The Jungle Man Essay, Research Paper

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 cortege 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,* (*Pronounced Yoorghis) 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 comer 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 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 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, 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 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, he

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.

Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people are eating, some are laughing and talking

? but you will make a great mistake if you think there is one of them who does not hear him. His notes are

never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks and scratches on the high; but these things

they heed no more than they heed the dirt and noise and squalor about them ? it is out of this material that

they 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 meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and snowclad hills. They

behold home landscapes and childhood scenes returning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old

joys and griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some beat upon the table. Now

and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song or that; and then the fire leaps brighter in

Tamoszius’ 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 men and women cry out like all possessed; some leap to

their feet and stamp upon the floor, lifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long it occurs to

some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the beauty of the bride and the joys of love.

In the excitement of this masterpiece Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables, making

his way toward the head, where sits the bride. There is not a foot of space between the chairs of the

guests, and Tamoszius is so short that he pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low

notes; but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his companions must follow. During their

progress, needless to say, the sounds of the cello 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 begins to pour out his soul in

melting strains.

Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little something, when Cousin Marija pinches

her elbow and reminds her; but, for the 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 seems scarcely to hear them ? the music keeps calling, and the far-off

look comes 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 wipe them away, and ashamed to let them run down her

cheeks, she turns and shakes her head a little, and then flushes red when she sees that Jurgis is 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 she looks as if she would have to get up and run away.

In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom the muses 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 beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad Slavic

face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it is tragical, but you cannot help thinking of

a horse. She wears a blue flannel shirt-waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing her brawny

arms; she has a carving fork 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 it leaves no portion of the room vacant, the

three musicians follow her, laboriously and note by note, but averaging one note behind; thus they toil

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 Antanas

rises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis’ father, is not more than sixty years of age, but you would

think that he was eighty. He has been only six months in America, and the change has not done him good.

In his manhood 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 he has been working in the pickle rooms at Durham’s, and the

breathing of the cold, damp air all day has brought it back. Now as he rises he is seized with a coughing

fit, and holds himself by his chair and turns away his wan and battered face until it passes.

Generally it is the custom for the speech at a veselija to be taken out of one of the books and learned by

heart; but in his youthful days Dede Antanas used to be a scholar, and really make up all the love letters of

his friends. Now it is understood that he has composed an original speech of congratulation and

benediction, and this is one of the events of the day. Even the boys, who are romping about the room,

draw near and listen, 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 idea that he has not much longer to stay with his

children. His speech leaves them all so tearful that one of the guests, Jokubas Szedvilas, who keeps a

delicatessen store on Halsted Street, and is fat and hearty, is moved to rise and say that things may not be

as bad as that, and then to go on and make a little speech of his own, in which he showers congratulations

and prophecies of happiness upon the bride and groom, proceeding to particulars which greatly delight the

young men, but which cause Ona to blush more furiously than ever. Jokubas possesses what his wife

complacently describes as “poetiszka vaidintuve” ? a poetical imagination.

Now a good many of the guests have finished, and, since there is no pretense of ceremony, the banquet

begins to break up. Some of the men gather about the bar; some wander about, laughing and singing; here

and there will be a little group, chanting merrily, and in sublime indifference to the others and to the

orchestra as well. Everybody is more or less restless ? one would guess that something is on their minds.

And so it proves. The last tardy diners are scarcely given time to finish, before the tables and the debris

are shoved into the corner, and the chairs and the babies piled out of the way, and the real celebration of

the evening begins. Then Tamoszius Kuszleika, after replenishing himself with a pot of beer, returns to his

platform, and, standing up, reviews the scene; he taps authoritatively upon the side of his violin, then

tucks it carefully under his chin, then waves his bow in an elaborate flourish, and finally smites the

sounding strings and closes his eyes, and floats away 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 finally

Valentinavyczia, after waiting for a little and beating with his foot to get 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 any consequence ? there is music, and they dance, each as he pleases, just as

before they sang. Most of them prefer the “two-step,” especially the young, with whom it is the fashion.

The older people have dances from home, strange and complicated steps which they execute with grave

solemnity. Some do not dance anything at all, but simply hold each other’s hands and allow the

undisciplined joy of motion to express itself with their feet. Among these are Jokubas Szedvilas and his

wife, Lucija, who together keep the delicatessen store, and consume nearly as much as they sell; 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 and grinning seraphically, a picture of toothless and perspiring ecstasy.

Of these older people many wear clothing reminiscent in some detail of home ? an embroidered waistcoat

or stomacher, or a gaily colored handkerchief, or a coat with large cuffs and fancy buttons. All these

things are carefully avoided by the young, most of whom have learned to speak English and to affect the

latest style of clothing. The girls wear ready-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 of clerks, but for the fact

that they wear their hats in the room. Each of these younger couples affects a style of its own in dancing.

