Poor Jurgis was now an outcast and a tramp once more. He was
crippled--he was as literally crippled as any wild animal which has lost
its claws, or been torn out of its shell. He had been shorn, at one
cut, of all those mysterious weapons whereby he had been able to make a
living easily and to escape the consequences of his actions. He could
no longer command a job when he wanted it; he could no longer steal with
impunity--he must take his chances with the common herd. Nay worse, he
dared not mingle with the herd--he must hide himself, for he was one
marked out for destruction. His old companions would betray him, for the
sake of the influence they would gain thereby; and he would be made
to suffer, not merely for the offense he had committed, but for others
which would be laid at his door, just as had been done for some poor
devil on the occasion of that assault upon the "country customer" by him
and Duane.

And also he labored under another handicap now. He had acquired new
standards of living, which were not easily to be altered. When he had
been out of work before, he had been content if he could sleep in a
doorway or under a truck out of the rain, and if he could get fifteen
cents a day for saloon lunches. But now he desired all sorts of other
things, and suffered because he had to do without them. He must have a
drink now and then, a drink for its own sake, and apart from the food
that came with it. The craving for it was strong enough to master every
other consideration--he would have it, though it were his last nickel
and he had to starve the balance of the day in consequence.

Jurgis became once more a besieger of factory gates. But never since he
had been in Chicago had he stood less chance of getting a job than just
then. For one thing, there was the economic crisis, the million or two
of men who had been out of work in the spring and summer, and were not
yet all back, by any means. And then there was the strike, with seventy
thousand men and women all over the country idle for a couple of
months--twenty thousand in Chicago, and many of them now seeking work
throughout the city. It did not remedy matters that a few days later the
strike was given up and about half the strikers went back to work; for
every one taken on, there was a "scab" who gave up and fled. The ten
or fifteen thousand "green" Negroes, foreigners, and criminals were now
being turned loose to shift for themselves. Everywhere Jurgis went he
kept meeting them, and he was in an agony of fear lest some one of them
should know that he was "wanted." He would have left Chicago, only by
the time he had realized his danger he was almost penniless; and it
would be better to go to jail than to be caught out in the country in
the winter time.

At the end of about ten days Jurgis had only a few pennies left; and he
had not yet found a job--not even a day's work at anything, not a chance
to carry a satchel. Once again, as when he had come out of the hospital,
he was bound hand and foot, and facing the grisly phantom of starvation.
Raw, naked terror possessed him, a maddening passion that would never
leave him, and that wore him down more quickly than the actual want of
food. He was going to die of hunger! The fiend reached out its scaly
arms for him--it touched him, its breath came into his face; and he
would cry out for the awfulness of it, he would wake up in the night,
shuddering, and bathed in perspiration, and start up and flee. He would
walk, begging for work, until he was exhausted; he could not remain
still--he would wander on, gaunt and haggard, gazing about him with
restless eyes. Everywhere he went, from one end of the vast city to the
other, there were hundreds of others like him; everywhere was the sight
of plenty and the merciless hand of authority waving them away. There is
one kind of prison where the man is behind bars, and everything that
he desires is outside; and there is another kind where the things are
behind the bars, and the man is outside.

When he was down to his last quarter, Jurgis learned that before the
bakeshops closed at night they sold out what was left at half price, and
after that he would go and get two loaves of stale bread for a nickel,
and break them up and stuff his pockets with them, munching a bit from
time to time. He would not spend a penny save for this; and, after two
or three days more, he even became sparing of the bread, and would stop
and peer into the ash barrels as he walked along the streets, and now
and then rake out a bit of something, shake it free from dust, and count
himself just so many minutes further from the end.

So for several days he had been going about, ravenous all the time,
and growing weaker and weaker, and then one morning he had a hideous
experience, that almost broke his heart. He was passing down a street
lined with warehouses, and a boss offered him a job, and then, after he
had started to work, turned him off because he was not strong enough.
And he stood by and saw another man put into his place, and then picked
up his coat, and walked off, doing all that he could to keep from
breaking down and crying like a baby. He was lost! He was doomed! There
was no hope for him! But then, with a sudden rush, his fear gave place
to rage. He fell to cursing. He would come back there after dark, and he
would show that scoundrel whether he was good for anything or not!

He was still muttering this when suddenly, at the corner, he came upon
a green-grocery, with a tray full of cabbages in front of it. Jurgis,
after one swift glance about him, stooped and seized the biggest of
them, and darted round the corner with it. There was a hue and cry,
and a score of men and boys started in chase of him; but he came to an
alley, and then to another branching off from it and leading him into
another street, where he fell into a walk, and slipped his cabbage under
his coat and went off unsuspected in the crowd. When he had gotten
a safe distance away he sat down and devoured half the cabbage raw,
stowing the balance away in his pockets till the next day.

Just about this time one of the Chicago newspapers, which made much of
the "common people," opened a "free-soup kitchen" for the benefit of
the unemployed. Some people said that they did this for the sake of the
advertising it gave them, and some others said that their motive was
a fear lest all their readers should be starved off; but whatever the
reason, the soup was thick and hot, and there was a bowl for every man,
all night long. When Jurgis heard of this, from a fellow "hobo," he
vowed that he would have half a dozen bowls before morning; but, as it
proved, he was lucky to get one, for there was a line of men two blocks
long before the stand, and there was just as long a line when the place
was finally closed up.

This depot was within the danger line for Jurgis--in the "Levee"
district, where he was known; but he went there, all the same, for he
was desperate, and beginning to think of even the Bridewell as a place
of refuge. So far the weather had been fair, and he had slept out every
night in a vacant lot; but now there fell suddenly a shadow of the
advancing winter, a chill wind from the north and a driving storm of
rain. That day Jurgis bought two drinks for the sake of the shelter, and
at night he spent his last two pennies in a "stale-beer dive." This was
a place kept by a Negro, who went out and drew off the old dregs of
beer that lay in barrels set outside of the saloons; and after he had
doctored it with chemicals to make it "fizz," he sold it for two cents a
can, the purchase of a can including the privilege of sleeping the night
through upon the floor, with a mass of degraded outcasts, men and women.

All these horrors afflicted Jurgis all the more cruelly, because he
was always contrasting them with the opportunities he had lost. For
instance, just now it was election time again--within five or six weeks
the voters of the country would select a President; and he heard the
wretches with whom he associated discussing it, and saw the streets
of the city decorated with placards and banners--and what words could
describe the pangs of grief and despair that shot through him?

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 streetcar 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 tonight, 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 tenpin 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 workingman 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. 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 exclaimed.

"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 brownstone 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 dishabille. 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 whisky 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."

He paused for a moment, watching her. "You were out of work?" he asked,
finally.

"I got sick," she replied, "and after that I had no money. And then
Stanislovas died--"

"Stanislovas dead!"

"Yes," said Marija, "I forgot. You didn't know about it."

"How did he die?"

"Rats killed him," she answered.

Jurgis gave a gasp. "Rats killed him!"

"Yes," said the other; she was bending over, lacing her shoes as she
spoke. "He was working in an oil factory--at least he was hired by the
men to get their beer. He used to carry cans on a long pole; and he'd
drink a little out of each can, and one day he drank too much, and fell
asleep in a corner, and got locked up in the place all night. When they
found him the rats had killed him and eaten him nearly all up."

Jurgis sat, frozen with horror. Marija went on lacing up her shoes.
There was a long silence.

Suddenly a big policeman came to the door. "Hurry up, there," he said.

"As quick as I can," said Marija, and she stood up and began putting on
her corsets with feverish haste.

"Are the rest of the people alive?" asked Jurgis, finally.

"Yes," she said.

"Where are they?"

"They live not far from here. They're all right now."

"They are working?" he inquired.

"Elzbieta is," said Marija, "when she can. I take care of them most of
the time--I'm making plenty of money now."

Jurgis was silent for a moment. "Do they know you live here--how you
live?" he asked.

"Elzbieta knows," answered Marija. "I couldn't lie to her. And maybe the
children have found out by this time. It's nothing to be ashamed of--we
can't help it."

"And Tamoszius?" he asked. "Does he know?"

Marija shrugged her shoulders. "How do I know?" she said. "I haven't
seen him for over a year. He got blood poisoning and lost one finger,
and couldn't play the violin any more; and then he went away."

Marija was standing in front of the glass fastening her dress. Jurgis
sat staring at her. He could hardly believe that she was the same woman
he had known in the old days; she was so quiet--so hard! It struck fear
to his heart to watch her.

