Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  Stephen lowered his gaze and once more turned toward the west.

  1873–1874

  1873

  BROWSE FOR AS LONG AS YOU LIKE

  The following article, written by Annie Borne, was published in the Chicago Daily Tribune on June 7, 1873. Annie Borne was the pen name used by the newspaper’s food and fashion correspondent, Mrs. Antje Hunter (née Van Voorhis). Please note that all items marked in square brackets [] were removed by the copy editor prior to publication.

  Ladies, their sales campaign begins before I have even set foot inside the lavishly decorated five-story marble palace at the corner of State Street and Washington. A young porter, trussed up in a dark blue uniform that shines with enough brass buttons for half a dozen ordinary bellhops, greets me with a smile. “Welcome to Field & Leiter,” he says, “the largest dry-goods store on earth,” as he makes a low, sweeping bow and, with a seemingly herculean effort, casts open the heavy glass-paneled doors over which he stands guard. With that portentous greeting ringing loud and clear in my ears, I step inside.

  Dear readers, discerning ladies of Chicago, believe me when I say that these front doors represent the gates to a magical, elect kingdom wherein are gathered a host of unimaginable wonders. With what a sense of awe will you first glimpse the spacious lobby, with its recessed ceilings and cascading chandeliers, its gaslit displays of sparkling jewels, the warm, colorful frescoes dominating the walls that lure the mind toward notions of sunshine and leisure, and prepare it to adopt the spendthrift mood of a vacation.

  To anyone who witnessed the devastation caused by the Fire that struck two years ago, the speed with which State Street is being revived is little short of a miracle, an inspiring testament both to the thousands of laborers working in its reconstruction as well as to the deep pockets of our city’s business titans. [On this occasion, let us hope those illustrious titans have adhered strictly to the new fire regulations. Because, ladies, is it not a fact that building is a man’s world? And is this not the embarrassing truth about the Fire which dare not speak its name? That, however much we admire and respect our dear menfolk, it was their buildings, not ours, that burned to the ground, causing such terrible destruction and loss of life?]

  In the grand lobby, the air is pleasantly temperate and scented with an artificial flowery sweetness. Beside banks of dark walnut display cases filled with gemstones and exotic curiosities stand the drilled legions of clean-shaven greeters and salesmen, dressed as if for dinner, in white tie, top hat and tails, each man (for they are all men) bearing a silver-handled cane, embossed with the Field & Leiter coat of arms. None of them shows any surprise at the arrival of a lady on her own. Indeed, rather the opposite. We are given an even warmer and more respectful welcome than those ladies or gentlemen accompanied by their spouses. “Browse for as long as you like, madam,” they say, “and remember there’s no need to buy a thing.”

  Apparently, there are three rules of human behavior at work here. The first is that we ladies, whether on our own or in a company of other ladies, must feel safe when we visit Field & Leiter. The store is the most respectable of establishments, a destination for only polite, well-bred customers. The second is that a lady will be more amenable to making a purchase if there is no overt pressure to do so. The third is enough to make us blush. Avert your eyes, if you would prefer not to know the truth. It is we ladies, rather than the gentlemen, who spend the most. And, o pinnacle of shame, we are even more extravagant when we shop without them.

  Today, as if our senses might not have been sufficiently stimulated already, there is an added extra. Messrs. Field and Leiter are here in person. In what I understand to be a reprise of the original opening ceremony for the pre-Fire Field & Leiter store, we are directed to stand in line like guests at a wedding, and on our arrival before these two business magnates, we ladies are presented with a red rose, while the gentlemen receive a Cuban cigar.

  Regular readers will know by now I like to have my fun. I decline the rose, and prepare a place in my handbag for the cigar instead. It is not, I regret to report, forthcoming. Rather, I am greeted by the very perceptible rise of Mr. Field’s left eyebrow. Ladies, I tried.