Some hold each other tightly, some at a cautious distance. Some hold their hands out stiffly, some drop

them loosely at their sides. Some dance springily, some glide softly, some move with grave dignity. There

are boisterous couples, who tear wildly about the room, knocking every one out of their way. There are

nervous couples, whom these frighten, and who cry, “Nusfok! Kas yra?” at them as they pass. Each

couple is paired for the evening ? you will never see them change about. There is Alena Jasaityte, for

instance, who has danced unending hours with Juozas Raczius, to whom she is engaged. Alena is the

beauty of the evening, and she would be really beautiful if she were not so proud. She wears a white

shirtwaist, which represents, perhaps, half a week’s labor painting cans. She holds her skirt with her hand

as she dances, with stately precision, after the manner of the grandes dames. Juozas is driving one of

Durham’s wagons, and is making big wages. He affects a “tough” aspect, wearing his hat on one side and

keeping a cigarette in his mouth all the evening. Then there is Jadvyga Marcinkus, who is also beautiful,

but humble. Jadvyga likewise paints cans, but then she has an invalid mother and three little sisters to

support by it, and so she does not spend her wages for shirtwaists. Jadvyga is small and delicate, with

jet-black eyes and hair, the latter twisted into a little knot and tied on the top of her head. She wears an

old white dress which she has made herself and worn to parties for the past five years; it is high-waisted ?

almost under her arms, and not very becoming, ? but that does 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 hide herself

from view, and leans her head upon his shoulder. He in turn has clasped his arms tightly around her, as if

he would carry her away; and so she dances, and will dance the entire evening, and would dance forever,

in ecstasy of bliss. You would smile, perhaps, to see them ? but you would not smile if you knew all the

story. This is the fifth year, now, that Jadvyga has been engaged to Mikolas, and her heart is sick. They

would have been married in the beginning, only Mikolas has a father who is drunk all day, and he is the

only other man in a large family. Even so they might have managed it (for Mikolas is a skilled man) but

for cruel accidents which have almost taken the heart out of them. He is a beef-boner, and that is a

dangerous trade, especially when you are on piecework and trying to earn a bride. Your hands are

slippery, and your knife is slippery, and you are toiling like mad, when somebody happens to speak to

you, or you strike a bone. 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 may heal, but you never can tell. Twice now;

within the last three years, Mikolas has been lying at home with blood poisoning ? once for three months

and once for nearly seven. The last time, too, he lost his job, and that meant six weeks more of standing

at the doors of the packing houses, at six o’clock on bitter winter mornings, with a foot of snow on the

ground and more in the air. There are learned people who can tell you out of the statistics that beef-boners

make forty cents an hour, but, perhaps, these people have never looked into a beef-boner’s hands.

When Tamoszius and his companions stop for a rest, as perforce they must, 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

if they did. It is only for a minute, anyway, for the leader starts up again, in spite of all the protests of the

other two. This time it is 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 series of motions, resembling more fancy skating than a

dance. The climax of it is a furious prestissimo, at which the couples seize hands and begin a mad

whirling. This is quite irresistible, and every one in the room joins in, until the place becomes a maze of

flying skirts and bodies quite dazzling to look upon. But the sight of sights at this moment is Tamoszius

Kuszleika. The old fiddle squeaks and shrieks in protest, but Tamoszius has no mercy. The sweat starts

out on his forehead, and he bends over like a cyclist on the last lap of a race. His body shakes and throbs

like a runaway steam engine, and the ear cannot follow the flying showers of notes ? there is a pale blue

mist where you look to see his bowing 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 final shout of delight the dancers fly apart,

reeling here and there, bringing up against the walls of the room.

After this there is beer for every one, the musicians included, and the revelers take a long breath and

prepare for the great event of the evening, which is the acziavimas. The acziavimas is a ceremony which,

once begun, will continue for three or four hours, and it involves one uninterrupted dance. The guests

form a great ring, locking hands, and, when the music starts up, begin to move around in a circle. In the

center stands the bride, and, one by one, the men step into the enclosure and dance with her. Each dances

for several minutes ? as long as he pleases; it is a very merry proceeding, with laughter and singing, and

when the guest 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 perhaps five dollars, according to his power, and his estimate of the

value of the 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 over for 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 person in this room. There are able-bodied men here who work from early morning until late at

night, in ice-cold cellars with a quarter of an inch of water on the floor ? men who for six or seven months

in the year never see the sunlight from Sunday afternoon till the next Sunday morning ? and who cannot

earn three hundred dollars in a year. There are little children here, scarce in their teens, who can hardly

see the top of the work benches ? whose parents have lied to get them their places ? and who do not

make the half of three hundred dollars a year, and perhaps not even the third of it. And then to spend such

a sum, all in a single day of 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 by bit these poor people have given up

everything else; but to this they cling with all the power of their souls ? they cannot give up the veselija!

To do that would mean, not merely to be defeated, but to acknowledge defeat ? and the difference

between these two things is what keeps the world going. The veselija has come down to them from a

far-off time; and the meaning of it was that one might dwell within the cave and gaze upon shadows,

provided only that once in his lifetime he could break his chains, and feel his wings, and behold the sun;

provided that once in his lifetime he might testify to the fact that life, with all its cares and its terrors, is no

such great thing after all, but merely a bubble upon the surface of a river, a thing that one may toss about

and play with 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 master of things, a man could go back to his toil and live upon the

memory all his days.

? ? ?

Endlessly the dancers swung round and round ? when they were dizzy they s