Then suddenly she gave a glance at him. "You look as if you had been
having a rough time of it yourself," she said.

"I have," he answered. "I haven't a cent in my pockets, and nothing to
do."

"Where have you been?"

"All over. I've been hoboing it. Then I went back to the yards--just
before the strike." He paused for a moment, hesitating. "I asked for
you," he added. "I found you had gone away, no one knew where. Perhaps
you think I did you a dirty trick running away as I did, Marija--"

"No," she answered, "I don't blame you. We never have--any of us. You
did your best--the job was too much for us." She paused a moment, then
added: "We were too ignorant--that was the trouble. We didn't stand any
chance. If I'd known what I know now we'd have won out."

"You'd have come here?" said Jurgis.

"Yes," she answered; "but that's not what I meant. I meant you--how
differently you would have behaved--about Ona."

Jurgis was silent; he had never thought of that aspect of it.

"When people are starving," the other continued, "and they have anything
with a price, they ought to sell it, I say. I guess you realize it
now when it's too late. Ona could have taken care of us all, in the
beginning." Marija spoke without emotion, as one who had come to regard
things from the business point of view.

"I--yes, I guess so," Jurgis answered hesitatingly. He did not add
that he had paid three hundred dollars, and a foreman's job, for the
satisfaction of knocking down "Phil" Connor a second time.

The policeman came to the door again just then. "Come on, now," he said.
"Lively!"

"All right," said Marija, reaching for her hat, which was big enough to
be a drum major's, and full of ostrich feathers. She went out into the
hall and Jurgis followed, the policeman remaining to look under the bed
and behind the door.

"What's going to come of this?" Jurgis asked, as they started down the
steps.

"The raid, you mean? Oh, nothing--it happens to us every now and then.
The madame's having some sort of time with the police; I don't know
what it is, but maybe they'll come to terms before morning. Anyhow, they
won't do anything to you. They always let the men off."

"Maybe so," he responded, "but not me--I'm afraid I'm in for it."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm wanted by the police," he said, lowering his voice, though of
course their conversation was in Lithuanian. "They'll send me up for a
year or two, I'm afraid."

"Hell!" said Marija. "That's too bad. I'll see if I can't get you off."

Downstairs, where the greater part of the prisoners were now massed, she
sought out the stout personage with the diamond earrings, and had a few
whispered words with her. The latter then approached the police sergeant
who was in charge of the raid. "Billy," she said, pointing to Jurgis,
"there's a fellow who came in to see his sister. He'd just got in the
door when you knocked. You aren't taking hoboes, are you?"

The sergeant laughed as he looked at Jurgis. "Sorry," he said, "but the
orders are every one but the servants."

So Jurgis slunk in among the rest of the men, who kept dodging behind
each other like sheep that have smelled a wolf. There were old men
and young men, college boys and gray-beards old enough to be their
grandfathers; some of them wore evening dress--there was no one among
them save Jurgis who showed any signs of poverty.

When the roundup was completed, the doors were opened and the party
marched out. Three patrol wagons were drawn up at the curb, and the
whole neighborhood had turned out to see the sport; there was much
chaffing, and a universal craning of necks. The women stared about them
with defiant eyes, or laughed and joked, while the men kept their heads
bowed, and their hats pulled over their faces. They were crowded into
the patrol wagons as if into streetcars, and then off they went amid a
din of cheers. At the station house Jurgis gave a Polish name and was
put into a cell with half a dozen others; and while these sat and
talked in whispers, he lay down in a corner and gave himself up to his
thoughts.

Jurgis had looked into the deepest reaches of the social pit, and grown
used to the sights in them. Yet when he had thought of all humanity as
vile and hideous, he had somehow always excepted his own family that he
had loved; and now this sudden horrible discovery--Marija a whore, and
Elzbieta and the children living off her shame! Jurgis might argue
with himself all he chose, that he had done worse, and was a fool
for caring--but still he could not get over the shock of that sudden
unveiling, he could not help being sunk in grief because of it. The
depths of him were troubled and shaken, memories were stirred in him
that had been sleeping so long he had counted them dead. Memories of the
old life--his old hopes and his old yearnings, his old dreams of decency
and independence! He saw Ona again, he heard her gentle voice pleading
with him. He saw little Antanas, whom he had meant to make a man. He saw
his trembling old father, who had blessed them all with his wonderful
love. He lived again through that day of horror when he had discovered
Ona's shame--God, how he had suffered, what a madman he had been!
How dreadful it had all seemed to him; and now, today, he had sat and
listened, and half agreed when Marija told him he had been a fool!
Yes--told him that he ought to have sold his wife's honor and lived by
it!--And then there was Stanislovas and his awful fate--that brief story
which Marija had narrated so calmly, with such dull indifference! The
poor little fellow, with his frostbitten fingers and his terror of the
snow--his wailing voice rang in Jurgis's ears, as he lay there in the
darkness, until the sweat started on his forehead. Now and then he
would quiver with a sudden spasm of horror, at the picture of little
Stanislovas shut up in the deserted building and fighting for his life
with the rats!

All these emotions had become strangers to the soul of Jurgis; it was so
long since they had troubled him that he had ceased to think they might
ever trouble him again. Helpless, trapped, as he was, what good did they
do him--why should he ever have allowed them to torment him? It had been
the task of his recent life to fight them down, to crush them out of
him; never in his life would he have suffered from them again, save
that they had caught him unawares, and overwhelmed him before he could
protect himself. He heard the old voices of his soul, he saw its old
ghosts beckoning to him, stretching out their arms to him! But they were
far-off and shadowy, and the gulf between them was black and bottomless;
they would fade away into the mists of the past once more. Their voices
would die, and never again would he hear them--and so the last faint
spark of manhood in his soul would flicker out.

Jurgis, now a tramp and outcast once more, is "literally crippled as any wild animal which has lost its claws, or been torn out of its shell. His new "handicap" is that he has acquired a taste for a higher standard of living and now must do without. He craves a drink so much that he spends his last nickel to try to get drunk. Jurgis is now very hungry; hunger becomes real to him. Jurgis finds meager ways to survive. He buys half-priced stale bread and nibbles on it throughout the day. One day, a man offers him a job in a warehouse but then fires him because he says Jurgis is not strong enough, which breaks Jurgis's heart. As he walks down the street, he sees a stand selling fresh cabbage. He steals one and is chased, but eats half of the cabbage raw when he gets away. A Chicago newspaper advertises for a free soup kitchen, but Jurgis has to stand in line for two blocks with other hungry men and only gets one bowl of soup. He sleeps in a rundown saloon owned by a "negro, who went out and drew off the old dregs of beer that lay in barrels set outside of the saloons" and then sells it for a few cents. There is an election coming up, and Jurgis despairs because it reminds him that he had once "had a place beneath the shadow of the plum tree. He attends a political rally where Senator Spareshanks, a Republican Party leader, gives a speech. Jurgis goes mainly to stay in a warm place for a while. The Senator speaks of how America will succeed in "future triumphs" and how each citizen will hold up the hands of those who toil to maintain the country's greatness. He boasts of a system called "Protection. whereby the working-man permitted the manufacturer to charge him higher prices, in order that he might receive higher wages. This seems like an ingenious system to the Senator. Jurgis falls asleep during the rally and is kicked out of the hall. When he exits, he begins to beg from a woman and realizes that it is Alena Jasaityte, an old friend from Lithuania. Alena tells Jurgis that she cannot help him, but she tells him where Marija lives. She tells him that she is doing well and that she will help him. Jurgis sets off to the address that Alena gives him. He arrives at a nice brownstone house on a nice street in the city. He knocks on the door and meets a servant. The servant invites him in but tells him that no one by the name of Marija lives there. Just as Jurgis is about to exit the house, a barrage of police enter. There is sudden confusion in the house and a mass of about thirty people, all in varying states of dress, begin to run around the house looking for an exit. All of the exits are blocked however, even the secret passageways that lead out of the house. Jurgis runs with the crowd upstairs. Several girls seem to be half-drunk, and suddenly Jurgis recognizes Marija. He calls for her, and she takes him into her room. It is a dirty room with clothes strewn about the place. Marija begins to tell him how she came to be a whore. She tells him that it was because she was sick and needed to find a way to support the family. The family is not upset at him for leaving, however. Marija has a very businesslike quality to her now. She tells Jurgis that the family should have done everything they could to survive early on. Even Ona should have become a prostitute, she says, and this would have saved her from her eventual fate. She tells him that rats killed Stanislovas after he was accidentally locked in a factory one night. The rats attacked him and had half eaten him by the morning. The police come and tell Marija and Jurgis that they are taking them away. Marija is not worried, however, because she says the police do this kind of raid all the time. She will be free by morning, she says. Jurgis tells her that he is a wanted man, however, and when he arrives at the police station, he gives a fake name. That night, in his jail cell, Jurgis reaches his spiritual and mental rock bottom. He thinks of everything that has happened and everyone who has been lost. Their voices would die, and never again would he hear them -- and so the last faint spark of manhood in his soul would flicker out

