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 maternal1 fussiness2, 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—apparently3 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 amenities4!
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 reassuring5 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 23to pay his fare back home, but decided6 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 solace7 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 unified8 effects are in their nature simple and may be discovered and isolated9 as a sort of essence by analysis.”
Under ordinary circumstances that sentence was doubtless perfectly10 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!
24Going to Chicago, for instance. Thousands of young men did it every year; his journey was merely one of the items of those broad sociological generalizations11 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, inevitably12 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 genial13 elderly man in the seat opposite asking the question—a plump man with a little pointed14 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 kindly15, 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 lookout16 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.
25“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 quaint17 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 genially18 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. 26He could forget Mr. Anderson’s card, but what could he do with those letters of introduction?
They were in a way a serious embarrassment19. 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 dwellings20, a glimpse of great buildings, and then the dusky gloom of a huge station. He seized his suitcase, descended21 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 instructor22 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 remarkable23 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 27opportunity for feeling his individual insignificance24 against this new background of rushing, roaring life, he was talked half way across Chicago to a place where, at an intersection25 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 casually26 assured him, he was to stay until he had made other plans—Felix strove to regain27 his sense of the verities28.
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 Socialist29 local back in Port Royal—it was one of the “bourgeois-idealistic” attempts to obscure, by means of a futile30 benevolence31, the class-struggle between the rich and the poor....
His actual feeling, however, was one of gratitude32 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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1
maternal
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adj.母亲的,母亲般的,母系的,母方的 | |
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2
fussiness
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[医]易激怒 | |
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3
apparently
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adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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4
amenities
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n.令人愉快的事物;礼仪;礼节;便利设施;礼仪( amenity的名词复数 );便利设施;(环境等的)舒适;(性情等的)愉快 | |
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5
reassuring
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a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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6
decided
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adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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7
solace
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n.安慰;v.使快乐;vt.安慰(物),缓和 | |
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8
unified
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(unify 的过去式和过去分词); 统一的; 统一标准的; 一元化的 | |
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9
isolated
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adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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10
perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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11
generalizations
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一般化( generalization的名词复数 ); 普通化; 归纳; 概论 | |
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12
inevitably
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adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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13
genial
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adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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14
pointed
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adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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15
kindly
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adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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16
lookout
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n.注意,前途,瞭望台 | |
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17
quaint
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adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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18
genially
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adv.亲切地,和蔼地;快活地 | |
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19
embarrassment
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n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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20
dwellings
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n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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21
descended
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a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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22
instructor
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n.指导者,教员,教练 | |
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23
remarkable
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adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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24
insignificance
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n.不重要;无价值;无意义 | |
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25
intersection
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n.交集,十字路口,交叉点;[计算机] 交集 | |
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26
casually
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adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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27
regain
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vt.重新获得,收复,恢复 | |
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28
verities
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n.真实( verity的名词复数 );事实;真理;真实的陈述 | |
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29
socialist
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n.社会主义者;adj.社会主义的 | |
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30
futile
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adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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31
benevolence
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n.慈悲,捐助 | |
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32
gratitude
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adj.感激,感谢 | |
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