It was four o’clock when the ceremony was over and the carriages
began to arrive. There had been a crowd following all the way, owing
to the exuberance of Marija Berczynskas. The occasion rested heavily
upon Marija’s broad shoulders-it was her task to see that all things
went in due form, and after the best home traditions; and, flying
wildly hither and thither, bowling every one out of the way, and
scolding and exhorting all day with her tremendous voice, Marija was
too eager to see that others conformed to the proprieties to
consider them herself. She had left the church last of all, and,
desiring to arrive first at the hall, had issued orders to the
coachman to drive faster. When that personage had developed a will
of his own in the matter, Marija had flung up the window of the
carriage, and, leaning out, proceeded to tell him 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
the way down Ashland Avenue, had added a new swarm of urchins to the
cortège at 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 vied with each other in intricate and altitudinous
gymnastics. Seeing the throng, Marija abandoned precipitately the
debate concerning the ancestors of her coachman, and, springing from
the moving carriage, plunged in and proceeded to clear a way to the
hall. Once within, she turned and began to 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 and
Liquors. Union Headquarters”-that was the way the signs ran. The
reader, who perhaps has never held much converse in the language of
far-off Lithuania, will be glad of the explanation that the place
was the rear-room 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 how pitifully inadequate it would have seemed to one
who understood that it was also the supreme hour of ecstasy in the
life of one of God’s gentlest creatures, the scene of the
wedding-feast and the joy-transfiguration of little Ona Lukoszaite!
She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless
from pushing 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 her otherwise 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 bright green 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 emotion in her face, and all the tremor of her
form. She was so young-not quite sixteen-and small for her age, a
mere child; and she had just been married-and married to Jurgis, of
all men, to Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the
buttonhole of his new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders and
the giant hands.
Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes with
beetling brows, and thick black hair that curled in waves about his
ears-in short, they were one of those incongruous and impossible
married couples with which Mother Nature so often wills to confound
all prophets, before and after. Jurgis could take up a
two-hundred-and-fifty-pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car
without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a far
corner, frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his
lips with his tongue each time before he could answer the
congratulations of his friends.
Gradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and
the guests-a separation at least sufficiently complete for working
purposes. There was no time during the festivities which ensued when
there were not groups of onlookers in the doorways and the corners;
and if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked
sufficiently hungry, a chair was offered him, and he was invited to
the feast. It was one of the laws of the veselija that no one goes
hungry; and, while a rule made in the forests of Lithuania is hard
to apply in the stockyards district of Chicago, with its quarter of
a million inhabitants, still they did their best, and the children
who ran in from the street, and even the dogs, went out again
happier. A charming informality was one of the characteristics of
this celebration. The men wore their hats, or, if they wished, they
took them off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where
they pleased, and moved as often as they pleased. There were to be
speeches and 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 resulting medley of sound distracted no one, save possibly
alone the babies, of which there were present a number equal to the
total possessed by all the guests invited. There was no other place
for the babies to be, and so part of the preparations for the
evening consisted of a collection of cribs and carriages 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-bones and bologna sausages.
The room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed walls, bare
save for a 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 the doorway, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with
a presiding genius clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches
and a carefully oiled curl plastered against one side of his
forehead. In the opposite corner are two tables, filling a third of
the room and laden with dishes and cold viands, which a few of the
hungrier guests are already munching. At the head, where sits the
bride, is a snow-white cake, with an Eiffel tower of constructed
decoration, with sugar roses and two angels upon it, and a generous
sprinkling of pink and green and yellow candies. Beyond opens a door
into the kitchen, where there is a glimpse to be had of a range with
much steam ascending from it, and many women, old and young, rushing
hither and thither. In the corner to the left are the three
musicians, upon a little platform, toiling heroically to make some
impression upon the hubbub; also the babies, similarly occupied, and
an open window whence the populace imbibes 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 call her-bearing aloft a great platter of stewed duck. Behind
her is Kotrina, making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a
similar burden; and half a minute later there appears old
Grandmother Majauszkiene, with a big yellow bowl of smoking
potatoes, nearly as big as herself. So, bit by bit, the feast takes
form-there is a ham and a dish of sauerkraut, boiled rice, macaroni,
bologna sausages, great piles of penny buns, bowls of milk, and
foaming 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 be not eaten.
So, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage and merriment, the
guests take their places. The young men, who for the most part have
been huddled near the door, summon their resolution and advance; and
the shrinking Jurgis is poked and scolded by the old folks until he
consents to seat himself at the right hand of the bride. The two
bridesmaids, whose insignia of office are paper wreaths, come next,
and after them the rest of the guests, old and young, boys and
girls. The spirit of the occasion takes hold of the stately
bartender, who condescends to a plate of stewed duck; 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 the
children shout and the babies yell, and every one laughs and sings
and chatters-while above all the deafening clamor Cousin Marija
shouts orders to the musicians.
The musicians-how shall one begin to describe them? All this time
they have 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 saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a
wonderland, a little corner of the high mansions of the sky.
The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man. His fiddle
is out of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an
inspired man-the hands of the muses have been laid upon him. He
plays like one possessed by a demon, by a whole horde of demons. You
can feel them in the air round about him, capering frenetically;
with their invisible feet they 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
the violin by practising 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 of military trousers, light blue with a
yellow stripe, serve to give that suggestion of authority proper to
the leader of a band. He is only about five feet high, but even so
these trousers are about eight inches short of the ground. You
wonder where he can have gotten them-or rather you would wonder, if
the excitement of being in his presence left you time to think of
such things.
For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired-you might
almost say inspired separately. He stamps with his feet, he tosses
his head, 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 brows knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink-the
very ends of his necktie bristle out. And every now and then he
turns upon his companions, nodding, signalling, 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
the orchestra. 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 his old 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 infinite yearning. He is playing a bass
part upon his ‘cello, and so the excitement is nothing to him; no
matter what happens in the treble, it is his task to saw out one
long-drawn and lugubrious note after another, from four o’clock in
the afternoon until nearly the same hour next morning, for his third
of the total income of one dollar per hour.
Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius
Kuszleika has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you
see that he is beginning to edge over toward the tables. His
nostrils are dilated and his breath comes fast-his demons are
driving him. He nods and shakes his head at his companions, jerking
at them with his violin, until at last the long form of the second
violinist also rises up. In the end all three of them begin
advancing, step by step, upon the banqueters, Valentinavyczia, the
‘cellist, bumping along with his instrument between notes. Finally
all three are gathered at the foot of the tables, and there
Tamoszius mounts upon a stool.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from The Jungle
by Upton Sinclair
Copyright © 2002 by Upton Sinclair.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Modern Library
Copyright © 2002
Upton Sinclair
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8129-7623-1