So Jurgis is a tramp once more. He has lost all of the things that made him a powerful guy in Packingtown. He's also used to the finer things in life now, so being a hobo is doubly awful. Jurgis tries to get another factory job, but it's hopeless: there are tons of unemployed men, former union guys and former scabs, and he just can't compete. Jurgis thinks he will starve to death. The only money he spends is on half-priced bread at the end of the day as the bakers are closing up shop. The worst thing possible happens to Jurgis: he gets a job, but he is soon fired because the boss tells Jurgis he's not strong enough. Jurgis walks off crying and plotting revenge. Jurgis snatches a cabbage from a grocer and eats half of it raw in an alleyway. Jurgis hears about this new thing opening in Chicago: a "soup kitchen." So Jurgis goes to get free soup. There is so much demand from the poor of the city that Jurgis is glad to get one serving. The soup kitchen is close to the district that Jurgis shouldn't be visiting for his own sake. Still, he's so desperate for food that he starts begging there. A woman buys him a meal at a restaurant when she hears his hard-luck story. There is a political meeting nearby being run by Senator Spareshanks, a guy whom Jurgis heard back in his Doyle Republican Association days. Hearing the Senator speak, Jurgis cannot ignore how far down he has fallen. Even though Jurgis is honestly trying to listen, he is so exhausted that he keeps falling asleep during the Senator's speech. One of the people listening to the senator brings in a cop to boot Jurgis out of the meeting. The cop pulls him out of his seat and kicks him out the door: they think Jurgis is just a bum looking for a place to sleep. Jurgis goes out again to beg. He approaches a lady on the street. He suddenly realizes that he recognizes her: Alena Jasaityte, who danced at his wedding feast in the first chapter. Alena tells Jurgis that she isn't carrying her purse so she has no money for him. Still, Alena can do Jurgis a favor. She directs Jurgis to Marija, who works nearby. The girl at Marija's door is reluctant to let Jurgis in. She seems suspicious about something. The girl tells Jurgis that there is no one named Marija at the house. The girl goes to answer another knock at the door. It's the cops! Jurgis runs up the stairs, trying to avoid the cops. A woman gestures towards the back of the house, where there is a rear staircase. But the cops are waiting there, too! There is a crowd of men and women upstairs. The men look a bit ashamed, while the women are laughing. Yes, this is a brothel, and the cops are here to arrest these prostitutes and johns. Jurgis recognizes one of the prostitutes: it is Marija. Marija is utterly surprised to see Jurgis. Jurgis explains that Alena Jasaityte told him where to find Marija. Marija goes to put on her clothes before the cops bring all of the prostitutes out of the brothel. Marija has been at this brothel for almost a year. She has been supporting the children on her salary. Stanislovas has died. He was killed by rats. Stanislovas was hired to get beer for the workers at an oil factory. He would drink a little bit out of each can. One day, Stanislovas drank too much and fell asleep. He got locked in the factory overnight. The rats killed and ate most of him before the factory was opened again the next morning. Everyone else is still alive, though - Elzbieta works now and then, but most of them are relying on Marija for money. Marija hasn't seen Tamoszius Kusleika for over a year. He lost a finger to gangrene, so he couldn't play the violin any more. Then he disappeared. Jurgis tells Marija that he's been living as a hobo. Marija says she doesn't blame him for anything that has happened. None of them knew what they were getting into. Marija thinks Jurgis should just have let Ona keep on as a prostitute. Ona could have supported the whole family at the beginning. Jurgis agrees hesitantly. Jurgis is worried about being caught up in this raid. He's still wanted for skipping bail on his second assault trial. Marija tries to get one of the cops to let Jurgis go, since he's just a hobo there by accident, but the cop has orders to take everyone. Jurgis gives a false name at the police station. He sits in his cells and thinks about how awful it is that even the women of his family have fallen into such rotten practices. And poor Stanislovas, eaten! Jurgis tries not to think of the old days, nor of his regrets for what has happened to his family.

More than any of his previous times on the streets, Jurgis is in no physical condition to improve his situation. Jurgis is mindful of all he had and all he has lost. In order to stay warm, he attends a political meeting. He falls asleep, and is tossed into the street because of his snoring. He starts begging and by chance meets a woman who attended his wedding. She gives him Marija's address. Just as Jurgis arrives at a large house inquiring about Marija, the police arrive and storm the dwelling. Jurgis realizes the house is a brothel and Marija is now working as a prostitute. From Marija he learns of Stanislovas' death and that Marija is addicted to morphine. Marija also tells Jurgis that the family does not blame him for running away, though she personally thinks many of their problems could have been avoided if Jurgis had allowed Ona to continue with Connor. Jurgis is jailed with the other men but is released the next morning.

As with all naturalistic fiction , Sinclair documents the unsavory side of life in Chicago, presenting both life on the streets and life in a brothel. This chapter is the low point for Jurgis and his family. Jurgis' chance encounter with the "belle" from his wedding feast, who is not married but in a "good place," enables him to locate Marija. Marija's descent into hell is the embodiment of Sinclair's major theme: that capitalism is a horrible system comprised of those who are users and those who are used. Women are victims who are forced into selling their bodies as a means of survival. Marija voices this theme when she tells Jurgis, "When people are starving . . . and they have anything with a price, they ought to sell it." She accepts this as a matter of course, as the way of the world. Her words express Sinclair's view of capitalism. But Jurgis does not readily accept this. He does not like the fact that Marija feels prostitution is her only option; though, for the first time, he realizes that is exactly what he had been doing to himself. During his night in jail, Jurgis contemplates the difficult existence his family has had in Chicago, remembering lost emotions, longing for a way out of his current predicament. Glossary besiege to close in on; crowd around. silk-stocking a member of the wealthy or aristocratic class. verities principles, beliefs, etc., taken to be fundamentally and permanently true. deshabille the state of being only partially dressed. chafing being or becoming vexed, irritated, or impatient.

Jurgis begins begging for a job. Unfortunately, the strike ends just as he is at his most desperate. The labor imported during the strike adds more men to the crowds searching for work. Moreover, his standard of living increased exponentially when money came easily to him, so the return to homeless begging hits him hard. He eventually obtains a job only to be fired because he is not strong enough for the work. Winter approaches, and election time arrives again. Jurgis watches bitterly as the graft continues while he can no longer take part in it. He attends a political meeting where he can stay warm, but a policeman throws him out after he falls asleep and begins to snore. While begging for the price of a night's lodging, Jurgis encounters a woman he knew from his first years in Packingtown. She is well-dressed now. She does not have any money with her, but she gives him Marija's address. She urges Jurgis to visit Marija and Teta Elzbieta. She assures him that they will be happy to see him. Jurgis hurries to see Marija. When he enters the building, the police raid the establishment. Jurgis realizes that it is a brothel. Jurgis spots Marija, and they manage to talk a bit before the police herd them into the police station. Marija explains that neither she nor Teta Elzbieta could support the children with legitimate jobs. She adds that, moreover, Stanislovas died: he fell asleep in the storeroom of an oil factory and a swarm of rats attacked him and killed him. Marija then chose to go into prostitution in order to keep the rest of the family from starvation. She assures Jurgis that they never blamed him for running away and that they know that he did his best. The knowledge of Marija's shame and Stanislovas's horrible death haunts Jurgis throughout the night, which he spends in jail

