Upstairs in the bedroom, Arthur hastily removed his flannels and paced
the limited amount of floor space between the two beds. What a little
box of a place it was, and how absurdly crammed with furniture! You
couldn't move an inch without bumping into things or knocking something
over. There wasn't room to swing a cat, much less to perform an
elaborate toilet with that amount of leisurely comfort necessary to its
successful accomplishment. Ordinarily he didn't notice these things; it
was only when he was in a hurry, and had all sorts of little duties to
carry out, that the awkwardness of his surroundings forced themselves
into his mind and produced a sense of revolt. There were times when
everything seemed a confounded nuisance and a chair stuck in your way
made you feel inclined to pitch it out of the window. Just when you
wanted to enjoy simply being yourself, when your thoughts were running
in a pleasant, easeful way, you had to turn to and dress or undress,
shave or wash, prepare yourself for the conventions of life. So much of
existence was spent in actions that were obligatory only because other
people expected you to do the same as themselves. It wasn't so much a
waste of time as a waste of life.
He rescued his trousers from underneath the mattress. It was only
recently that he had discovered this obvious substitute for a trouser
press, and so added one more nuisance to existence. It was something
else to be remembered. He grinned pleasantly at the thought of the
circumstance which had brought about these careful habits. Rose Lomas
liked him to look smart, and he had managed it somehow. There were
plenty of dapper youths in Great Wymering, and Arthur had been astute
enough to notice wherein he had differed from them, in the first stages
of his courting. Early rebuffs had led him to perceive that the eye
of love rests primarily upon a promising exterior, and only afterwards
discovers the interior qualities that justify a wise choice. Arthur
had been spurned at first on account of a slovenliness that, to do
him justice, was rather the result of personal conviction, however
erring, than mere carelessness. He really had felt that it was a waste
of life even to spend half an hour a month inside a barber's shop.
Not only that, but the experience was far-reaching in its unpleasant
consequences. You went into the shop feeling agreeably familiar
with yourself, conscious of intense personality; and you came out a
nonentity, smelling of bay-rum. The barber succeeded in transforming
you from an individual brimming over with original reflections and
impulses into a stranger without a distinctive notion in your head. The
barber, in fact, was a Delilah in trousers; he ravished the locks from
your head and bewitched you into the bargain.
Arthur had a strong sense of originality, although he would have been
the last person to claim originality in his thoughts. He disliked
interference with any part of his personal being. As a boy he had been
perturbed by the prospect of growing up. It had seemed to him such
a hopeless sort of process, a mere longitudinal extension, without
corresponding gain in other magnitudes. He suspected that other
dubious advantages were only to be purchased at the expense of a
thinning out of the joys of childhood. Later on, he discovered, sadly
enough, that this was the case; although it was possible deliberately
to protract one's adolescence. Hence his untidiness, his inefficiency,
and even his obtuseness, were less constitutional faults than weapons
in the warfare against the encroachment of time.
But the authorities at the bank regarded them as grave defects in his
character.
Falling in love had revealed the matter in a very different light. It
was quite worth while yielding to fashion in order to win the affection
of Rose Lomas. And so he had imitated his rivals. He cast aside all
ties that revealed their linings, trimmed up the cuffs of his shirts;
overcame with an effort a natural repugnance to wearing his best
clothes; and generally submitted himself to that daily supervision of
superficial matters which he could now regard as the prelude to happy
hours. And Rose, interested in that conquest of himself for her sake,
had soon learned how much there was beneath the polished surface to
capture her heart.
Yes, love made everything different! You were ready to put up with all
inconveniences and indignities for the sake of that strange obsession.
That thought consoled him as he crept on hands and knees in order to
pick up his safety razor that had dropped behind the bulky chest of
drawers. Love accounted for everything, both serious and comic.
He found his razor, plunged it into cold water--he had forgotten to ask
Mrs. Flack for hot, and couldn't be bothered now--and lathered his face
thoughtfully.
How many times, in the course of a lifetime, would he repeat that
operation? And he would always stand in exactly the same way, with
his legs straddled apart, and his elbows spanning out like flappers.
He would always pass the razor over his face in a certain manner,
avoiding those places where even the sharpest blade boggled a little,
proceeding with the same mechanical strokes until the job was once more
accomplished. Afterwards, he would laboriously separate the portions of
his razor and wipe them methodically, always in the same order. That
was because, once you had decided upon the right way to do a thing you
adopted that method for good.
He achieved that second grand sweep of the left side of his face,
ending at the corner of his mouth, and followed it up by a swift,
upward stroke, annihilating the bristly tuft underneath his lower lip.
Looking swiftly at the clock, he noticed that it was getting dreadfully
late. That was another curious problem of existence. You were always
up against time. Generally, when you had to do something or get
somewhere, there was this sense of breathless hurry and a disconcerting
feeling that the world ended abruptly at the conclusion of every hour
and then began again quite differently. The clock, in fact, was another
tyrant, robbing you of that sensation of being able to go on for ever
without changing. That was why people said, when they consulted their
watches "How's the enemy?"
He attacked the problem of his upper lip with sturdy resolution. It
was important that this part of his face should be quite smooth. There
must not be even a suspicion of roughness. Tears started into his eyes
as he harrowed that tender surface. He drew in his breath sharply, and
in that moment of voluntary and glad travail achieved a metaphysical
conception of the first magnitude.
All really important questions in life came under the heading of Time
and Space, thought of in capital letters. Recently, he had struggled
through a difficult book, in which the author used these expressions a
great many times, although in a sense difficult to grasp. Nevertheless,
it suddenly became obvious, in a small way, exactly what the chap had
been driving at.
And somehow, his thoughts instantly returned to the Clockwork man.
He performed the rest of his toilet swiftly, the major part of his
brain occupied with reflections that had for their drift the curious
ease with which you could perform some operations in life without
consciously realising the fact.