Chapter 20

by Upton Sinclair

　　But a big man cannot stay drunk very long on three dollars. That wasSunday morning, and Monday night Jurgis came home, sober and sick,realizing that he had spent every cent the family owned, and had notbought a single instant's forgetfulness with it.Ona was not yet buried; but the police had been notified, and on themorrow they would put the body in a pine coffin and take it to thepotter's field. Elzbieta was out begging now, a few pennies fromeach of the neighbors, to get enough to pay for a mass for her;and the children were upstairs starving to death, while he,good-for-nothing rascal, had been spending their money on drink.So spoke Aniele, scornfully, and when he started toward the fireshe added the information that her kitchen was no longer for himto fill with his phosphate stinks. She had crowded all her boardersinto one room on Ona's account, but now he could go up in the garretwhere he belonged--and not there much longer, either, if he did notpay her some rent.Jurgis went without a word, and, stepping over half a dozen sleepingboarders in the next room, ascended the ladder. It was dark up above;they could not afford any light; also it was nearly as cold as outdoors.In a corner, as far away from the corpse as possible, sat Marija,holding little Antanas in her one good arm and trying to soothe himto sleep. In another corner crouched poor little Juozapas, wailingbecause he had had nothing to eat all day. Marija said not a wordto Jurgis; he crept in like a whipped cur, and went and sat downby the body.Perhaps he ought to have meditated upon the hunger of the children,and upon his own baseness; but he thought only of Ona, he gave himselfup again to the luxury of grief. He shed no tears, being ashamedto make a sound; he sat motionless and shuddering with his anguish.He had never dreamed how much he loved Ona, until now that she was gone;until now that he sat here, knowing that on the morrow they wouldtake her away, and that he would never lay eyes upon her again--neverall the days of his life. His old love, which had been starvedto death, beaten to death, awoke in him again; the floodgates ofmemory were lifted--he saw all their life together, saw her as hehad seen her in Lithuania, the first day at the fair, beautiful asthe flowers, singing like a bird. He saw her as he had married her,with all her tenderness, with her heart of wonder; the very wordsshe had spoken seemed to ring now in his ears, the tears she had shedto be wet upon his cheek. The long, cruel battle with misery andhunger had hardened and embittered him, but it had not changed her--she had been the same hungry soul to the end, stretching out her armsto him, pleading with him, begging him for love and tenderness.And she had suffered--so cruelly she had suffered, such agonies,such infamies--ah, God, the memory of them was not to be borne.What a monster of wickedness, of heartlessness, he had been!Every angry word that he had ever spoken came back to him and cuthim like a knife; every selfish act that he had done--with whattorments he paid for them now! And such devotion and awe as welledup in his soul--now that it could never be spoken, now that it wastoo late, too late! His bosom-was choking with it, bursting with it;he crouched here in the darkness beside her, stretching out his armsto her--and she was gone forever, she was dead! He could havescreamed aloud with the horror and despair of it; a sweat of agonybeaded his forehead, yet he dared not make a sound--he scarcely daredto breathe, because of his shame and loathing of himself.Late at night came Elzbieta, having gotten the money for a mass,and paid for it in advance, lest she should be tempted too sorelyat home. She brought also a bit of stale rye bread that some onehad given her, and with that they quieted the children and got themto sleep. Then she came over to Jurgis and sat down beside him.She said not a word of reproach--she and Marija had chosen thatcourse before; she would only plead with him, here by the corpse ofhis dead wife. Already Elzbieta had choked down her tears, griefbeing crowded out of her soul by fear. She had to bury one of herchildren--but then she had done it three times before, and each timerisen up and gone back to take up the battle for the rest. Elzbietawas one of the primitive creatures: like the angleworm, which goeson living though cut in half; like a hen, which, deprived of herchickens one by one, will mother the last that is left her. She didthis because it was her nature--she asked no questions about thejustice of it, nor the worth-whileness of life in which destructionand death ran riot.And this old common-sense view she labored to impress upon Jurgis,pleading with him with tears in her eyes. Ona was dead, but theothers were left and they must be saved. She did not ask for herown children. She and Marija could care for them somehow, but therewas Antanas, his own son. Ona had given Antanas to him--the littlefellow was the only remembrance of her that he had; he must treasureit and protect it, he must show himself a man. He knew what Ona wouldhave had him do, what she would ask of him at this moment, if shecould speak to him. It was a terrible thing that she should havedied as she had; but the life had been too hard for her, and shehad to go. It was terrible that they were not able to bury her,that he could not even have a day to mourn her--but so it was.Their fate was pressing; they had not a cent, and the children wouldperish--some money must be had. Could he not be a man for Ona's sake,and pull