  Acres of newsprint will doubtless be written in praise of the extraordinary enterprise of Messrs. Field and Leiter. Much will be made of its scale, of the inexhaustible range of products on offer, of the guarantee that any item can be returned for a full refund, with no questions asked. But the sales approach goes deeper still. Providing your deportment and dress (i.e., your purse) is deemed satisfactory, you can ask for an official slip of paper that will allow you to take an item home on approval without paying a cent. Imagine, for example, that you find a rather delightful Persian rug, but are uncertain how well it will match the other furnishings in your boudoir. Simply ask one of those nice gentlemen wielding a cane for a slip and you can take the rug home, with no obligation to buy. Should you decide you don’t want it, simply return it at your convenience. The same applies to anything else, whether it be a Saratoga trunk, Staffordshire crockery, Sheffield cutlery, a Zouave jacket or (my own weakness) the latest Dolly Varden outfit.

  It sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? And yet, ladies, this purchasing bonanza is not yet over. You may be exhausted, your feet may ache, your bank account may be wilting, but the Field & Leiter sales effort has still farther to go. Let’s say you don’t fancy carrying that new Dolly Varden outfit home and would much prefer to take high tea at the Palmer House Hotel. Your wish is my command, says the salesman. (Forgive me, I made that up. But the sentiment is accurate.) The point is that the store will deliver the outfit in its Field & Leiter wrapping to your front door, at no extra charge.

  Dare I suggest that there is something inherently false in this approach? Dare I suggest that in taking such measures to extract dollars from our purses, there might be something at work that borders on the dishonest? Dare I suggest that the artificial scents which lighten one’s mood, the curtained windows that confuse one’s sense of time, the lack of clear signs toward the exit that delay one’s departure, are evidence of some underhand sales techniques at work?

  Of course I would not dare. I would not even dream of daring! In any case, those who know more than I about merchandising affairs tell me it was our chief titan Mr. Potter Palmer who pioneered these sales techniques in Chicago, and that he learned them in no less a country than France. If Mr. Potter Palmer was behind them, and if a country with such a rich cultural heritage as France can sell with such elan and fervor, who on earth is Annie Borne to question such techniques?

  [Who, indeed, dear ladies? And yet I ask you, for a moment, to indulge me. Let us reflect on some of the consequences of creating “the largest dry-goods store on earth.” What kind of society are we creating, what kind of city is Chicago to become, when the greatest ambition of its citizens and their most valued form of entertainment, lies not in the pleasures of an art gallery or a visit to the theater or a stroll in the park but in an afternoon spent walking the make-believe aisles of the gigantic Field & Leiter temple to luxury and consumption? I fear it may be an illusion, ladies, and a deceptive one. For what ordinary citizen could ever afford to buy anything but a handful of the multitude of products on display? What does this say about the age in which we live? What will future generations say about us and our achievements? What of the arts, what of good taste, what of education, what of our nobler aspirations, what of our benighted souls? And how many of the products so cunningly presented on the six floors of Field & Leiter are pure fripperies, that will have been forgotten by next year, when others take their place? What kind of world are we creating for our children? How long will it be, I wonder, before we forget there are farmers on the prairies without whose wheat and meat and milk, without whose oats and hens and vegetables, we would never have been able to live in this city in the first place? The seduction becomes absolute, does it not, when products from all over the world can be found in a single building on State Street?

  Y
et I confess that] as I wandered up and down and around this vast emporium, I found myself unable to resist its charms [entirely]. Like you, ladies, I have an eye for fine linen, for the cut of a skirt, for bright, bold colors. [If only the salespeople—and once past that imposing entrance many of this tribe were of the female sex too—had been a little less fawning in their behavior.] For example, I found a shawl I liked, and I [would probably have] bought it [had I been left to my own devices. Now it’s only my opinion, and the choice is entirely yours, madam, but that paisley shawl suits you like a dream. I swear the gray matches your eyes and makes you look like a princess in a fairy tale. I point out that my eyes are green, not gray. Either way, you look like a princess, in my humble opinion. And like a princess in which particular fairy tale? Oh, whichever one you like, madam. Flatter, flatter, flatter, seems to be the Field & Leiter approach to sales, and though I grant I may not be their most impressionable customer, how irritating it can be. Ladies, you have been warned].

