morning they will every one of them have tobe in their places at Durham's or Brown's or Jones's, each in his workingclothes. If one of them be a minute late, he will be docked an hour's pay,and if he be many minutes late, he will be apt to find his brass checkturned to the wall, which will send him out to join the hungry mob thatwaits every morning at the gates of the packing houses, from six o'clockuntil nearly half-past eight. There is no exception to this rule, not evenlittle Ona--who has asked for a holiday the day after her wedding day,a holiday without pay, and been refused. While there are so many who areanxious to work as you wish, there is no occasion for incommoding yourselfwith those who must work otherwise.Little Ona is nearly ready to faint--and half in a stupor herself, becauseof the heavy scent in the room. She has not taken a drop, but every oneelse there is literally burning alcohol, as the lamps are burning oil;some of the men who are sound asleep in their chairs or on the floor arereeking of it so that you cannot go near them. Now and then Jurgis gazesat her hungrily--he has long since forgotten his shyness; but then thecrowd is there, and he still waits and watches the door, where a carriageis supposed to come. It does not, and finally he will wait no longer,but comes up to Ona, who turns white and trembles. He puts her shawl abouther and then his own coat. They live only two blocks away, and Jurgis doesnot care about the carriage. There is almost no farewell--the dancers do not notice them, and all of thechildren and many of the old folks have fallen asleep of sheer exhaustion.Dede Antanas is asleep, and so are the Szedvilases, husband and wife,the former snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and Marija, sobbingloudly; and then there is only the silent night, with the stars beginningto pale a little in the east. Jurgis, without a word, lifts Ona in hisarms, and strides out with her, and she sinks her head upon his shoulderwith a moan. When he reaches home he is not sure whether she has faintedor is asleep, but when he has to hold her with one hand while he unlocksthe door, he sees that she has opened her eyes. "You shall not go to Brown's today, little one," he whispers, as he climbsthe stairs; and she catches his arm in terror, gasping: "No! No! I darenot! It will ruin us!" But he answers her again: "Leave it to me; leave it to me. I will earnmore money--I will work harder."