What I Saw in America — Chapter 07 Part 3 The American Business Man

For instance, Americans are very unpunctual.

That is the last thing that a critic expects who comes to condemn them for hustling and haggling and vulgar ambition.

But it is almost the first fact that strikes the spectator on the spot.

The chief difference between the humdrum English business man and the hustling American business man is that the hustling American business man is always late.

Of course there is a great deal of difference between coming late and coming too late.

But I noticed the fashion first in connection with my own lectures; touching which I could heartily recommend the habit of coming too late.

I could easily understand a crowd of commercial Americans not coming to my lectures at all; but there was something odd about their coming in a crowd, and the crowd being expected to turn up some time after the appointed hour.

The managers of these lectures (I continue to call them lectures out of courtesy to myself) often explained to me that it was quite useless to begin properly until about half an hour after time.

Often people were still coming in three-quarters of an hour or even an hour after time.

Not that I objected to that, as some lecturers are said to do; it seemed to me an agreeable break in the monotony; but as a characteristic of a people mostly engaged in practical business, it struck me as curious and interesting.

I have grown accustomed to being the most unbusinesslike person in any given company; and it gave me a sort of dizzy exaltation to find I was not the most unpunctual person in that company.

I was afterwards told by many Americans that my impression was quite correct;

that American unpunctuality was really very prevalent, and extended to much more important things.

But at least I was not content to lump this along with all sorts of contrary things that I did not happen to like, and call it America.

I am not sure of what it really means, but I rather fancy that though it may seem the very reverse of the hustling, it has the same origin as the hustling.

The American is not punctual because he is not punctilious.

He is impulsive, and has an impulse to stay as well as an impulse to go.

For, after all, punctuality belongs to the same order of ideas as punctuation; and there is no punctuation in telegrams.

The order of clocks and set hours which English business has always observed is a good thing in its own way; indeed I think that in a larger sense it is better than the other way.

But it is better because it is a protection against hustling, not a promotion of it.

In other words, it is better because it is more civilised; as a great Venetian merchant prince clad in cloth of gold was more civilised; or an old English merchant drinking port in an oak-panelled room was more civilised; or a little French shopkeeper shutting up his shop to play dominoes is more civilised.

And the reason is that the American has the romance of business and is monomaniac, while the Frenchman has the romance of life and is sane.

But the romance of business really is a romance, and the Americans are really romantic about it.

And that romance, though it revolves round pork or petrol, is really like a love-affair in this; that it involves not only rushing but also lingering.

The American is too busy to have business habits.

He is also too much in earnest to have business rules.

If we wish to understand him, we must compare him not with the French shopkeeper when he plays dominoes, but with the same French shopkeeper when he works the guns or mans the trenches as a conscript soldier.

Everybody used to the punctilious Prussian standard of uniform and parade has noticed the roughness and apparent laxity of the French soldier, the looseness of his clothes, the unsightliness of his heavy knapsack, in short his inferiority in every detail of the business of war except fighting.

There he is much too swift to be smart.

He is much too practical to be precise.

By a strange illusion which can lift pork-packing almost to the level of patriotism, the American has the same free rhythm in his romance of business.

He varies his conduct not to suit the clock but to suit the case.

He gives more time to more important and less time to less important things; and he makes up his time-table as he goes along.

Suppose he has three appointments; the first, let us say, is some mere trifle of erecting a tower twenty storeys high and exhibiting a sky-sign on the top of it;

the second is a business discussion about the possibility of printing advertisements of soft drinks on the table-napkins at a restaurant; the third is attending a conference to decide how the populace can be prevented from using chewing-gum and the manufacturers can still manage to sell it.

He will be content merely to glance at the sky-sign as he goes by in a trolley-car or an automobile; he will then settle down to the discussion with his partner about the table-napkins, each speaker indulging in long monologues in turn; a peculiarity of much American conversation.

Now if in the middle of one of these monologues, he suddenly thinks that the vacant space of the waiter's shirt-front might also be utilised to advertise the Gee Whiz Ginger Champagne, he will instantly follow up the new idea in all its aspects and possibilities, in an even longer monologue; and will never think of looking at his watch while he is rapturously looking at his waiter.

The consequence is that he will come late into the great social movement against chewing-gum, where an Englishman would probably have arrived at the proper hour.

But though the Englishman's conduct is more proper, it need not be in all respects more practical.

