What I Saw in America — Chapter 07 Part 1 The American Business Man

_The American Business Man_ It is a commonplace that men are all agreed in using symbols, and all differ about the meaning of the symbols.

It is obvious that a Russian republican might come to identify the eagle as a bird of empire and therefore a bird of prey.

But when he ultimately escaped to the land of the free, he might find the same bird on the American coinage figuring as a bird of freedom.

Doubtless, he might find many other things to surprise him in the land of the free, and many calculated to make him think that the bird, if not imperial, was at least rather imperious.

But I am not discussing those exceptional details here.

It is equally obvious that a Russian reactionary might cross the world with a vow of vengeance against the red flag.

But that authoritarian might have some difficulties with the authorities, if he shot a man for using the red flag on the railway between Willesden and Clapham Junction.

But, of course, the difficulty about symbols is generally much more subtle than in these simple cases.

I have remarked elsewhere that the first thing which a traveller should write about is the thing which he has not read about.

It may be a small or secondary thing, but it is a thing that he has seen and not merely expected to see.

I gave the example of the great multitude of wooden houses in America;

we might say of wooden towns and wooden cities.

But after he has seen such things, his next duty is to see the meaning of them; and here a great deal of complication and controversy is possible.

The thing probably does not mean what he first supposes it to mean on the face of it; but even on the face of it, it might mean many different and even opposite things.

For instance, a wooden house might suggest an almost savage solitude; a rude shanty put together by a pioneer in a forest; or it might mean a very recent and rapid solution of the housing problem, conducted cheaply and therefore on a very large scale.

A wooden house might suggest the very newest thing in America or one of the very oldest things in England.

It might mean a grey ruin at Stratford or a white exhibition at Earl's Court.

It is when we come to this interpretation of international symbols that we make most of the international mistakes.

Without the smallest error of detail, I will promise to prove that Oriental women are independent because they wear trousers, or Oriental men subject because they wear skirts.

Merely to apply it to this case, I will take the example of two very commonplace and trivial objects of modern life--a walking stick and a fur coat.

As it happened, I travelled about America with two sticks, like a Japanese nobleman with his two swords.

I fear the simile is too stately.

I bore more resemblance to a cripple with two crutches or a highly ineffectual version of the devil on two sticks.

I carried them both because I valued them both, and did not wish to risk losing either of them in my erratic travels.

One is a very plain grey stick from the woods of Buckinghamshire, but as I took it with me to Palestine it partakes of the character of a pilgrim's staff.

When I can say that I have taken the same stick to Jerusalem and to Chicago, I think the stick and I may both have a rest.

The other, which I value even more, was given me by the Knights of Columbus at Yale, and I wish I could think that their chivalric title allowed me to regard it as a sword.

Now, I do not know whether the Americans I met, struck by the fastidious foppery of my dress and appearance, concluded that it is the custom of elegant English dandies to carry two walking sticks.

But I do know that it is much less common among Americans than among Englishmen to carry even one.

The point, however, is not merely that more sticks are carried by Englishmen than by Americans; it is that the sticks which are carried by Americans stand for something entirely different.

In America a stick is commonly called a cane, and it has about it something of the atmosphere which the poet described as the nice conduct of the clouded cane.

It would be an exaggeration to say that when the citizens of the United States see a man carrying a light stick, they deduce that if he does that he does nothing else.

But there is about it a faint flavour of luxury and lounging, and most of the energetic citizens of this energetic society avoid it by instinct.

Now, in an Englishman like myself, carrying a stick may imply lounging, but it does not imply luxury, and I can say with some firmness that it does not imply dandyism.

In a great many Englishmen it means the very opposite even of lounging.

By one of those fantastic paradoxes which are the mystery of nationality, a walking stick often actually means walking.

It frequently suggests the very reverse of the beau with his clouded cane; it does not suggest a town type, but rather specially a country type.

It rather implies the kind of Englishman who tramps about in lanes and meadows and knocks the tops off thistles.

It suggests the sort of man who has carried the stick through his native woods, and perhaps even cut it in his native woods.

There are plenty of these vigorous loungers, no doubt, in the rural parts of America, but the idea of a walking stick would not especially suggest them to Americans; it would not call up such figures like a fairy wand.

It would be easy to trace back the difference to many English origins, possibly to aristocratic origins, to the idea of the old squire, a man vigorous and even rustic, but trained to hold a useless staff rather than a useful tool.

It might be suggested that American citizens do at least so far love freedom as to like to have their hands free.

It might be suggested, on the other hand, that they keep their hands for the handles of many machines.

And that the hand on a handle is less free than the hand on a stick or even a tool.

But these again are controversial questions and I am only noting a fact.

If an Englishman wished to imagine more or less exactly what the impression is, and how misleading it is, he could find something like a parallel in what he himself feels about a fur coat.

When I first found myself among the crowds on the main floor of a New York hotel, my rather exaggerated impression of the luxury of the place was largely produced by the number of men in fur coats, and what we should consider rather ostentatious fur coats, with all the fur outside.

Now an Englishman has a number of atmospheric but largely accidental associations in connection with a fur coat.

I will not say that he thinks a man in a fur coat must be a wealthy and wicked man; but I do say that in his own ideal and perfect vision a wealthy and wicked man would wear a fur coat.

Thus I had the sensation of standing in a surging mob of American millionaires, or even African millionaires; for the millionaires of Chicago must be like the Knights of the Round Table compared with the millionaires of Johannesburg.