Marija's entrance into prostitution culminates the essential accusation that Sinclair levels against capitalism: throughout The Jungle, he charges capitalism with trafficking in human lives. Human beings are despicably regarded as useful resources--means to an end rather than individuals--and are used until they are worn out and then ultimately thrown away. As a prostitute, Marija epitomizes this trafficking in human bodies, as society's perception of her worth lies wholly in her ability to satisfy the basest desires of humankind. Just as the prostitutes are kept in a form of slavery, Sinclair often compares wage laborers to slaves, another form of trafficking in human bodies. Throughout the novel, human lives are bought and sold, although most wage laborers don't even realize that they are part of a vast market of human flesh. To this point, the meaning of the title The Jungle has been made painfully clear: the world of the wage laborer is a savage realm characterized by a Darwinian struggle for survival. Those who refuse to sacrifice their humanity, integrity, and individuality do not survive, much less succeed, in this world. New arrivals enter into this jungle crammed with predators waiting to attack them at every turn. The structures of capitalism are a jungle of hidden nooks and crannies, each containing yet another dirty secret. Sinclair's novel exposes the various levels of deception within the factories as well as the day-to-day details of the wage laborer's life. He probes the courtroom, prison, and criminal underworld in order to show the far reach of capitalism's structures of power. Having gone to such great lengths to illustrate the evils of capitalism, Sinclair now offers socialism as the solution to the problems that the first twenty-seven chapters of the novel have explored in detail. When Jurgis enters the socialist political meeting in Chapter 28, he is a defeated man: he has tried all forms of survival but none has offered the security and the peace of mind that he seeks. The socialist political meeting, however, proves anything but a jungle; rather, it is a haven from the cruel reality of capitalism. The rude awakening at the hands of an unsympathetic policeman is replaced by the gentle nudge of one who wants him to better himself by understanding the socialist message. That this woman addresses him as "comrade" demonstrates her desire for them to be equal, which shocks Jurgis; that she is beautiful and well-dressed pits her against all of the wealthy capitalists who ignore the suffering of the common laborer. As the speaker catalogues the abuses and suffering of wage laborers, Jurgis reacts to socialism like a new, devout religious convert. Unlike the preacher at the religious revival meeting, who wanted commoners to better themselves according to the existing system, the socialist speaker wants commoners to motivate for change outside the system. He understands Jurgis's experiences and addresses Jurgis's needs rather than those of the wealthy. For the first time in America, Jurgis feels that he is no longer alone; just as he earlier gives himself to the quasi-religious pursuit of the American Dream, he is now willing to give himself to this camaraderie.


After breakfast Jurgis was driven to the court, which was crowded with
the prisoners and those who had come out of curiosity or in the hope
of recognizing one of the men and getting a case for blackmail. The men
were called up first, and reprimanded in a bunch, and then dismissed;
but, Jurgis, to his terror, was called separately, as being a
suspicious-looking case. It was in this very same court that he had been
tried, that time when his sentence had been "suspended"; it was the same
judge, and the same clerk. The latter now stared at Jurgis, as if he
half thought that he knew him; but the judge had no suspicions--just
then his thoughts were upon a telephone message he was expecting from a
friend of the police captain of the district, telling what disposition
he should make of the case of "Polly" Simpson, as the "madame" of the
house was known. Meantime, he listened to the story of how Jurgis had
been looking for his sister, and advised him dryly to keep his sister
in a better place; then he let him go, and proceeded to fine each of the
girls five dollars, which fines were paid in a bunch from a wad of bills
which Madame Polly extracted from her stocking.

Jurgis waited outside and walked home with Marija. The police had left
the house, and already there were a few visitors; by evening the place
would be running again, exactly as if nothing had happened. Meantime,
Marija took Jurgis upstairs to her room, and they sat and talked. By
daylight, Jurgis was able to observe that the color on her cheeks was
not the old natural one of abounding health; her complexion was in
reality a parchment yellow, and there were black rings under her eyes.

"Have you been sick?" he asked.

"Sick?" she said. "Hell!" (Marija had learned to scatter her
conversation with as many oaths as a longshoreman or a mule driver.)
"How can I ever be anything but sick, at this life?"

She fell silent for a moment, staring ahead of her gloomily. "It's
morphine," she said, at last. "I seem to take more of it every day."

"What's that for?" he asked.

"It's the way of it; I don't know why. If it isn't that, it's drink. If
the girls didn't booze they couldn't stand it any time at all. And the
madame always gives them dope when they first come, and they learn to
like it; or else they take it for headaches and such things, and get
the habit that way. I've got it, I know; I've tried to quit, but I never
will while I'm here."

"How long are you going to stay?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Always, I guess. What else could I do?"

"Don't you save any money?"

"Save!" said Marija. "Good Lord, no! I get enough, I suppose, but it all
goes. I get a half share, two dollars and a half for each customer, and
sometimes I make twenty-five or thirty dollars a night, and you'd think
I ought to save something out of that! But then I am charged for my
room and my meals--and such prices as you never heard of; and then for
extras, and drinks--for everything I get, and some I don't. My laundry
bill is nearly twenty dollars each week alone--think of that! Yet what
can I do? I either have to stand it or quit, and it would be the same
anywhere else. It's all I can do to save the fifteen dollars I give
Elzbieta each week, so the children can go to school."

Marija sat brooding in silence for a while; then, seeing that Jurgis was
interested, she went on: "That's the way they keep the girls--they
let them run up debts, so they can't get away. A young girl comes from
abroad, and she doesn't know a word of English, and she gets into a
place like this, and when she wants to go the madame shows her that she
is a couple of hundred dollars in debt, and takes all her clothes away,
and threatens to have her arrested if she doesn't stay and do as she's
told. So she stays, and the longer she stays, the more in debt she gets.
Often, too, they are girls that didn't know what they were coming to,
that had hired out for housework. Did you notice that little French girl
with the yellow hair, that stood next to me in the court?"

Jurgis answered in the affirmative.

"Well, she came to America about a year ago. She was a store clerk, and
she hired herself to a man to be sent here to work in a factory. There
were six of them, all together, and they were brought to a house just
down the street from here, and this girl was put into a room alone, and
they gave her some dope in her food, and when she came to she found that
she had been ruined. She cried, and screamed, and tore her hair, but she
had nothing but a wrapper, and couldn't get away, and they kept her half
insensible with drugs all the time, until she gave up. She never got
outside of that place for ten months, and then they sent her away,
because she didn't suit. I guess they'll put her out of here, too--she's
getting to have crazy fits, from drinking absinthe. Only one of
the girls that came out with her got away, and she jumped out of a
second-story window one night. There was a great fuss about that--maybe
you heard of it."

"I did," said Jurgis, "I heard of it afterward." (It had happened in the
place where he and Duane had taken refuge from their "country customer."
The girl had become insane, fortunately for the police.)

"There's lots of money in it," said Marija--"they get as much as forty
dollars a head for girls, and they bring them from all over. There are
seventeen in this place, and nine different countries among them.
In some places you might find even more. We have half a dozen French
girls--I suppose it's because the madame speaks the language. French
girls are bad, too, the worst of all, except for the Japanese. There's
a place next door that's full of Japanese women, but I wouldn't live in
the same house with one of them."

Marija paused for a moment or two, and then she added: "Most of the
women here are pretty decent--you'd be surprised. I used to think they
did it because they liked to; but fancy a woman selling herself to
every kind of man that comes, old or young, black or white--and doing it
because she likes to!"

"Some of them say they do," said Jurgis.

"I know," said she; "they say anything. They're in, and they know they
can't get out. But they didn't like it when they began--you'd find
out--it's always misery! There's a little Jewish girl here who used to
run errands for a milliner, and got sick and lost her place; and she was
four days on the streets without a mouthful of food, and then she went
to a place just around the corner and offered herself, and they made her
give up her clothes before they would give her a bite to eat!"

Marija sat for a minute or two, brooding somberly. "Tell me about
yourself, Jurgis," she said, suddenly. "Where have you been?"

So he told her the long story of his adventures since his flight from
home; his life as a tramp, and his work in the freight tunnels, and the
accident; and then of Jack Duane, and of his political career in the
stockyards, and his downfall and subsequent failures. Marija listened
with sympathy; it was easy to believe the tale of his late starvation,
for his face showed it all. "You found me just in the nick of time," she
said. "I'll stand by you--I'll help you till you can get some work."

"I don't like to let you--" he began.

"Why not? Because I'm here?"

"No, not that," he said. "But I went off and left you--"

"Nonsense!" said Marija. "Don't think about it. I don't blame you."

"You must be hungry," she said, after a minute or two. "You stay here to
lunch--I'll have something up in the room."

She pressed a button, and a colored woman came to the door and took her
order. "It's nice to have somebody to wait on you," she observed, with a
laugh, as she lay back on the bed.

As the prison breakfast had not been liberal, Jurgis had a good
appetite, and they had a little feast together, talking meanwhile
of Elzbieta and the children and old times. Shortly before they were
through, there came another colored girl, with the message that the
"madame" wanted Marija--"Lithuanian Mary," as they called her here.

"That means you have to go," she said to Jurgis.

