1
COMING home, Felix found a letter from Helen Raymond, congratulating him
on his decision to go to Chicago, and enclosing two letters of
introduction, one of them to an editorial writer on an afternoon paper,
the other to some one at a settlement house.
Helen was, he perceived, like Tom, a romanticist. She would be quite
capable of believing that these little pieces of paper assured him a
welcome in Chicago!... She had, with a kind of pathetic maternal
fussiness, taken his destinies in charge; and Felix rather wished she
hadn’t. She had even directed him as to which train he should take on
Monday—apparently confident that some one, in response to her
suggestion, would be at the station to meet him. As if people in Chicago
had time for such amenities!
It was in the mood of one who goes alone against the enemy, that Felix
took the train to Chicago. And armed with a paper sword! For so it was
that he thought of his letters of introduction. Of what use were letters
of introduction in Chicago? Well he knew how unconscious Chicago would
remain of the arrival of one more poor struggler. His coming might mean
everything to him, but it meant nothing at all to Chicago. That was the
obvious truth, and why not face it?
2
On the train he took out his money and counted it again, though he knew
quite definitely how much he had. But it was reassuring to feel the
crisp bills in his hand. Well, he would not starve for three or four
weeks anyway. He considered the advisability of putting away separately
enough to pay his fare back home, but decided against it. “I am not
going back home,” he said to himself.
He went over his plans once more. From the station he would go to a
certain cheap hotel that Tom had suggested. Tom had stayed there once
when he was nearly broke. Then he would look about for a cheap room.
That secured, he would spend a day wandering about the city and
familiarizing himself with its streets. The third day he would go to
look for a job. And the fourth day—and all the other days—he would
continue to look for a job: until he got one.
There was no use in going over his plans any more. He took a book from
his suitcase to read.
He had taken along only one book.... He had smiled ironically when
choosing it, remembering the old literary discussions as to what book
one would choose to have along when cast away on a desert island. Here
was a more practical problem: what book one should choose for solace
when cast alone into the midst of a complex and difficult civilization.
On a desert island one would want something to remind one of people, of
civilization—perhaps Henry James; or more likely the Arabian Nights. But
for his Chicago campaign he had chosen H. G. Wells’ “First and Last
Things.”
He opened the book and began to read.... He discovered after a while
that he had been reading the same sentence over and over:
“_It seems to me one of the heedless errors of those who deal in
philosophy, to suppose all things that have simple names or
unified effects are in their nature simple and may be discovered
and isolated as a sort of essence by analysis._”
Under ordinary circumstances that sentence was doubtless perfectly
clear; but on the train to Chicago it was strangely hard to understand.
And when he recalled his wandering thoughts, put aside his emotions of
expectation and fear, and looked at the sentence again, its meaning was
singularly comfortless. That simple things are not so simple after
all—yes, that was just the trouble!
Going to Chicago, for instance. Thousands of young men did it every
year; his journey was merely one of the items of those broad
sociological generalizations which the university extension lecturers
were fond of uttering. From the outside it was simple enough. It had
apparently been taken for granted by his family and friends for the last
two or three years that Felix would go to Chicago. Certain people, it
seemed, inevitably went. Being one of those people, he had gone.
But _why_?
He restlessly put aside the book and stared out the window. Why? He
hadn’t the least idea, and he rather wished he were back in Port Royal,
with time and leisure to work out the answer to that question
satisfactorily....
“Going to Chicago?”
It was a genial elderly man in the seat opposite asking the question—a
plump man with a little pointed beard sprinkled with grey, and laughing
wrinkles about his eyes. He leaned forward in a friendly manner.
“Yes,” Felix answered.
“First time?” the man asked shrewdly.
“Yes,”—and Felix wondered why it should be the first time. Why, living
only five hours away from Chicago, had he never gone there to
reconnoitre, to learn to find his way about, to get the lay of things?
It had been stupid of him not to.
“I came to Chicago for the first time forty years ago,” the elderly man
was saying. “And I was just about as scared as you are.” He laughed
kindly, and tapped Felix’s knee. “But I needn’t have been. Chicago’s a
fine town. No place better for a young man to go. You don’t need to
worry, my boy. Chicago’s on the lookout for bright young people.”
Yes—but that was just what was bothering Felix Fay. He was afraid he was
not a bright young person in the ordinary meaning of the term.
The man entered upon a lively account of his early struggles and
successes in the hides and leather business.
“What’s your line?” he suddenly asked, smiling.