But, as a matter of fact, the man in the fur coat was not even an American millionaire, but simply an American.

It did not signify luxury, but rather necessity, and even a harsh and almost heroic necessity.

Orson probably wore a fur coat; and he was brought up by bears, but not the bears of Wall Street.

Eskimos are generally represented as a furry folk; but they are not necessarily engaged in delicate financial operations, even in the typical and appropriate occupation called freezing out.

And if the American is not exactly an arctic traveller rushing from pole to pole, at least he is often literally fleeing from ice to ice.

He has to make a very extreme distinction between outdoor and indoor clothing.

He has to live in an icehouse outside and a hothouse inside; so hot that he may be said to construct an icehouse inside that.

He turns himself into an icehouse and warms himself against the cold until he is warm enough to eat ices.

But the point is that the same coat of fur which in England would indicate the sybarite life may here very well indicate the strenuous life; just as the same walking stick which would here suggest a lounger would in England suggest a plodder and almost a pilgrim.

And these two trifles are types which I should like to put, by way of proviso and apology, at the very beginning of any attempt at a record of any impressions of a foreign society.

They serve merely to illustrate the most important impression of all, the impression of how false all impressions may be.

I suspect that most of the very false impressions have come from the careful record of very true facts.

They have come from the fatal power of observing the facts without being able to observe the truth.

They came from seeing the symbol with the most vivid clarity and being blind to all that it symbolises.

It is as if a man who knew no Greek should imagine that he could read a Greek inscription because he took the Greek R for an English P or the Greek long E for an English H. I do not mention this merely as a criticism on other people's impressions of America, but as a criticism on my own.

I wish it to be understood that I am well aware that all my views are subject to this sort of potential criticism, and that even when I am certain of the facts I do not profess to be certain of the deductions.

In this chapter I hope to point out how a misunderstanding of this kind affects the common impression, not altogether unfounded, that the Americans talk about dollars.

But for the moment I am merely anxious to avoid a similar misunderstanding when I talk about Americans.

About the dogmas of democracy, about the right of a people to its own symbols, whether they be coins or customs, I am convinced, and no longer to be shaken.

But about the meaning of those symbols, in silver or other substances, I am always open to correction.

That error is the price we pay for the great glory of nationality.

And in this sense I am quite ready, at the start, to warn my own readers against my own opinions.

The fact without the truth is futile; indeed the fact without the truth is false.

I have already noted that this is especially true touching our observations of a strange country; and it is certainly true touching one small fact which has swelled into a large fable.

I mean the fable about America commonly summed up in the phrase about the Almighty Dollar.

I do not think the dollar is almighty in America; I fancy many things are mightier, including many ideals and some rather insane ideals.

But I think it might be maintained that the dollar has another of the attributes of deity.

If it is not omnipotent it is in a sense omnipresent.

Whatever Americans think about dollars, it is, I think, relatively true that they talk about dollars.

If a mere mechanical record could be taken by the modern machinery of dictaphones and stenography, I do not think it probable that the mere word 'dollars' would occur more often in any given number of American conversations than the mere word 'pounds' or 'shillings' in a similar number of English conversations.

And these statistics, like nearly all statistics, would be utterly useless and even fundamentally false.

It is as if we should calculate that the word 'elephant' had been mentioned a certain number of times in a particular London street, or so many times more often than the word 'thunderbolt' had been used in Stoke Poges.

Doubtless there are statisticians capable of carefully collecting those statistics also; and doubtless there are scientific social reformers capable of legislating on the basis of them.

They would probably argue from the elephantine imagery of the London street that such and such a percentage of the householders were megalomaniacs and required medical care and police coercion.

And doubtless their calculations, like nearly all such calculations, would leave out the only important point; as that the street was in the immediate neighbourhood of the Zoo, or was yet more happily situated under the benignant shadow of the Elephant and Castle.

And in the same way the mechanical calculation about the mention of dollars is entirely useless unless we have some moral understanding of why they are mentioned.

It certainly does not mean merely a love of money; and if it did, a love of money may mean a great many very different and even contrary things.

The love of money is very different in a peasant or in a pirate, in a miser or in a gambler, in a great financier or in a man doing some practical and productive work.

Now this difference in the conversation of American and English business men arises, I think, from certain much deeper things in the American which are generally not understood by the Englishman.

It also arises from much deeper things in the Englishman, of which the Englishman is even more ignorant.

To begin with, I fancy that the American, quite apart from any love of money, has a great love of measurement.

He will mention the exact size or weight of things, in a way which appears to us as irrelevant.

It is as if we were to say that a man came to see us carrying three feet of walking stick and four inches of cigar.

It is so in cases that have no possible connection with any avarice or greed for gain.

An American will praise the prodigal generosity of some other man in giving up his own estate for the good of the poor.

But he will generally say that the philanthropist gave them a 200-acre park, where an Englishman would think it quite sufficient to say that he gave them a park.

There is something about this precision which seems suitable to the American atmosphere; to the hard sunlight, and the cloudless skies, and the glittering detail of the architecture and the landscape; just as the vaguer English version is consonant to our mistier and more impressionist scenery.

It is also connected perhaps with something more boyish about the younger civilisation; and corresponds to the passionate particularity with which a boy will distinguish the uniforms of regiments, the rigs of ships, or even the colours of tram tickets.

It is a certain godlike appetite for things, as distinct from thoughts.