The Englishman's rules are better for the business of life, but not necessarily for the life of business.

And it is true that for many of these Americans business is the business of life.

It is really also, as I have said, the romance of life.

We shall admire or deplore this spirit, accordingly as we are glad to see trade irradiated with so much poetry, or sorry to see so much poetry wasted on trade.

But it does make many people happy, like any other hobby; and one is disposed to add that it does fill their imaginations like any other delusion.

For the true criticism of all this commercial romance would involve a criticism of this historic phase of commerce.

These people are building on the sand, though it shines like gold, and for them like fairy gold; but the world will remember the legend about fairy gold.

Half the financial operations they follow deal with things that do not even exist; for in that sense all finance is a fairy tale.

Many of them are buying and selling things that do nothing but harm; but it does them good to buy and sell them.

The claim of the romantic salesman is better justified than he realises.

Business really is romance; for it is not reality.

There is one real advantage that America has over England, largely due to its livelier and more impressionable ideal.

America does not think that stupidity is practical.

It does not think that ideas are merely destructive things.

It does not think that a genius is only a person to be told to go away and blow his brains out; rather it would open all its machinery to the genius and beg him to blow his brains in.

It might attempt to use a natural force like Blake or Shelley for very ignoble purposes; it would be quite capable of asking Blake to take his tiger and his golden lions round as a sort of Barnum's Show, or Shelley to hang his stars and haloed clouds among the lights of Broadway.

But it would not assume that a natural force is useless, any more than that Niagara is useless.

And there is a very definite distinction here touching the intelligence of the trader, whatever we may think of either course touching the intelligence of the artist.

It is one thing that Apollo should be employed by Admetus, although he is a god.

It is quite another thing that Apollo should always be sacked by Admetus, because he is a god.

Now in England, largely owing to the accident of a rivalry and therefore a comparison with France, there arose about the end of the eighteenth century an extraordinary notion that there was some sort of connection between dullness and success.

What the Americans call a bonehead became what the English call a hard-headed man.

The merchants of London evinced their contempt for the fantastic logicians of Paris by living in a permanent state of terror lest somebody should set the Thames on fire.

In this as in much else it is much easier to understand the Americans if we connect them with the French who were their allies than with the English who were their enemies.

There are a great many Franco-American resemblances which the practical Anglo-Saxons are of course too hard-headed (or boneheaded) to see.

American history is haunted with the shadow of the Plebiscitary President; they have a tradition of classical architecture for public buildings.

Their cities are planned upon the squares of Paris and not upon the labyrinth of London.

They call their cities Corinth and Syracuse, as the French called their citizens Epaminondas and Timoleon.

Their soldiers wore the French kepi; and they make coffee admirably, and do not make tea at all.

But of all the French elements in America the most French is this real practicality.

They know that at certain times the most businesslike of all qualities is 'l'audace, et encore de l'audace, et toujours de l'audace.'

The publisher may induce the poet to do a pot-boiler; but the publisher would cheerfully allow the poet to set the Mississippi on fire, if it would boil his particular pot.

It is not so much that Englishmen are stupid as that they are afraid of being clever; and it is not so much that Americans are clever as that they do not try to be any stupider than they are.

The fire of French logic has burnt that out of America as it has burnt it out of Europe, and of almost every place except England.

This is one of the few points on which English insularity really is a disadvantage.

It is the fatal notion that the only sort of commonsense is to be found in compromise, and that the only sort of compromise is to be found in confusion.

This must be clearly distinguished from the commonplace about the utilitarian world not rising to the invisible values of genius.

Under this philosophy the utilitarian does not see the utility of genius, even when it is quite visible.

He does not see it, not because he is a utilitarian, but because he is an idealist whose ideal is dullness.

For some time the English aspired to be stupid, prayed and hoped with soaring spiritual ambition to be stupid.

But with all their worship of success, they did not succeed in being stupid.

The natural talents of a great and traditional nation were always breaking out in spite of them.

In spite of the merchants of London, Turner did set the Thames on fire.

In spite of our repeatedly explained preference for realism to romance, Europe persisted in resounding with the name of Byron.

And just when we had made it perfectly clear to the French that we despised all their flamboyant tricks, that we were a plain prosaic people and there was no fantastic glory or chivalry about us, the very shaft we sent against them shone with the name of Nelson, a shooting and a falling star.