So he got up, and she gave him the new address of the family, a tenement
over in the Ghetto district. "You go there," she said. "They'll be glad
to see you."

But Jurgis stood hesitating.

"I--I don't like to," he said. "Honest, Marija, why don't you just give
me a little money and let me look for work first?"

"How do you need money?" was her reply. "All you want is something to
eat and a place to sleep, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said; "but then I don't like to go there after I left
them--and while I have nothing to do, and while you--you--"

"Go on!" said Marija, giving him a push. "What are you talking?--I won't
give you money," she added, as she followed him to the door, "because
you'll drink it up, and do yourself harm. Here's a quarter for you now,
and go along, and they'll be so glad to have you back, you won't have
time to feel ashamed. Good-by!"

So Jurgis went out, and walked down the street to think it over. He
decided that he would first try to get work, and so he put in the rest
of the day wandering here and there among factories and warehouses
without success. Then, when it was nearly dark, he concluded to go home,
and set out; but he came to a restaurant, and went in and spent his
quarter for a meal; and when he came out he changed his mind--the night
was pleasant, and he would sleep somewhere outside, and put in the
morrow hunting, and so have one more chance of a job. So he started away
again, when suddenly he chanced to look about him, and found that he
was walking down the same street and past the same hall where he had
listened to the political speech the night before. There was no red
fire and no band now, but there was a sign out, announcing a meeting,
and a stream of people pouring in through the entrance. In a flash
Jurgis had decided that he would chance it once more, and sit down
and rest while making up his mind what to do. There was no one taking
tickets, so it must be a free show again.

He entered. There were no decorations in the hall this time; but there
was quite a crowd upon the platform, and almost every seat in the place
was filled. He took one of the last, far in the rear, and straightway
forgot all about his surroundings. Would Elzbieta think that he had come
to sponge off her, or would she understand that he meant to get to work
again and do his share? Would she be decent to him, or would she scold
him? If only he could get some sort of a job before he went--if that
last boss had only been willing to try him!

--Then suddenly Jurgis looked up. A tremendous roar had burst from the
throats of the crowd, which by this time had packed the hall to the very
doors. Men and women were standing up, waving handkerchiefs, shouting,
yelling. Evidently the speaker had arrived, thought Jurgis; what fools
they were making of themselves! What were they expecting to get out
of it anyhow--what had they to do with elections, with governing the
country? Jurgis had been behind the scenes in politics.

He went back to his thoughts, but with one further fact to reckon
with--that he was caught here. The hall was now filled to the doors; and
after the meeting it would be too late for him to go home, so he would
have to make the best of it outside. Perhaps it would be better to go
home in the morning, anyway, for the children would be at school, and
he and Elzbieta could have a quiet explanation. She always had been a
reasonable person; and he really did mean to do right. He would manage
to persuade her of it--and besides, Marija was willing, and Marija was
furnishing the money. If Elzbieta were ugly, he would tell her that in
so many words.

So Jurgis went on meditating; until finally, when he had been an hour
or two in the hall, there began to prepare itself a repetition of the
dismal catastrophe of the night before. Speaking had been going on
all the time, and the audience was clapping its hands and shouting,
thrilling with excitement; and little by little the sounds were
beginning to blur in Jurgis's ears, and his thoughts were beginning to
run together, and his head to wobble and nod. He caught himself many
times, as usual, and made desperate resolutions; but the hall was hot
and close, and his long walk and is dinner were too much for him--in the
end his head sank forward and he went off again.

And then again someone nudged him, and he sat up with his old terrified
start! He had been snoring again, of course! And now what? He fixed his
eyes ahead of him, with painful intensity, staring at the platform as
if nothing else ever had interested him, or ever could interest him, all
his life. He imagined the angry exclamations, the hostile glances; he
imagined the policeman striding toward him--reaching for his neck. Or
was he to have one more chance? Were they going to let him alone this
time? He sat trembling; waiting--

And then suddenly came a voice in his ear, a woman's voice, gentle
and sweet, "If you would try to listen, comrade, perhaps you would be
interested."

Jurgis was more startled by that than he would have been by the touch of
a policeman. He still kept his eyes fixed ahead, and did not stir;
but his heart gave a great leap. Comrade! Who was it that called him
"comrade"?

He waited long, long; and at last, when he was sure that he was no
longer watched, he stole a glance out of the corner of his eyes at the
woman who sat beside him. She was young and beautiful; she wore fine
clothes, and was what is called a "lady." And she called him "comrade"!

He turned a little, carefully, so that he could see her better; then he
began to watch her, fascinated. She had apparently forgotten all
about him, and was looking toward the platform. A man was speaking
there--Jurgis heard his voice vaguely; but all his thoughts were for
this woman's face. A feeling of alarm stole over him as he stared at
her. It made his flesh creep. What was the matter with her, what could
be going on, to affect any one like that? She sat as one turned to
stone, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, so tightly that he could
see the cords standing out in her wrists. There was a look of excitement
upon her face, of tense effort, as of one struggling mightily, or
witnessing a struggle. There was a faint quivering of her nostrils; and
now and then she would moisten her lips with feverish haste. Her bosom
rose and fell as she breathed, and her excitement seemed to mount higher
and higher, and then to sink away again, like a boat tossing upon ocean
surges. What was it? What was the matter? It must be something that the
man was saying, up there on the platform. What sort of a man was he?
And what sort of thing was this, anyhow?--So all at once it occurred to
Jurgis to look at the speaker.

It was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of nature--a mountain
forest lashed by a tempest, a ship tossed about upon a stormy sea.
Jurgis had an unpleasant sensation, a sense of confusion, of disorder,
of wild and meaningless uproar. The man was tall and gaunt, as haggard
as his auditor himself; a thin black beard covered half of his face,
and one could see only two black hollows where the eyes were. He was
speaking rapidly, in great excitement; he used many gestures--as he spoke
he moved here and there upon the stage, reaching with his long arms as
if to seize each person in his audience. His voice was deep, like an
organ; it was some time, however, before Jurgis thought of the voice--he
was too much occupied with his eyes to think of what the man was saying.
But suddenly it seemed as if the speaker had begun pointing straight at
him, as if he had singled him out particularly for his remarks; and
so Jurgis became suddenly aware of his voice, trembling, vibrant with
emotion, with pain and longing, with a burden of things unutterable, not
to be compassed by words. To hear it was to be suddenly arrested, to be
gripped, transfixed.

"You listen to these things," the man was saying, "and you say, 'Yes,
they are true, but they have been that way always.' Or you say, 'Maybe
it will come, but not in my time--it will not help me.' And so you
return to your daily round of toil, you go back to be ground up for
profits in the world-wide mill of economic might! To toil long hours
for another's advantage; to live in mean and squalid homes, to work in
dangerous and unhealthful places; to wrestle with the specters of hunger
and privation, to take your chances of accident, disease, and death. And
each day the struggle becomes fiercer, the pace more cruel; each day
you have to toil a little harder, and feel the iron hand of circumstance
close upon you a little tighter. Months pass, years maybe--and then you
come again; and again I am here to plead with you, to know if want and
misery have yet done their work with you, if injustice and oppression
have yet opened your eyes! I shall still be waiting--there is nothing
else that I can do. There is no wilderness where I can hide from these
things, there is no haven where I can escape them; though I travel to
the ends of the earth, I find the same accursed system--I find that all
the fair and noble impulses of humanity, the dreams of poets and the
agonies of martyrs, are shackled and bound in the service of organized
and predatory Greed! And therefore I cannot rest, I cannot be
silent; therefore I cast aside comfort and happiness, health and good
repute--and go out into the world and cry out the pain of my spirit!
Therefore I am not to be silenced by poverty and sickness, not by hatred
and obloquy, by threats and ridicule--not by prison and persecution, if
they should come--not by any power that is upon the earth or above the
earth, that was, or is, or ever can be created. If I fail tonight, I can
only try tomorrow; knowing that the fault must be mine--that if once
the vision of my soul were spoken upon earth, if once the anguish of
its defeat were uttered in human speech, it would break the stoutest
barriers of prejudice, it would shake the most sluggish soul to action!
It would abash the most cynical, it would terrify the most selfish; and
the voice of mockery would be silenced, and fraud and falsehood would
slink back into their dens, and the truth would stand forth alone! For I
speak with the voice of the millions who are voiceless! Of them that are
oppressed and have no comforter! Of the disinherited of life, for whom
there is no respite and no deliverance, to whom the world is a prison, a
dungeon of torture, a tomb! With the voice of the little child who toils
tonight in a Southern cotton mill, staggering with exhaustion, numb
with agony, and knowing no hope but the grave! Of the mother who sews by
candlelight in her tenement garret, weary and weeping, smitten with
the mortal hunger of her babes! Of the man who lies upon a bed of rags,
wrestling in his last sickness and leaving his loved ones to perish! Of
the young girl who, somewhere at this moment, is walking the streets of
this horrible city, beaten and starving, and making her choice between
the brothel and the lake! With the voice of those, whoever and wherever
they may be, who are caught beneath the wheels of the Juggernaut of
Greed! With the voice of humanity, calling for deliverance! Of the
everlasting soul of Man, arising from the dust; breaking its way out of
its prison--rending the bands of oppression and ignorance--groping its
way to the light!"