  We must, as always, end on the happy note of my weekly tip. I shall give no prize to my regular readers for guessing in which department we shall end our visit. Even so, I cannot explain precisely where the lady’s fashion garments are to be found. I suspect that, the better to tempt us, the Field & Leiter sales geniuses might have chosen to place them in more than one location. Suffice to say they are easy to find and hard to get away from.

  I began by casting my eye over the latest offerings of haute couture from Paris, which seem to be dominated by morning dresses much in fashion two years ago. Whether they still are, I leave to my readers’ discretion. Personally, I find the French desire to set off a dark-colored satin dress of a low neckline and flounces beneath the knee, with a brightly colored ribbon at the neck and matching sash at the waist (cut into streamers at the back), a trifle insipide. I understand that the style is much favored by the French nouveaux riches and between you and me, dear ladies, they are welcome to it.

  Much more interesting is the gay offering of Dolly Varden–style hats, scarves and skirts. As I have mentioned before in this column, it serves as an advantage in my own household that Dolly Varden began life in a novel by Charles Dickens. My husband is the most generous of gentlemen who, despite my best efforts, continues to demonstrate no eye for style or fashion. But because his life is devoted to the study of literature, it is much in my favor when I can say that my new purchase (“yes, I am afraid it was not the cheapest, my dear”) was conceived not in a house of fashion, but in the mind of a novelist.

  It is the patterns and bright shades of the Dolly Varden collection, designed to lighten the mood and put a smile on the face of even the dourest of matrons, that attract the eye. There are plenty to choose from, and I do not deny that some of them try too hard. Nobody wants to look as though they are wearing, at one and the same time, a clutch of wild animals, an aviary of tropical birds and every garish summer bloom imaginable. My own favorite is a more subdued style, featuring a floral chintz pattern on the polonaise and a silk petticoat with arms finished in a satin piping of apricot and white. The apricot and white piping is repeated also in a foulard sash and in the ribbon around the straw hat (which must be worn, of course, at a slight forward tilt). An elegant parasol, in matching colors, can also be bought as an accompaniment.

  And, I am glad to report, this particular Dolly Varden has not been cut and sewn by seamstresses in far-off Europe, but by our fellow citizens in the northwest district of Chicago. Best of all, having carried out inquiries, I am pleased to report that the conditions under which this dress has been made are not those of a common sweatshop. It comes from the most enlightened modern garment factory in the city. I shall therefore, satisfied on all counts, now return to the largest dry-goods store on earth and buy that Dolly Varden outfit at once providing that you, dear readers, have not already beaten me to the purchase.

  1873

  IT’S POINTLESS TO LOOK BACK

  AUREKA LIKES THE way the overskirt of her new Dolly Varden outfit, bought last week with this visit in mind, swings behind her as she walks toward the main door of the hospital. She has always enjoyed wearing fine clothes. It makes her feel stronger in herself. How little time it took John to see that side of her. Today, she needs all the strength she can find. She is apprehensive, unsure whether what she is trying to do has any sensible purpose.

  This is a much larger institution than she was expecting. She stops to gaze up at the soaring layers of brick. To her left are three separate frontages on four floors. The windows are fitted with iron bars that make the place look more like a prison than a hospital. At least the bright August sunshine lends a sheen to the walls, which makes them less forbidding than they must be at night, or on a cold winter’s day. It is only when she reaches the main door that she sees the sign.

  Her first thought is that she must have misread it, the second that she might have come to the wrong place. She tries to recall exactly what the two men in Finns said. They just called it a hospital, didn’t they, an ordinary hospital? But that is incorrect. This is no ordinary hospital. In which case, Stephen had not been exaggerating when he described him as a “crank.” She has come, she reads, to the Northern Illinois Hospital and Asylum for the Insane.

