Time is a flowing river. Happy those who allow themselves to be carried,
unresisting, with the current. They float through easy days. They live,
unquestioning, in the moment.
But Gissing was acutely conscious of Time. Though not subtle enough to
analyze the matter acutely, he had a troublesome feeling about it. He
kept checking off a series of Nows. “Now I am having my bath,” he would
say to himself in the morning. “Now I am dressing. Now I am on the
way to the store. Now I am in the jewellery aisle, being polite to
customers. Now I am having lunch.” After a period in which time ran by
unnoticed, he would suddenly realize a fresh Now, and feel uneasy at
the knowledge that it would shortly dissolve into another one. He tried,
vainly, to swim up-stream against the smooth impalpable fatal current.
He tried to dam up Time, to deepen the stream so that he could bathe in
it carelessly. Time, he said, is life; and life is God; time, then, is
little bits of God. Those who waste their time in vulgarity or folly are
the true atheists.
One of the things that struck him about the city was its heedlessness of
Time. On every side he saw people spending it without adequate return.
Perhaps he was young and doctrinaire: but he devised this theory for
himself--all time is wasted that does not give you some awareness of
beauty or wonder. In other words, “the days that make us happy make us
wise,” he said to himself, quoting Masefield's line. On that principle,
he asked, how much time is wasted in this city? Well, here are some six
million people. To simplify the problem (which is permitted to every
philosopher) let us (he said) assume that 2,350,000 of those people have
spent a day that could be called, on the whole, happy: a day in
which they have had glimpses of reality; a day in which they feel
satisfaction. (That was, he felt, a generous allowance. ) Very well,
then, that leaves 3,650,000 people whose day has been unfruitful: spent
in uncongenial work, or in sorrow, suffering, and talking nonsense. This
city, then, in one day, has wasted 10,000 years, or 100 centuries. One
hundred centuries squandered in a day! It made him feel quite ill, and
he tore up the scrap of paper on which he had been figuring.
This was a new, disconcerting way to think of the subject. We are
accustomed to consider Time only as it applies to ourselves, forgetting
that it is working upon everyone else simultaneously. Why, he thought
with a sudden shock, if only 36,500 people in this city have had a
thoroughly spendthrift and useless day, that means a net loss of a
century! If the War, he said to himself, lasted over 1,500 days and
involved more than 10,000,000 men, how many aeons--He used to think
about these things during quiet evenings in the top-floor room at Mrs.
Purp's. Occasionally he went home at night still wearing his store
clothes, because it pleased good Mrs. Purp so much. She felt that it
added glamour to her house to have him do so, and always called her
husband, a frightened silent creature with no collar and a humble air,
up from the basement to admire. Mr. Purp's time, Gissing suspected,
was irretrievably wasted--a good deal of it, to judge by his dusty
appearance, in rolling around in ashcans or in the company of the
neighbourhood bootlegger; but then, he reflected, in a charitable
seizure, you must not judge other people's time-spendings by a calculus
of your own.
Perhaps he himself was growing a little miserly in this matter.
Indulging in the rare, the sovereign luxury of thinking, he had suddenly
become aware of time's precious fluency, and wondered why everyone else
didn't think about it as passionately as he did. In the privacy of
his room, weary after the day afoot, he took off his cutaway coat and
trousers and enjoyed his old habit of stretching out on the floor for
a good rest. There he would lie, not asleep, but in a bliss of passive
meditation. He even grudged Mrs. Purp the little chats she loved--she
made a point of coming up with clean towels when she knew he was in his
room, because she cherished hearing him talk. When he heard her knock,
he had to scramble hastily to his feet, get on his clothes, and pretend
he had been sitting calmly in the rocking chair. It would never do
to let her find him sprawled on the floor. She had an almost painful
respect for him. Once, when prospective lodgers were bargaining for
rooms, and he happened to be wearing his Beagle and Company attire, she
had asked him to do her the favour of walking down the stairs, so that
the visitors might be impressed by the gentility of the establishment.
Of course he loved to waste time--but in his own way. He gloated on the
irresponsible vacancy of those evening hours, when there was nothing to
be done. He lay very still, hardly even thinking, just feeling life go
by. Through the open window came the lights and noises of the street.