“I—write,” Felix said, embarrassed. “I want to get a job on a
newspaper.” How remote that seemed from the hides and leather business!
“Well, we’ve got some fine newspapers in Chicago. I read the Tribune
myself. I always turn first thing to the funny column. I miss it when
I’m out of town—doesn’t seem like breakfast is complete without it.” He
paused, with a reminiscent air. “But none of them are as good as ’Gene
Field used to be! My, how I did enjoy the things he wrote. I know a man
who used to know him right well, too; tells stories about him. ’Gene was
a great old boy.” He sighed.
Felix was startled. He had not suspected that in the hides and leather
business there was room for this quaint literary sentimentalism....
“What’s your name?” Felix told him. “Mine’s Anderson—John Anderson. I’m
getting off here at Elgin. You might come and see me at my office in
Chicago some time, and tell me how you’re getting along. I’ll give you
my card.... Well, Mr. Fay, you drop in any time—or ring me up—and we’ll
go out to lunch. I’ll take you to a nice chop-house. Maybe,” he grinned,
“you’ll need a good meal, now and then, before you get started. You just
ring me up!” He shook hands warmly, took down his big suitcase, and left
the train.
3
Felix frowned. It was pleasant, of course, to be so genially treated by
a stranger. But he must not get any false ideas of Chicago from this
incident. He would think twice about accepting Mr. John Anderson’s
invitation to come and see him; and he would certainly not come if he
were in need of a meal; probably Mr. Anderson would have forgotten all
about him by the next day, anyway. He put away Mr. Anderson’s card in
the pocket in which his letters of introduction were stored. Again he
frowned, took out his letters of introduction, looked at them, and put
them back. He could forget Mr. Anderson’s card, but what could he do
with those letters of introduction?
They were in a way a serious embarrassment. Helen would expect him to
make use of them.... He could see himself presenting his letter to Mr.
Blake at the Community House, and being regarded with puzzled surprise.
“What does he want of us?” Mr. Blake would be asking himself....
Well, what did he want of them? Nothing.
He had a great notion to tear those letters up and throw them away
before he had made a fool of himself with them....
4
Chicago! Endless blocks of dwellings, a glimpse of great buildings, and
then the dusky gloom of a huge station. He seized his suitcase,
descended from the train, and heard his name called questioningly.
He turned to meet a smiling, straw-haired youth, who shook his hand, and
relieved him of his suitcase. “I’m right? Helen gave me a good
description, and I was sure it was you! My name is Blake—Will Blake.
Well, how’s Port Royal? And my friend Hastings of the Record? And Judge
Beecher and Rabbi Nathan, Dr. Truesdale and the rest of ’em? I know Port
Royal quite well, I’ve lectured there so much. And Helen tells me you’re
the reporter that gave our series such good stories.”
Felix bewilderedly recognized this affable youth as the university
instructor whose lectures in the extension series on sociological
problems he had attended and reported; and he realized that between Port
Royal and Chicago, so remote in his imagination, there were at least
some few human links. Even so, this struck him as being in the nature of
a remarkable coincidence.
Meanwhile, Felix had been escorted to a street-car. It was dusk, and the
streets were crowded. But Blake’s friendly questioning served to
distract his attention from the bewildering hugeness of the city. With
but the slightest opportunity for feeling his individual insignificance
against this new background of rushing, roaring life, he was talked half
way across Chicago to a place where, at an intersection of busy and
dirty little streets, rose a gracious and homelike building. “This is
Community House,” said Blake. “I’ll take you right up to your room, and
you can meet the Head and the residents at dinner.”
Left alone in the room—where, as his escort had casually assured him, he
was to stay until he had made other plans—Felix strove to regain his
sense of the verities.
He knew already of the existence, and the purposes, of Community House.
It was one of those institutions which he had discussed, knowingly and
scornfully, in the Socialist local back in Port Royal—it was one of the
“bourgeois-idealistic” attempts to obscure, by means of a futile
benevolence, the class-struggle between the rich and the poor....
His actual feeling, however, was one of gratitude toward the cheerful
shelter of this little room. He went to the window. It was strangely
exhilarating to look out over the smoke and grime of this tumble of
roofs, from the window of a room so instantly and pleasantly his own.
He had a curious feeling of ease and security—a feeling which he strove
to repress....
Secure, and at ease—that seemed indeed a foolish way for one to feel who
was about to commence the grim battle of life in Chicago!
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