The speaker paused. There was an instant of silence, while men caught
their breaths, and then like a single sound there came a cry from a
thousand people. Through it all Jurgis sat still, motionless and rigid,
his eyes fixed upon the speaker; he was trembling, smitten with wonder.

Suddenly the man raised his hands, and silence fell, and he began again.

"I plead with you," he said, "whoever you may be, provided that you care
about the truth; but most of all I plead with working-man, with those
to whom the evils I portray are not mere matters of sentiment, to be
dallied and toyed with, and then perhaps put aside and forgotten--to
whom they are the grim and relentless realities of the daily grind, the
chains upon their limbs, the lash upon their backs, the iron in their
souls. To you, working-men! To you, the toilers, who have made this
land, and have no voice in its councils! To you, whose lot it is to sow
that others may reap, to labor and obey, and ask no more than the wages
of a beast of burden, the food and shelter to keep you alive from day to
day. It is to you that I come with my message of salvation, it is to you
that I appeal. I know how much it is to ask of you--I know, for I have
been in your place, I have lived your life, and there is no man before
me here tonight who knows it better. I have known what it is to be a
street-waif, a bootblack, living upon a crust of bread and sleeping in
cellar stairways and under empty wagons. I have known what it is to dare
and to aspire, to dream mighty dreams and to see them perish--to see all
the fair flowers of my spirit trampled into the mire by the wild-beast
powers of my life. I know what is the price that a working-man pays for
knowledge--I have paid for it with food and sleep, with agony of body
and mind, with health, almost with life itself; and so, when I come to
you with a story of hope and freedom, with the vision of a new earth to
be created, of a new labor to be dared, I am not surprised that I find
you sordid and material, sluggish and incredulous. That I do not despair
is because I know also the forces that are driving behind you--because
I know the raging lash of poverty, the sting of contempt and mastership,
'the insolence of office and the spurns.' Because I feel sure that in
the crowd that has come to me tonight, no matter how many may be dull
and heedless, no matter how many may have come out of idle curiosity, or
in order to ridicule--there will be some one man whom pain and suffering
have made desperate, whom some chance vision of wrong and horror has
startled and shocked into attention. And to him my words will come like
a sudden flash of lightning to one who travels in darkness--revealing
the way before him, the perils and the obstacles--solving all problems,
making all difficulties clear! The scales will fall from his eyes, the
shackles will be torn from his limbs--he will leap up with a cry of
thankfulness, he will stride forth a free man at last! A man
delivered from his self-created slavery! A man who will never more
be trapped--whom no blandishments will cajole, whom no threats will
frighten; who from tonight on will move forward, and not backward, who
will study and understand, who will gird on his sword and take his
place in the army of his comrades and brothers. Who will carry the good
tidings to others, as I have carried them to him--priceless gift of
liberty and light that is neither mine nor his, but is the heritage of
the soul of man! Working-men, working-men--comrades! open your eyes and
look about you! You have lived so long in the toil and heat that your
senses are dulled, your souls are numbed; but realize once in your lives
this world in which you dwell--tear off the rags of its customs and
conventions--behold it as it is, in all its hideous nakedness! Realize
it, realize it! Realize that out upon the plains of Manchuria tonight
two hostile armies are facing each other--that now, while we are seated
here, a million human beings may be hurled at each other's throats,
striving with the fury of maniacs to tear each other to pieces! And this
in the twentieth century, nineteen hundred years since the Prince of
Peace was born on earth! Nineteen hundred years that his words have been
preached as divine, and here two armies of men are rending and tearing
each other like the wild beasts of the forest! Philosophers have
reasoned, prophets have denounced, poets have wept and pleaded--and
still this hideous Monster roams at large! We have schools and colleges,
newspapers and books; we have searched the heavens and the earth, we
have weighed and probed and reasoned--and all to equip men to destroy
each other! We call it War, and pass it by--but do not put me off with
platitudes and conventions--come with me, come with me--realize it!
See the bodies of men pierced by bullets, blown into pieces by bursting
shells! Hear the crunching of the bayonet, plunged into human flesh;
hear the groans and shrieks of agony, see the faces of men crazed by
pain, turned into fiends by fury and hate! Put your hand upon that piece
of flesh--it is hot and quivering--just now it was a part of a man! This
blood is still steaming--it was driven by a human heart! Almighty God!
and this goes on--it is systematic, organized, premeditated! And we know
it, and read of it, and take it for granted; our papers tell of it, and
the presses are not stopped--our churches know of it, and do not close
their doors--the people behold it, and do not rise up in horror and
revolution!

"Or perhaps Manchuria is too far away for you--come home with me then,
come here to Chicago. Here in this city to-night ten thousand women are
shut up in foul pens, and driven by hunger to sell their bodies to live.
And we know it, we make it a jest! And these women are made in the image
of your mothers, they may be your sisters, your daughters; the child
whom you left at home tonight, whose laughing eyes will greet you in the
morning--that fate may be waiting for her! To-night in Chicago there are
ten thousand men, homeless and wretched, willing to work and begging for
a chance, yet starving, and fronting in terror the awful winter cold!
Tonight in Chicago there are a hundred thousand children wearing out
their strength and blasting their lives in the effort to earn their
bread! There are a hundred thousand mothers who are living in misery and
squalor, struggling to earn enough to feed their little ones! There are
a hundred thousand old people, cast off and helpless, waiting for death
to take them from their torments! There are a million people, men and
women and children, who share the curse of the wage-slave; who toil
every hour they can stand and see, for just enough to keep them alive;
who are condemned till the end of their days to monotony and weariness,
to hunger and misery, to heat and cold, to dirt and disease, to
ignorance and drunkenness and vice! And then turn over the page with me,
and gaze upon the other side of the picture. There are a thousand--ten
thousand, maybe--who are the masters of these slaves, who own their
toil. They do nothing to earn what they receive, they do not even have
to ask for it--it comes to them of itself, their only care is to dispose
of it. They live in palaces, they riot in luxury and extravagance--such
as no words can describe, as makes the imagination reel and stagger,
makes the soul grow sick and faint. They spend hundreds of dollars for a
pair of shoes, a handkerchief, a garter; they spend millions for horses
and automobiles and yachts, for palaces and banquets, for little shiny
stones with which to deck their bodies. Their life is a contest among
themselves for supremacy in ostentation and recklessness, in the
destroying of useful and necessary things, in the wasting of the labor
and the lives of their fellow creatures, the toil and anguish of the
nations, the sweat and tears and blood of the human race! It is all
theirs--it comes to them; just as all the springs pour into streamlets,
and the streamlets into rivers, and the rivers into the oceans--so,
automatically and inevitably, all the wealth of society comes to them.
The farmer tills the soil, the miner digs in the earth, the weaver tends
the loom, the mason carves the stone; the clever man invents, the shrewd
man directs, the wise man studies, the inspired man sings--and all the
result, the products of the labor of brain and muscle, are gathered into
one stupendous stream and poured into their laps! The whole of society
is in their grip, the whole labor of the world lies at their mercy--and
like fierce wolves they rend and destroy, like ravening vultures they
devour and tear! The whole power of mankind belongs to them, forever
and beyond recall--do what it can, strive as it will, humanity lives for
them and dies for them! They own not merely the labor of society, they
have bought the governments; and everywhere they use their raped and
stolen power to intrench themselves in their privileges, to dig wider
and deeper the channels through which the river of profits flows to
them!--And you, workingmen, workingmen! You have been brought up to
it, you plod on like beasts of burden, thinking only of the day and its
pain--yet is there a man among you who can believe that such a system
will continue forever--is there a man here in this audience tonight
so hardened and debased that he dare rise up before me and say that
he believes it can continue forever; that the product of the labor of
society, the means of existence of the human race, will always belong
to idlers and parasites, to be spent for the gratification of vanity and
lust--to be spent for any purpose whatever, to be at the disposal of any
individual will whatever--that somehow, somewhere, the labor of humanity
will not belong to humanity, to be used for the purposes of humanity, to
be controlled by the will of humanity? And if this is ever to be, how is
it to be--what power is there that will bring it about? Will it be the
task of your masters, do you think--will they write the charter of your
liberties? Will they forge you the sword of your deliverance, will they
marshal you the army and lead it to the fray? Will their wealth be spent
for the purpose--will they build colleges and churches to teach you,
will they print papers to herald your progress, and organize political
parties to guide and carry on the struggle? Can you not see that the
task is your task--yours to dream, yours to resolve, yours to execute?
That if ever it is carried out, it will be in the face of every obstacle
that wealth and mastership can oppose--in the face of ridicule and
slander, of hatred and persecution, of the bludgeon and the jail? That
it will be by the power of your naked bosoms, opposed to the rage of
oppression! By the grim and bitter teaching of blind and merciless
affliction! By the painful gropings of the untutored mind, by the feeble
stammerings of the uncultured voice! By the sad and lonely hunger of
the spirit; by seeking and striving and yearning, by heartache and
despairing, by agony and sweat of blood! It will be by money paid for
with hunger, by knowledge stolen from sleep, by thoughts communicated
under the shadow of the gallows! It will be a movement beginning in the
far-off past, a thing obscure and unhonored, a thing easy to ridicule,
easy to despise; a thing unlovely, wearing the aspect of vengeance and
hate--but to you, the working-man, the wage-slave, calling with a voice
insistent, imperious--with a voice that you cannot escape, wherever upon
the earth you may be! With the voice of all your wrongs, with the voice
of all your desires; with the voice of your duty and your hope--of
everything in the world that is worth while to you! The voice of the
poor, demanding that poverty shall cease! The voice of the oppressed,
pronouncing the doom of oppression! The voice of power, wrought out of
suffering--of resolution, crushed out of weakness--of joy and courage,
born in the bottomless pit of anguish and despair! The voice of Labor,
despised and outraged; a mighty giant, lying prostrate--mountainous,
colossal, but blinded, bound, and ignorant of his strength. And now a
dream of resistance haunts him, hope battling with fear; until suddenly
he stirs, and a fetter snaps--and a thrill shoots through him, to the
farthest ends of his huge body, and in a flash the dream becomes an act!
He starts, he lifts himself; and the bands are shattered, the burdens
roll off him--he rises--towering, gigantic; he springs to his feet, he
shouts in his newborn exultation--"