Already his domestic life seemed dim and far away. The shrill appeals
of the puppies, their appalling innocent comments on existence, came
but faintly to memory. Here, where life beat so much more thickly and
closely, was the place to be. Though he had solved nothing, yet he
seemed closer to the heart of the mystery. Entranced, he felt time
flowing on toward him, endless in sweep and fulness. There is only one
success, he said to himself--to be able to spend your life in your own
way, and not to give others absurd maddening claims upon it. Youth,
youth is the only wealth, for youth has Time in its purse!
In the store, however, philosophy was laid aside. A kind of intoxication
possessed him. Never before had old Mr. Beagle (watching delightedly
from the mezzanine balcony) seen such a floorwalker. Gissing moved to
and fro exulting in the great tide of shopping. He knew all the best
customers by name and had learned their peculiarities. If a shower came
up and Mrs. Mastiff was just leaving, he hastened to give her his arm as
far as her limousine, boosting her in so expeditiously that not a drop
of wetness fell upon her. He took care to find out the special plat du
jour of the store's lunch room, and seized occasion to whisper to Mrs.
Dachshund, whose weakness was food, that the filet of sole was very nice
to-day. Mrs. Pomeranian learned that giving Gissing a hint about some
new Parisian importations was more effective than a half page ad. in the
Sunday papers. Within a few hours, by a judicious word here and there,
he would have a score of ladies hastening to the millinery salon.
A pearl necklace of great value, which Mr. Beagle had rebuked the
jewellery buyer for getting, because it seemed more appropriate for a
dealer in precious stones than for a department store, was disposed of
almost at once. Gissing casually told Mrs. Mastiff that he had heard
Mrs. Sealyham intended to buy it. As for Mrs. Dachshund, who had had a
habit of lunching at Delmonico's, she now was to be seen taking tiffin
at Beagle's almost daily. There were many husbands who would have been
glad to shoot him at sight on the first of the month, had they known who
was the real cause of their woe.
Indeed, Gissing had raised floorwalking to a new level. He was more
prime minister than a mere patroller of aisles. With sparkling eye,
with unending curiosity, tact, and attention, he moved quietly among the
throng. He realized that shopping is the female paradise; that spending
money she has not earned is the only real fun an elderly and wealthy
lady can have; and if to this primitive shopping passion can be added
the delights of social amenity--flattery, courtesy, good-humoured
flirtation--the snare is complete.
But all this is not accomplished without rousing the jealousy of
rivals. Among the other floorwalkers, and particularly in the gorgeously
uniformed attendant at the front door (who was outraged by Gissing's
habit of escorting special customers to their motors) moved anger, envy,
and sneers. Gissing, completely absorbed in the fascination of his work,
was unaware of this hostility, as he was equally unaware of the amazed
satisfaction of his employer. He went his way with naive and unconscious
pleasure. It did not take long for his enemies to find a fulcrum for
their chagrin. One evening, after closing, when he sat in the dressing
room, with his feet in the usual tub of hot water, placidly reviewing
the day's excitements and smoking his pipe, the superintendent burst in.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. “Don't you know smoking's forbidden? What do you
want to do, get our fire insurance cancelled? Get out of here! You're
fired!”
It did not occur to Gissing to question or protest. He had known
perfectly well that smoking was not allowed. But he was like the
stage hand behind the scenes who concluded it was all right to light
a cigarette because the sign only said SMOKING FORBIDDEN, instead of
SMOKING STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. He had not troubled his mind about it, one
way or about it, one way or another.
He had drawn his salary that evening, and his first thought was, Well,
at any rate I've earned enough to pay for the clothes. He had been there
exactly four weeks. Quite calmly, he lifted his feet out of the tub and
began to towel them daintily. The meticulous way he dried between his
toes was infuriating to the superintendent.
“Have you any children?” Gissing asked, mildly.
“What's that to you?” snapped the other.
“I'll sell you this bathtub for a quarter. Take it home to them. They
probably need it.”
“You get out of here!” cried the angry official.
“You'd be surprised,” said Gissing, “how children thrive when they're
bathed regularly. Believe me, I know.”
He packed his formal clothes in a neat bundle, left the bathtub behind,
surrendered his locker key, and walked toward the employees' door,
escorted by his bristling superior. As they passed through the empty
aisles, scene of his brief triumph, he could not help gazing a little
sadly. True merchant to the last, a thought struck him. He scribbled a
note on the back of a sales slip and left it at Miss Whippet's post by
the stocking counter. It said:--
MISS WHIPPET: Show Mrs. Sealyham some of the bisque sports hose, Scotch
wool, size 9. She's coming to-morrow. Don't let her get size 8 1/2. They
shrink.