For instance, there was a night during this cold spell. He had begged all day, for his very life, and found not a soul to heed him, until toward evening he saw an old lady getting off a street-car and helped her down with her umbrellas and bundles, and then told her his “hard-luck story,” and after answering all her suspicious questions satisfactorily, was taken to a restaurant and saw a quarter paid down for a meal. And so he had soup and bread, and boiled beef and potatoes and beans, and pie and coffee, and came out with his skin stuffed tight as a football. And then, through the rain and the darkness, far down the street he saw red lights flaring and heard the thumping of a bass-drum; and his heart gave a leap, and he made for the place on the run—knowing without the asking that it meant a political meeting.
The campaign had so far been characterized by what the newspapers termed “apathy.” For some reason the people refused to get excited over the struggle, and it was almost impossible to get them to come to meetings, or to make any noise when they did come. Those which had been held in Chicago so far had proven most dismal failures, and to-night, the speaker being no less a personage than a candidate for the vice-presidency of the nation, the political managers had been trembling with anxiety. But a merciful Providence had sent this storm of cold rain—and now all it was necessary to do was to set off a few fireworks, and thump awhile on a drum, and all the homeless wretches from a mile around would pour in and fill the hall! And then on the morrow the newspapers would have a chance to report the tremendous ovation, and to add that it had been no “silk-stocking” audience, either, proving clearly that the high-tariff sentiments of the distinguished candidate were pleasing to the wage-earners of the nation.
So Jurgis found himself in a large hall, elaborately decorated with flags and bunting; and after the chairman had made his little speech, and the orator of the evening rose up, amid an uproar from the band—only fancy the emotions of Jurgis upon making the discovery that the personage was none other than the famous and eloquent Senator Spareshanks, who had addressed the “Doyle Republican Association” at the stockyards, and helped to elect Mike Scully’s ten-pin setter to the Chicago Board of Aldermen!
In truth, the sight of the senator almost brought the tears into Jurgis’s eyes. What agony it was to him to look back upon those golden hours, when he, too, had a place beneath the shadow of the plum tree! When he, too, had been of the elect, through whom the country is governed—when he had had a bung in the campaign-barrel for his own! And this was another election in which the Republicans had all the money; and but for that one hideous accident he might have had a share of it, instead of being where he was!
The eloquent senator was explaining the system of Protection; an ingenious device whereby the working-man permitted the manufacturer to charge him higher prices, in order that he might receive higher wages; thus taking his money out of his pocket with one hand, and putting a part of it back with the other. To the senator this unique arrangement had somehow become identified with the higher verities of the universe. It was because of it that Columbia was the gem of the ocean; and all her future triumphs, her power and good repute among the nations, depended upon the zeal and fidelity with which each citizen held up the hands of those who were toiling to maintain it. The name of this heroic company was “the Grand Old Party”—
And here the band began to play, and Jurgis sat up with a violent start. Singular as it may seem, Jurgis was making a desperate effort to understand what the senator was saying—to comprehend the extent of American prosperity, the enormous expansion of American commerce, and the Republic’s future in the Pacific and in South America, and wherever else the oppressed were groaning.
25
The reason for it was that he wanted to keep awake. He knew that if he allowed himself to fall asleep he would begin to snore loudly; and so he must listen—he must be interested! But he had eaten such a big dinner, and he was so exhausted, and the hall was so warm, and his seat was so comfortable! The senator’s gaunt form began to grow dim and hazy, to tower before him and dance about, with figures of exports and imports. Once his neighbor gave him a savage poke in the ribs, and he sat up with a start and tried to look innocent; but then he was at it again, and men began to stare at him with annoyance, and to call out in vexation. Finally one of them called a policeman, who came and grabbed Jurgis by the collar, and jerked him to his feet, bewildered and terrified. Some of the audience turned to see the commotion, and Senator Spareshanks faltered in his speech; but a voice shouted cheerily: “We’re just firing a bum! Go ahead, old sport!” And so the crowd roared, and the senator smiled genially, and went on; and in a few seconds poor Jurgis found himself landed out in the rain, with a kick and a string of curses.