And the speaker's voice broke suddenly, with the stress of his feelings;
he stood with his arms stretched out above him, and the power of his
vision seemed to lift him from the floor. The audience came to its feet
with a yell; men waved their arms, laughing aloud in their excitement.
And Jurgis was with them, he was shouting to tear his throat; shouting
because he could not help it, because the stress of his feeling was more
than he could bear. It was not merely the man's words, the torrent
of his eloquence. It was his presence, it was his voice: a voice with
strange intonations that rang through the chambers of the soul like the
clanging of a bell--that gripped the listener like a mighty hand about
his body, that shook him and startled him with sudden fright, with
a sense of things not of earth, of mysteries never spoken before, of
presences of awe and terror! There was an unfolding of vistas before
him, a breaking of the ground beneath him, an upheaving, a stirring,
a trembling; he felt himself suddenly a mere man no longer--there were
powers within him undreamed of, there were demon forces contending,
age-long wonders struggling to be born; and he sat oppressed with pain
and joy, while a tingling stole down into his finger tips, and his
breath came hard and fast. The sentences of this man were to Jurgis like
the crashing of thunder in his soul; a flood of emotions surged up
in him--all his old hopes and longings, his old griefs and rages and
despairs. All that he had ever felt in his whole life seemed to come
back to him at once, and with one new emotion, hardly to be described.
That he should have suffered such oppressions and such horrors was bad
enough; but that he should have been crushed and beaten by them, that he
should have submitted, and forgotten, and lived in peace--ah, truly that
was a thing not to be put into words, a thing not to be borne by a human
creature, a thing of terror and madness! "What," asks the prophet, "is
the murder of them that kill the body, to the murder of them that kill
the soul?" And Jurgis was a man whose soul had been murdered, who had
ceased to hope and to struggle--who had made terms with degradation
and despair; and now, suddenly, in one awful convulsion, the black and
hideous fact was made plain to him! There was a falling in of all the
pillars of his soul, the sky seemed to split above him--he stood there,
with his clenched hands upraised, his eyes bloodshot, and the veins
standing out purple in his face, roaring in the voice of a wild beast,
frantic, incoherent, maniacal. And when he could shout no more he still
stood there, gasping, and whispering hoarsely to himself: "By God! By
God! By God!"

Jurgis narrowly escapes recognition by the judge when he appears in court the next morning. Marija and the other whores are fined five dollars, which is paid by their madam. They leave the court and return to the brothel where business resumes as usual. Marija and Jurgis talk for a while. She tells him of the whore trade, how girls are brought over from foreign countries and forced into prostitution. Their madam gives him morphine so that they become addicted and reliant on staying in the brothel to afford more of the drug. She tells him of how women, contrary to opinion, do not like such work, and how they are forced into such labor by starvation and poverty. Jurgis tells Marija of his own travels. She assures him that if he returns to Elzbieta's house, he will not be judged for leaving. She gives him only a quarter and tells him to go there. He leaves the brothel and gets a meal with the quarter. He tries to find work so that he will not have to face Elzbieta, but he cannot find a job. As he walks past the meeting hall, he sees there is another political rally forming. He enters the hall and finds that it is almost full. He takes one of the last seats in the back of the room. Jurgis is lost in his thoughts and before he realizes it, he falls asleep and is awakened by another man. Suddenly, a young woman whispers in his ear, "'If you would try to listen, comrade, perhaps you would be interested. Jurgis is startled and sees that the young woman that whispered to him is finely dressed and intently listening to the man giving the political speech. He is shocked that a woman of such standing would call him "comrade. Jurgis focuses his attention on the speaker and is transfixed. He is surprised by how emotional he becomes at seeing the man's eyes. It was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of nature, -- a mountain forest lashed by a tempest, a ship tossed about upon a stormy sea. Jurgis is confused and disoriented, but cannot help but pay attention to the man. The man begins to give a long speech that captures the attention of the audience. He uses wild gestures and a powerful voice. He tells of how the workingmen of the Chicago are oppressed and believe that there is nothing they can do to escape the harsh conditions they face. He tells of how women must prostitute themselves to survive and how the institutions of the city, such as government, industry, and churches, do nothing to help. He tells of how children face desperation and starvation. Jurgis is "trembling smitten with wonder" by this speaker, and everyone in the hall cheers and then is silent as the man continues his speech. The man tells the crowd that a person can be "delivered from his self-created slavery" and that the systems of degradation will never again ensnare him. He goads the crowd into taking action here in Chicago. He tells them that they must rise up against the thousands of people that "do nothing to earn what they receive," those masters of industry who live in palaces and luxury while their workers starve. The speaker tells the crowd that they must speak with the "voice of Labor, despised and outraged; a mighty giant, lying prostrate. Jurgis stands and cheers with the crowd, overwhelmed by his emotion. He hears a voice within him, "a voice with strange intonations that rang through the chambers of the soul like the clanging of a bell. All of his old emotions come flooding back to him, and he comes to a realization about his state and what has put him there