himself together? In a little while they would be out ofdanger--now that they had given up the house they could live morecheaply, and with all the children working they could get along,if only he would not go to pieces. So Elzbieta went on, with feverishintensity. It was a struggle for life with her; she was not afraidthat Jurgis would go on drinking, for he had no money for that,but she was wild with dread at the thought that he might desert them,might take to the road, as Jonas had done.But with Ona's dead body beneath his eyes, Jurgis could not wellthink of treason to his child. Yes, he said, he would try, for thesake of Antanas. He would give the little fellow his chance--wouldget to work at once, yes, tomorrow, without even waiting for Ona to beburied. They might trust him, he would keep his word, come what might.And so he was out before daylight the next morning, headache,heartache, and all. He went straight to Graham's fertilizer mill,to see if he could get back his job. But the boss shook his headwhen he saw him--no, his place had been filled long ago, and therewas no room for him."Do you think there will be?" Jurgis asked. "I may have to wait.""No," said the other, "it will not be worth your while to wait--therewill be nothing for you here."Jurgis stood gazing at him in perplexity. "What is the matter?"he asked. "Didn't I do my work?"The other met his look with one of cold indifference, and answered,"There will be nothing for you here, I said."Jurgis had his suspicions as to the dreadful meaning of that incident,and he went away with a sinking at the heart. He went and took hisstand with the mob of hungry wretches who were standing about inthe snow before the time station. Here he stayed, breakfastless,for two hours, until the throng was driven away by the clubs ofthe police. There was no work for him that day.Jurgis had made a good many acquaintances in his long services at theyards--there were saloonkeepers who would trust him for a drink and asandwich, and members of his old union who would lend him a dime ata pinch. It was not a question of life and death for him, therefore;he might hunt all day, and come again on the morrow, and try hangingon thus for weeks, like hundreds and thousands of others. Meantime,Teta Elzbieta would go and beg, over in the Hyde Park district,and the children would bring home enough to pacify Aniele, and keepthem all alive.It was at the end of a week of this sort of waiting, roaming aboutin the bitter winds or loafing in saloons, that Jurgis stumbled ona chance in one of the cellars of Jones's big packing plant. He sawa foreman passing the open doorway, and hailed him for a job."Push a truck?" inquired the man, and Jurgis answered, "Yes, sir!"before the words were well out of his mouth."What's your name?" demanded the other."Jurgis Rudkus.""Worked in the yards before?""Yes.""Whereabouts?""Two places--Brown's killing beds and Durham's fertilizer mill.""Why did you leave there?""The first time I had an accident, and the last time I was sent upfor a month.""I see. Well, I'll give you a trial. Come early tomorrow and askfor Mr. Thomas."So Jurgis rushed home with the wild tidings that he had a job--thatthe terrible siege was over. The remnants of the family had quitea celebration that night; and in the morning Jurgis was at the placehalf an hour before the time of opening. The foreman came in shortlyafterward, and when he saw Jurgis he frowned."Oh," he said, "I promised you a job, didn't I?""Yes, sir," said Jurgis."Well, I'm sorry, but I made a mistake. I can't use you."Jurgis stared, dumfounded. "What's the matter?" he gasped."Nothing," said the man, "only I can't use you."There was the same cold, hostile stare that he had had from the bossof the fertilizer mill. He knew that there was no use in sayinga word, and he turned and went away.Out in the saloons the men could tell him all about the meaning of it;they gazed at him with pitying eyes--poor devil, he was blacklisted!What had he done? they asked--knocked down his boss? Good heavens,then he might have known! Why, he stood as much chance of gettinga job in Packingtown as of being chosen mayor of Chicago. Why hadhe wasted his time hunting? They had him on a secret list in everyoffice, big and little, in the place. They had his name by this timein St. Louis and New York, in Omaha and Boston, in Kansas City andSt. Joseph. He was condemned and sentenced, without trial andwithout appeal; he could never work for the packers again--he couldnot even clean cattle pens or drive a truck in any place where theycontrolled. He might try it, if he chose, as hundreds had tried it,and found out for themselves. He would never be told anything about it;he would never get any more satisfaction than he had gotten just now;but he would always find when the time came that he was not needed.It would not do for him to give any other name, either--they hadcompany "spotters" for just that purpose, and he wouldn't keep a jobin Packingtown three days. It was worth a fortune to the packers tokeep their blacklist effective, as a warning to the men and a meansof keeping down union agitation and political discontent.Jurgis went home, carrying these new tidings to the family council.It was a most cruel thing; here in this district was his home,such as it was, the place he was used to and the friends he knew--and now every possibility of employment in it was closed to him.There was nothing in Packingtown but packing houses; and so it wasthe same thing as evicting him from his home.He and the two women spent all day and half