It is not easy for the slave of “copy,” sedentary and shy, to know that
triumphant figure of the active, bustling world, the business man. The
business man is too busy, and can only be seen in office hours, when the
scribe is correcting proofs or, perhaps, not yet up. Nevertheless, I once
nearly saw the Governor of the Bank of England. I hold the Governor to be
the archetype of the business man. In my green unknowing youth I used to
take the gentleman in cocked hat and picturesque robe at the Threadneedle
Street entrance for the Governor, but now know better. Well, I once
nearly saw the Governor. It was on the stage. Mr. Gerald du Maurier was
in the bank-parlour when a servant entered and said: “The Governor of the
Bank of England to call on you, sir.” “Show him in,” said Mr. du Maurier
with the easy _nonchalance_ of which only actors have the secret. It was
a tremendous moment. I seemed to hear harps in the air. And just then,
down came the curtain! It was felt, no doubt, that the Governor of the
Bank of England ought not to be made a motley to the view. But I was
inconsolable. I had been robbed of my one chance of seeing the supreme
business man.
Of late, however, the veil that shrouds the business man from the
non-business eye has been partly lifted. The pictorial advertisement
people have got hold of him and give brief, tantalizing glimpses of his
daily life. Maeterlinck speaks of “l’auguste vie quotidienne” of Hamlet.
That only shows that Hamlet (it is indeed his prime characteristic)
was not a business man. For the business man’s daily life, if the
advertisements are to be trusted, is not so much august as alert,
strenuous, and, above all, devoted to the pleasures of the toilet. And
his toilet seems, for the most part, to centre in or near his chin.
Indeed, it is by his chin that you identify the business man. You know
what Pascal said of Cleopatra’s nose: how, if it had been an inch
shorter, the whole history of the world would have been different. Much
the same thing may be said about the business man’s chin. Had it been
receding or pointed or dimpled or double, there would have been no
business man and consequently no business. But things, as Bishop Butler
said, are what they are and their consequences will be what they will be.
The business man’s chin is prominent, square, firm, and (unless he deals
in rubber tires—the sole exception to the rule) smooth. It is as smooth
as Spedding’s forehead, celebrated by Thackeray and Edward Fitzgerald. It
is, indeed, like that forehead, a kind of landmark, a public monument.
Even the rich, velvety lather, which does not dry on the face and leaves
behind a feeling of complete comfort and well-grooming, cannot disguise
it. No wonder the business man is so particular about shaving it! It is a
kind of religious rite, an Early Matins, with him.
Outside the bank-parlour, the mart and the exchange the business man
takes no risks, and at his toilet-table he prefers safety razors. Indeed,
he collects them. Sometimes he favours the sort that can be stropped in
a moment with one turn of the wrist; sometimes the sort that needs no
stropping at all. But, like all collectors, he is never so happy as when
handling, or rather caressing the objects of his collection. Mark how his
eyes dance with delight and his smile sweetens as the razor courses over
his chin. Evidently life at this moment is burning for him with a hard
gem-like flame. Call it not shaving! Say, rather, he is ministering to
the symbolic element in him, daintily smoothing the proud emblem of his
power—to which he will add the finishing touch of pearl-powder, whose
constant use produces a delicate bloom, tones up the complexion, and
protects the skin against the ravages of time.
When the chin has been prepared for the business day he tries and
contrasts the several effects of it over a variety of collars. For the
business man collects collars, too. His chin protrudes with quiet but
firm insistence over some of them, nestles coyly in others, or it may
be emerges with ease from the sort designed to give ample throat room
and especially favoured by men who seek considerable freedom but at the
same time a collar of character and distinction. Nor has he any false
shame about being seen in his shirt-sleeves. In fact, he seems to be in
the habit, when half-dressed, of calling in his friends (evidently, from
their chins, fellow business men) to see how perfectly his shirt fits at
the neck and how its thoroughly shrunk material is none the worse for
repeated visits to the laundry.
Once dressed—and I pass over his interviews with his tailor (he collects
overcoats), because that would lead us far and might land us, unawares,
among sportsmen, or airmen, or other non-business men—once dressed, he
is to be seen at his office. That does not mean that he is to be seen
at work. No, it is a somewhat sinister fact that the advertisements
hardly ever show the business man engaged in business. You may find
him at an enormous desk bristling with patent devices and honeycombed
with pigeon-holes, where he sees himself invested with perfect control
and rid of all petty routine anomalies, with a mind free to consider
questions of policy and the higher aspirations of his house. But not,
in blunt English, working, oh dear no! He is pleasantly gossiping with
another business man, who is lolling over the edge of the desk smoking a
cigarette. Now and then, it is true, you may get a glimpse of him at the
telephone. But then his tender smile gives him away. It is obviously no
business conversation but an appointment for lunch with his _fiancée_.
Only one advertisement artist has ever “spotted” him at work. He
was addressing the board. The board all wore white waistcoats, the
same business chin, and the same dry smile as the orator, who with
clenched fist and flashing eye assured them of his conviction that
increased production results from the bond of mutual goodwill created
between employer and employee by the board’s system of life assurance.
Altogether, a very jolly party. But outside the world of business men
it wouldn’t be considered work. Really, for work it looks as though you
would have to go to the non-business man. Think of Balzac’s eighteen
hours a day!
But the business man, I daresay, will reply, as they said to the
sonneteer in Molière, that “Le temps ne fait rien à l’affaire.”
Certainly, the business man’s time doesn’t—for you next find him, in
spick and span evening dress, at the dinner-table, beaming at the waiter
who has brought him his favourite sauce. The business man collects
sauces, but prefers the sauce that goes with everything. After dinner you
may see him, before a roaring fire, holding up his glass of port to the
light and telling another business man who the shipper is. Last scene
of all, a night-piece, you have a glimpse of him in his pyjamas merrily
discoursing with several other business men (in different patterns of the
same unshrinkable fabric) all sitting cross-legged and smoking enormous
cigars. This is the end of a perfect business day. And you conclude that
business men sleep in dormitories.