As Jurgis leaves Marija's brothel, he is in danger of falling back into the same cycle of poverty and unemployment as before. By chance, he enters the Socialist Party rally and undergoes his most significant awakening. Some scholars have likened this awakening to a conversion experience for Jurgis. The conversion narrative is a fixture of much of modern Western literature. Based upon narratives that began appearing in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and which found their greatest popularity in Puritan and Evangelical literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, these narratives generally focus around a specific time in which a character undergoes some kind of intense personal or intellectual change. Jurgis's conversion fits this pattern. Through no effort of his own, Jurgis transforms from a character that is at the whim of the horrors of the natural world around him to a person with agency and the ability to influence his life and the lives of others. This conversion is seen in the reappearance of the voices and noises inside of Jurgis's head. In the novel's previous chapter, these voices and noises, symbolic of the spark of life, were extinguished. This represented the mental and interior death of Jurgis, even if his physical self still exists. The return of these voices represents a resurrection. This shows how Jurgis can be considered a Christ-figure in the novel's narrative. The Socialist Party movement is a typical description of revolutionary movements in America during this time. As shown by the singing of the Marseillaise, the French national anthem written during the Revolution of 1789. Sinclair had used the scene of Jurgis at the meat packing plant owner's house to propose that the reader understand the developing class conflict in Chicago in terms of previous revolutionary activity. By singing this anthem, Sinclair firmly establishes the Socialist Party in America as in the lineage of the French Revolution. These final chapters of The Jungle shows a shift in Sinclair's narrative technique. From Chapter Two until Chapter Twenty-Eight, Sinclair uses a narrative arc, mostly of the demise of Jurgis and his family. This arc ends in Chapter Twenty-Eight and Twenty-Nine with Jurgis's conversion to Socialism. The remaining chapters of the novel move from a narrative to an explanatory style of writing. Sinclair uses the final chapters to explain the tenets and the merits of socialism to his reading audience. Scholars and critics have not always approved of this technique since it abandons the Naturalist mode of writing Sinclair established in the rest of the novel. The discussion between Lucas and Schliemann allows Sinclair to elaborate on the breadth of the socialist movement. Lucas's argument that Christianity can be fully reconciled with the political aspirations of socialism demonstrates the thinking of the Social Gospel movement. This movement, unofficially led by pastors and writers who often ministered in the country's working class slums, seeks to portray the Christian church as originally a socialist movement. Their goal is to reclaim the social message of the gospel and to support socialist political goals. Schliemann's arguments for socialism follow the more traditional intellectual explanation of the movement. Schliemann relies heavily on the arguments framed by Marx and Engels in The Communist Manifesto and Capital. The novel's ending has been another point of criticism from scholars and critics. The novel resolves with a victory, if not in actual votes than in momentum,  for the Socialist Party. Jurgis's narrative is never resolved beyond experiencing his spiritual and intellectual awakening, and the reader is unsure as to whether his life truly improved or if he remained subject to the forces of the natural world that caused his previous demise. The novel's closing chapters, critics have charged, resemble propagandist material more than literary achievement, a fault that some feel keeps The Jungle from achieving the literary ambitions that Sinclair proposed for the novel.

Jurgis is released without a fine. The judge is distracted and doesn't really care about his whole story that he was looking for his sister. So, Jurgis waits outside for Marija and they walk back to her brothel together In the sunlight, Jurgis sees that Marija doesn't look well. Apparently, Marija has started using morphine. Marija needs the drugs to keep working at this place. She cannot imagine what other job she would do, now. She's also not saving any money. Still, Marija does manage to give $15 to Elzbieta every week, so the kids can go to school. Many of the girls at the brothel start working there against their will. Marija tells a horrible story of a French woman who was put in a room alone, giving drugs, and then raped while she was passed out. That's how she became a prostitute. One of the other girls brought in with this woman jumped out of a window recently. There's a huge profit to be made by bringing girls in for sexual slavery at these brothels. Marija's brothel has women from nine different countries, many of them initially tricked into the business. Jurgis claims some women say they like being prostitutes. Marija asks how that can be possible: who would genuinely like to have no say at all in who they have sex with? All the prostitutes she knows didn't want to do it when they started. Marija gives Jurgis lunch. After lunch, a customer comes for Marija. Jurgis has to go. Jurgis asks Marija for some money, and Marija gives him a quarter. Jurgis wants to get a job before he goes back to see Teta Elzbieta, but Marija says not to worry about it - they'll be glad to see Jurgis. Jurgis spends the day looking for work. Eventually, he finds himself outside another political meeting. It's free, so he goes inside. A man comes onto the podium, and the whole audience cheers loudly for him. Jurgis thinks this is all pointless. He knows what goes on behind the scenes in politics. Jurgis keeps thinking about what he should do about Marija and Teta Elzbieta. He finally decides he'll just go see Teta Elzbieta the next morning, even if he doesn't have a job. Jurgis starts to drowse off again. Someone wakes him, and Jurgis realizes he has been snoring. He thinks he's going to be booted out of the meeting again. The woman sitting next to Jurgis calls him "Comrade," and suggests that he listen to the speech. Jurgis is so surprised that a lady would call him comrade that he starts to pay attention to the speaker. The speaker pleads with the working man: he knows what the working life is like; he knows how hard it is to have no food and to walk the streets. This speaker is bringing a message of salvation: we can be free from our self-created slavery. Everywhere in the world, there is war and conflict. What are these conflicts based on? Greed. All of this pain is absolutely systematic; it is the result of world economic structures that demand that some people be kept poor and miserable while others become rich. The whole world is at the mercy of these few rich men, who keep the rest of us as slaves. To change this system of inequality and exploitation, working people need to make their voices heard. How can that happen? By joining the movement and rising up against the Powers That Be. Jurgis hears this speaker's words and suddenly feels overwhelmed. He remembers all of his oppression since coming to Chicago. He is ashamed that he submitted to this bad treatment. Jurgis suddenly feels as though his soul is waking up again after years of despair and degradation.

Reluctant to face Elzbieta while still unemployed, Jurgis impulsively attends another political meeting. This time, when he falls asleep, instead of being kicked out, he is encouraged to listen. Jurgis does listen and feels as if the powerful, persuasive voice is directing his comments directly to him. The speaker awakens old dreams and desires, long dormant within Jurgis' soul, and persuades Jurgis not to accept defeat.

This chapter serves as the climax of the novel, marking Jurgis' transition from the Old World to the New World; however, the New World is not America but rather, socialism. Serving as a contrast to the brothel, the symbol of capitalism in the previous chapter, Jurgis has an epiphany at a political meeting, the symbolic setting for socialism and change. For the first time in his life, Jurgis is willing to listen to the rhetoric of socialism, and the message moves him. The idea of socialism appeals to Jurgis, and he must find out more. This radical change in both character and tone is one of the major weaknesses of The Jungle. Because Sinclair has been using summary narrative, readers know nothing about the personal side of Jurgis. His radical departure from his normal behavior goes against everything that Sinclair has presented about Jurgis before, and therefore, rings false. Sinclair has made references, albeit small ones, to socialism throughout the text, but now he goes beyond introducing the ideology to making it the major emphasis of the final three chapters. Moreover, therein lies another problem with The Jungle. Sinclair's flawed story ends up dismissing Jurgis, his family, and the plight of immigrants for the sake of socialism. Sinclair abandons his characters and his narrative for the sake of a political treatise. The end of this chapter also marks the end of pure Zolaism. The discovery of hope and the revival of Jurgis' manhood is exactly opposite to the typically Zolaist hero who goes down in defeat. In doing this, Sinclair states that socialism is the answer to realism as well as capitalism. Marija and Jurgis illustrate the dichotomy between the two: Marija is still trapped and is therefore the victim while Jurgis escapes, becoming an activist. Glossary absinthe green, bitter, toxic liqueur made with wormwood oil and anise: now illegal in most countries. garret the space, room, or rooms just below the roof of a house; attic. blandishments flattering or ingratiating acts or remarks, meant to persuade.

The madam of the brothel pays Marija's fine and the prostitutes are set free. The judge lets Jurgis go without penalty because Jurgis says that he had gone merely to visit his sister. He gives a false name at his arrest, and no one recognizes him as Phil Connor's attacker. Marija later confesses that she is a morphine addict. Most of the prostitutes, she tells Jurgis, are addicted to something. She explains that women are kidnapped and forced into the work and that they cannot leave because the madam keeps them in debt and addicted to drugs. Marija gives Jurgis Teta Elzbieta's address and urges him to stay with her and her remaining children. Jurgis doesn't want to see her until he gets a job because he feels guilty for leaving them after Antanas died. Jurgis spends the rest of the day looking for work. He eats dinner and, while walking the streets, chances upon a political meeting. He enters the hall to sit and rest while he ponders how Teta Elzbieta will receive him. He fears her condemnation and the possibility that she may think that he merely wants to loaf at her expense. He begins to nod off during the speech. A well-dressed woman calls him "comrade" and urges him to listen to the speech. No one tries to throw him out for sleeping. Jurgis listens to the speech; he has wandered into a socialist political meeting. The speaker details the miserable conditions of life for the common worker. He points out the corrupt practices of big capitalists to grind common laborers into submission. Jurgis finds the expression of all of his misery in the man's speech. He enters an exultation of joy listening to the rousing words of the speaker. He finds confirmation of everything that he has suffered and everything that he has seen. For the first time, he has found a political party to represent his interests rather than those of the privileged, powerful, and wealthy.