the night discussing it.It would be convenient, downtown, to the children's place of work;but then Marija was on the road to recovery, and had hopes of gettinga job in the yards; and though she did not see her old-time loveronce a month, because of the misery of their state, yet she couldnot make up her mind to go away and give him up forever. Then, too,Elzbieta had heard something about a chance to scrub floors inDurham's offices and was waiting every day for word. In the endit was decided that Jurgis should go downtown to strike out forhimself, and they would decide after he got a job. As there wasno one from whom he could borrow there, and he dared not beg forfear of being arrested, it was arranged that every day he shouldmeet one of the children and be given fifteen cents of their earnings,upon which he could keep going. Then all day he was to pace thestreets with hundreds and thousands of other homeless wretchesinquiring at stores, warehouses, and factories for a chance; and atnight he was to crawl into some doorway or underneath a truck,and hide there until midnight, when he might get into one of thestation houses, and spread a newspaper upon the floor, and lie downin the midst of a throng of "bums" and beggars, reeking with alcoholand tobacco, and filthy with vermin and disease.So for two weeks more Jurgis fought with the demon of despair.Once he got a chance to load a truck for half a day, and again hecarried an old woman's valise and was given a quarter. This lethim into a lodginghouse on several nights when he might otherwisehave frozen to death; and it also gave him a chance now and thento buy a newspaper in the morning and hunt up jobs while his rivalswere watching and waiting for a paper to be thrown away. This, however,was really not the advantage it seemed, for the newspaper advertisementswere a cause of much loss of precious time and of many weary journeys.A full half of these were "fakes," put in by the endless variety ofestablishments which preyed upon the helpless ignorance of theunemployed. If Jurgis lost only his time, it was because he hadnothing else to lose; whenever a smooth-tongued agent would tellhim of the wonderful positions he had on hand, he could only shakehis head sorrowfully and say that he had not the necessary dollarto deposit; when it was explained to him what "big money" he and allhis family could make by coloring photographs, he could only promiseto come in again when he had two dollars to invest in the outfit.In the end Jurgis got a chance through an accidental meeting withan old-time acquaintance of his union days. He met this man on hisway to work in the giant factories of the Harvester Trust; and hisfriend told him to come along and he would speak a good word for himto his boss, whom he knew well. So Jurgis trudged four or five miles,and passed through a waiting throng of unemployed at the gate underthe escort of his friend. His knees nearly gave way beneath him whenthe foreman, after looking him over and questioning him, told himthat he could find an opening for him.How much this accident meant to Jurgis he realized only by stages;for he found that the harvester works were the sort of place towhich philanthropists and reformers pointed with pride. It hadsome thought for its employees; its workshops were big and roomy,it provided a restaurant where the workmen could buy good foodat cost, it had even a reading room, and decent places where itsgirl-hands could rest; also the work was free from many of theelements of filth and repulsiveness that prevailed at the stockyards.Day after day Jurgis discovered these things--things never expectednor dreamed of by him--until this new place came to seem a kind ofa heaven to him.It was an enormous establishment, covering a hundred and sixty acresof ground, employing five thousand people, and turning out overthree hundred thousand machines every year--a good part of all theharvesting and mowing machines used in the country. Jurgis saw verylittle of it, of course--it was all specialized work, the same as atthe stockyards; each one of the hundreds of parts of a mowing machinewas made separately, and sometimes handled by hundreds of men.Where Jurgis worked there was a machine which cut and stamped acertain piece of steel about two square inches in size; the piecescame tumbling out upon a tray, and all that human hands had to dowas to pile them in regular rows, and change the trays at intervals.This was done by a single boy, who stood with eyes and thoughtcentered upon it, and fingers flying so fast that the sounds of thebits of steel striking upon each other was like the music of anexpress train as one hears it in a sleeping car at night. This was"piece-work," of course; and besides it was made certain that the boydid not idle, by setting the machine to match the highest possiblespeed of human hands. Thirty thousand of these pieces he handledevery day, nine or ten million every year--how many in a lifetimeit rested with the gods to say. Near by him men sat bending overwhirling grindstones, putting the finishing touches to the steelknives of the reaper; picking them out of a basket with the righthand, pressing first one side and then the other against the stoneand finally dropping them with the left hand into another basket.One of these men told Jurgis that he had sharpened three thousandpieces of steel a day for thirteen years. In the next room werewonderful machines that ate up long steel rods by slow stages,cutting them off, seizing the pieces, stamping heads upon them,grinding them and polishing