He got into the shelter of a doorway and took stock of himself. He was not hurt, and he was not arrested—more than he had any right to expect. He swore at himself and his luck for a while, and then turned his thoughts to practical matters. He had no money, and no place to sleep; he must begin begging again.
He went out, hunching his shoulders together and shivering at the touch of the icy rain. Coming down the street toward him was a lady, well-dressed, and protected by an umbrella; and he turned and walked beside her. “Please, ma‘am,” he began, “could you lend me the price of a night’s lodging? I’m a poor working-man—”
Then, suddenly, he stopped short. By the light of a street lamp he had caught sight of the lady’s face. He knew her.
It was Alena Jasaityte, who had been the belle of his wedding-feast ! Alena Jasaityte, who had looked so beautiful, and danced with such a queenly air, with Juozas Raczius, the teamster! Jurgis had only seen her once or twice afterward, for Juozas had thrown her over for another girl, and Alena had gone away from Packingtown, no one knew where. And now he met her here!
She was as much surprised as he was. “Jurgis Rudkus!” she gasped. “And what in the world is the matter with you?”
“I—I’ve had hard luck,” he stammered. “I’m out of work, and I’ve no home and no money. And you, Alena—are you married?”
“No,” she answered, “I’m not married, but I’ve got a good place.”
They stood staring at each other for a few moments longer. Finally Alena spoke again. “Jurgis,” she said, “I’d help you if I could, upon my word I would, but it happens that I’ve come out without my purse, and I honestly haven’t a penny with me. I can do something better for you, though—I can tell you how to get help. I can tell you where Marija is.”
Jurgis gave a start. “Marija!” he gasped.
“Yes,” said Alena; “and she’ll help you. She’s got a place, and she’s doing well; she’ll be glad to see you.”
It was not much more than a year since Jurgis had left Packingtown, feeling like one escaped from jail; and it had been from Marija and Elzbieta that he was escaping. But now, at the mere mention of them, his whole being cried out with joy. He wanted to see them; he wanted to go home! They would help him—they would be kind to him. In a flash he had thought over the situation. He had a good excuse for running away—his grief at the death of his son; and also he had a good excuse for not returning—the fact that they had left Packingtown. “All right,” he said, “I’ll go.”
So she gave him a number on Clark Street, adding, “There’s no need to give you my address, because Marija knows it.” And Jurgis set out, without further ado.
He found a large brown-stone house of aristocratic appearance, and rang the basement bell. A young colored girl came to the door, opening it about an inch, and gazing at him suspiciously.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“Does Marija Berczynskas live here?” he inquired.
“I dunno,” said the girl. “What you want wid her?”
“I want to see her,” said he; “she’s a relative of mine.”
The girl hesitated a moment. Then she opened the door and said, “Come in.” Jurgis came and stood in the hall, and she continued: “I’ll go see. What’s yo’ name?”
“Tell her it’s Jurgis,” he answered, and the girl went upstairs. She came back at the end of a minute or two, and replied, “Dey ain’t no sich person here.”
Jurgis’s heart went down into his boots. “I was told this was where she lived!” he cried.
But the girl only shook her head. “De lady says dey ain’t no sich person here,” she said.
And he stood for a moment, hesitating, helpless with dismay. Then he turned to go to the door. At the same instant, however, there came a knock upon it, and the girl went to open it. Jurgis heard the shuffling of feet, and then heard her give a cry; and the next moment she sprang back, and past him, her eyes shining white with terror, and bounded up the stairway, screaming at the top of her lungs:
“Police! Police! We’re pinched!”