  * * *

  She went to Finns to buy Stephen a hat for his birthday. He was about to turn twenty-one and she remembered how disappointed she had been on her own twenty-first birthday because nobody remembered it. She was inspecting a black silk stovepipe when she overheard two men, farmers by the look of them, talking about a mutual friend who had just gone to “that Elgin place.” It was for the best, they agreed. The doctors up there were good, and they were sure he’d be cured and back home in no time. They talked for some time about their friend, how lonely he had found life on the homestead, especially after his wife died.

  Aureka was already at the counter, inquiring about the price of the stovepipe, when something they said made her freeze.

  “You know who else is there?” said one of them. “The man who started the Prairie Farmer, now what’s his name?”

  “Waite?” said the other.

  “No, more like White, I think,” said the first.

  She left the counter and walked up to them in a daze. “It’s Wright,” she said. “It’s Mr. John Stephen Wright.”

  They looked at her in surprise, but were grateful to be corrected. She asked them where the hospital was and how to get there, and once she had the information, she left without buying the hat. She walked the streets for an hour or more before taking refuge in the new Exchange Coffee House, rebuilt on the site of the old one, where she used to meet Mr. Wright before the Fire.

  Those meetings began after he helped Stephen get the job at Field & Leiter. He would always be there first, and she would see him as soon as she came in the door, seated at one of the corner tables, hunched over, writing. It made her proud that she should know a writer and a gentleman. She enjoyed watching him at work. Only when he had reached the end of a page would she place a hand on his shoulder and begin the process of drawing him away from his words. She knew he was not in good health—he complained of frequent headaches and sleeplessness—and his conversation could take some very strange turns, but she attributed that to the brilliance of his mind and his high education, of which she had always been in awe.

  She did not say much when they met. He liked to talk, and she liked to listen. They provided each other with pleasant companionship. He was lonely. His wife lived apart from him, somewhere in the East, and she, of course, only had Jearum for company. Mr. Wright would drink coffee with sugar while she sipped tea. He always asked about Stephen, how it was going at Field & Leiter and whether there was anything else he could do to help him. That would evidently not be help in a monetary sense. His circumstances, she understood—and she could tell this from his appearance too—had declined. He mentioned that he was fighting with his brothers over the rights to some property. A few times, he asked whether she might bring Stephen along with her, b
ut she never put the question to Stephen himself.

  Once, Mr. Wright asked her whether she was sure it was for the best that Stephen did not know the truth. Yes, she was quite certain. He had loved Albert, she explained. It would be devastating for him to find out he had not been his real father. Even so, she could not deny she sometimes had an urge to tell him. “In my heart, I would like him to be proud of you, and who he really is,” she said once. “But I’m afraid that can never be.”

  He talked about many things in those coffeehouse meetings, and sometimes when he got distracted he would mix Aureka up with another lady who was called Eliza, but she always forgave him, especially when he told her that Eliza had been an acquaintance of his when he was very young who had gone on to marry a preacher. She liked it best when he told her about his plans for the future. Most men of his age would surely seek a quiet life, but not John S. Wright. He was planning to open a university of chemistry in Chicago because that was where the future lay, or he was importing a new kind of cereal grain from Mexico that would double farmers’ yields, or he was raising funds to buy a swath of prairie land that skirted the city because one day, when Chicago was five times the size it was now, that land would be worth a fortune. It felt a bit like the old days in Kinzie Street, when he would sit down in the kitchen and confide in her. In spite of everything, she would never regret what happened between them.

  The Fire put an end to those encounters. Stephen had spent two days searching for Mildred who, unknown to him, was already back in Evanston. She had managed to escape from Mrs. Creeley’s boardinghouse with the other residents before it was razed to the ground. On his return, Stephen told Aureka what he had seen and, though she was glad to know Mr. Wright had survived, to hear her old friend referred to as a “crank” distressed her more deeply than Stephen could have guessed. Since then, she has not heard from Mr. Wright.