them, threading them, and finallydropping them into a basket, all ready to bolt the harvesterstogether. From yet another machine came tens of thousands of steelburs to fit upon these bolts. In other places all these variousparts were dipped into troughs of paint and hung up to dry, and thenslid along on trolleys to a room where men streaked them with redand yellow, so that they might look cheerful in the harvest fields.Jurgis's friend worked upstairs in the casting rooms, and his taskwas to make the molds of a certain part. He shoveled black sandinto an iron receptacle and pounded it tight and set it aside toharden; then it would be taken out, and molten iron poured into it.This man, too, was paid by the mold--or rather for perfect castings,nearly half his work going for naught. You might see him, along withdozens of others, toiling like one possessed by a whole communityof demons; his arms working like the driving rods of an engine,his long, black hair flying wild, his eyes starting out, the sweatrolling in rivers down his face. When he had shoveled the mold fullof sand, and reached for the pounder to pound it with, it was afterthe manner of a canoeist running rapids and seizing a pole at sightof a submerged rock. All day long this man would toil thus, his wholebeing centered upon the purpose of making twenty-three instead oftwenty-two and a half cents an hour; and then his product would bereckoned up by the census taker, and jubilant captains of industrywould boast of it in their banquet halls, telling how our workersare nearly twice as efficient as those of any other country. If weare the greatest nation the sun ever shone upon, it would seem to bemainly because we have been able to goad our wage-earners to thispitch of frenzy; though there are a few other things that are greatamong us including our drink-bill, which is a billion and a quarterof dollars a year, and doubling itself every decade.There was a machine which stamped out the iron plates, and thenanother which, with a mighty thud, mashed them to the shape of thesitting-down portion of the American farmer. Then they were piledupon a truck, and it was Jurgis's task to wheel them to the roomwhere the machines were "assembled." This was child's play for him,and he got a dollar and seventy-five cents a day for it; on Saturdayhe paid Aniele the seventy-five cents a week he owed her for the useof her garret, and also redeemed his overcoat, which Elzbieta hadput in pawn when he was in jail.This last was a great blessing. A man cannot go about in midwinterin Chicago with no overcoat and not pay for it, and Jurgis had towalk or ride five or six miles back and forth to his work. lt sohappened that half of this was in one direction and half in another,necessitating a change of cars; the law required that transfers begiven at all intersecting points, but the railway corporation hadgotten round this by arranging a pretense at separate ownership.So whenever he wished to ride, he had to pay ten cents each way,or over ten per cent of his income to this power, which had gottenits franchises long ago by buying up the city council, in the faceof popular clamor amounting almost to a rebellion. Tired as he feltat night, and dark and bitter cold as it was in the morning, Jurgisgenerally chose to walk; at the hours other workmen were traveling,the streetcar monopoly saw fit to put on so few cars that therewould be men hanging to every foot of the backs of them and oftencrouching upon the snow-covered roof. Of course the doors couldnever be closed, and so the cars were as cold as outdoors; Jurgis,like many others, found it better to spend his fare for a drink anda free lunch, to give him strength to walk.These, however, were all slight matters to a man who had escaped fromDurham's fertilizer mill. Jurgis began to pick up heart again andto make plans. He had lost his house but then the awful load ofthe rent and interest was off his shoulders, and when Marija waswell again they could start over and save. In the shop where heworked was a man, a Lithuanian like himself, whom the others spokeof in admiring whispers, because of the mighty feats he was performing.All day he sat at a machine turning bolts; and then in the eveninghe went to the public school to study English and learn to read.In addition, because he had a family of eight children to supportand his earnings were not enough, on Saturdays and Sundays he servedas a watchman; he was required to press two buttons at opposite endsof a building every five minutes, and as the walk only took him twominutes, he had three minutes to study between each trip. Jurgis feltjealous of this fellow; for that was the sort of thing he himselfhad dreamed of, two or three years ago. He might do it even yet,if he had a fair chance--he might attract attention and becomea skilled man or a boss, as some had done in this place. Supposethat Marija could get a job in the big mill where they made bindertwine--then they would move into this neighborhood, and he wouldreally have a chance. With a hope like that, there was some usein living; to find a place where you were treated like a human being--by God! he would show them how he could appreciate it. He laughedto himself as he thought how he would hang on to this job!And then one afternoon, the ninth of his work in the place, when hewent to get his overcoat he saw a group of men crowded before aplacard on the door, and when he went over and asked what it was,they told him that beginning with the morrow his department of theharvester works would be closed until further notice!