Jurgis stood for a second, bewildered. Then, seeing blue-coated forms rushing upon him, he sprang after the negress. Her cries had been the signal for a wild uproar above; the house was full of people, and as he entered the hallway he saw them rushing hither and thither, crying and screaming with alarm. There were men and women, the latter clad for the most part in wrappers, the former in all stages of
déshabille.
z
At one side Jurgis caught a glimpse of a big apartment with plush-covered chairs, and tables covered with trays and glasses. There were playing-cards scattered all over the floor—one of the tables had been upset, and bottles of wine were rolling about, their contents running out upon the carpet. There was a young girl who had fainted, and two men who were supporting her; and there were a dozen others crowding toward the front-door.
Suddenly, however, there came a series of resounding blows upon it, causing the crowd to give back. At the same instant a stout woman, with painted cheeks and diamonds in her ears, came running down the stairs, panting breathlessly: “To the rear! Quick!”
She led the way to a back staircase, Jurgis following; in the kitchen she pressed a spring, and a cupboard gave way and opened, disclosing a dark passageway. “Go in!” she cried to the crowd, which now amounted to twenty or thirty, and they began to pass through. Scarcely had the last one disappeared, however, before there were cries from in front, and then the panic-stricken throng poured out again, exclaiming: “They’re there too! We’re trapped!”
“Upstairs!” cried the woman, and there was another rush of the mob, women and men cursing and screaming and fighting to be first. One flight, two, three—and then there was a ladder to the roof, with a crowd packed at the foot of it, and one man at the top, straining and struggling to lift the trap-door. It was not to be stirred, however, and when the woman shouted up to unhook it, he answered: “It’s already unhooked. There’s somebody sitting on it!”
And a moment later came a voice from downstairs: “You might as well quit, you people. We mean business, this time.”
So the crowd subsided; and a few moments later several policemen came up, staring here and there, and leering at their victims. Of the latter the men were for the most part frightened and sheepish-looking. The women took it as a joke, as if they were used to it—though if they had been pale, one could not have told, for the paint on their cheeks. One black-eyed young girl perched herself upon the top of the balustrade, and began to kick with her slippered foot at the helmets of the policemen, until one of them caught her by the ankle and pulled her down. On the floor below four or five other girls sat upon trunks in the hall, making fun of the procession which filed by them. They were noisy and hilarious, and had evidently been drinking; one of them, who wore a bright red kimono, shouted and screamed in a voice that drowned out all the other sounds in the hall—and Jurgis took a glance at her, and then gave a start, and a cry, “Marija!”
She heard him, and glanced around; then she shrank back and half sprang to her feet in amazement. “Jurgis!” she gasped.
For a second or two they stood staring at each other. “How did you come here?” Marija exclaimed.
“I came to see you,” he answered.
“When?”
“Just now.”
“But how did you know—who told you I was here?”
“Alena Jasaityte. I met her on the street.”
Again there was a silence, while they gazed at each other. The rest of the crowd was watching them, and so Marija got up and came closer to him. “And you?” Jurgis asked. “You live here?”
“Yes,” said Marija, “I live here.”
Then suddenly came a hail from below: “Get your clothes on now, girls, and come along. You’d best begin, or you’ll be sorry—it’s raining outside.”
“Br-r-r!” shivered some one, and the women got up and entered the various doors which lined the hallway.
“Come,” said Marija, and took Jurgis into her room, which was a tiny place about eight by six, with a cot and a chair and a dressing-stand and some dresses hanging behind the door. There were clothes scattered about on the floor, and hopeless confusion everywhere,—boxes of rouge and bottles of perfume mixed with hats and soiled dishes on the dresser, and a pair of slippers and a clock and a whiskey bottle on a chair.
Marija had nothing on but a kimono and a pair of stockings; yet she proceeded to dress before Jurgis, and without even taking the trouble to close the door. He had by this time divined what sort of a place he was in; and he had seen a great deal of the world since he had left home, and was not easy to shock—and yet it gave him a painful start that Marija should do this. They had always been decent people at home, and it seemed to him that the memory of old times ought to have ruled her. But then he laughed at himself for a fool. What was he, to be pretending to decency!
“How long have you been living here?” he asked.
“Nearly a year,” she answered.
“Why did you come?”
“I had to live,” she said; “and I couldn’t see the children starve.”