THE VALUE OF TIME

Evening Star, Issue 22276, 29 February 1936, Page 2

THE VALUE OF TIME

[Written by Mary Scott, for the ‘ Evening Star.’]

A new life of Goethe, called ‘ Goethe efc L’Art de Vivre,’ has just been published by Robert d’Harcourt. 1 have had no opportunity as yet to read it,

but in nil the reviews i have been greatly impressed by one thing—the enormous value which Goethe apparently set upon his time. “ The secret, perhaps, of his genius was that he guessed the value of Iris time when he was a boy.” From an early age he refused to suffer fools gladly, or indeed at all, declined to waste his time upon

bores, narrowed the circle of his friends to those who could interest, inspire, stimulate, or help him. His methods were sufficiently drastic. To begin with, he burned most of the letters he received without attempting to answer them. “If I see that people have written to me on their own account, because they want something for themselves, I take no notice. If on the other hand they write for me and send me something interesting which may help me along my path, then I reply. Ah, young men! You don’t know the price of time.” Supreme egotism, of course, but then Goethe was a genius, and his time was therefore of immense value not only to himself, but to the world, contemporary and future. “ One must remember,” as one critic says, “ that to finish the second ‘ Faust ’ was of more value to the world than a hundred more replies to autograph hunters.” If he had to put in an appearance at any social function his method of husbanding his resources was coolly ingenious. Not only did he resist the desire of ordinary mortals to make a good impression, but he refused even to display a normal intelligence; if he had to talk to people he made himself as uninteresting and uninspiring as possible. “He protected himself with a shield of banalities and turned his conversation into a tepid flow of platitudes.” Thereby he was able to avoid the accusation of actual direct rudeness; the conventions were observed, and yet he managed to preserve his innermost self from all intrusion. An excellent idea, but scarcely likely to endear one socially.

In praising his methods a critic tells a story of another great writer, a contemporary this time, who imitated Goethe’s social charm, but carried it a little farther, “ I once saw him stand absolutely rigid and silent in front of a young woman who wfls smothering him with praise. Unable to extract one word from him, she fell silent and turned away, profoundly humiliated.” The author of this cruel snub may have been a great genius, but he was not only a supreme egotist, but also an unfeeling and heartless man; in his eyes his words must have been priceless pearls indeed when he could not spare one or two in the cause of ordinary politeness and humanity. The story makes one inclined to doubt this superb genius; usually great powers bring with them a hotter sense of proportion.

Goethe’s methods were not so crass as this; he was neither rude nor cruel, although intensely irritating. Always he arrogated to himself the right to withhold his real self, and this, after all, is the ultimate privilege of every human soul, whether he he a genius or an ordinary, sensitive and reserved person who wishes to keep his holy of holies immune from alien entry. _ The poor little tabernacle may be ordinary and threadbare enough in all eyes but his own; but at least it is his refuge, the last haven that clamouring life allows him. Had he spoken what he felt, told what he believed, ho would have violated something of its privacy, have lost some tiny particle of himself which could never be restored. We can understand the relentless logic of Goethe’s behaviour; had he allowed himself to be brilliant, witty, profound, he would have delighted his listeners, have created for himself an audience which could have been only a nuisance, which would have followed him all his days, a threatening. invading army, ready_ to steal, little by little, his genius, his privacy, his invaluable time. And lot us remember that it was Goethe’s time, and therefore irreplaceable. In his eyes to waste an hour that might hare left for posterity one gem of purest ray serene would have amounted almost to crime; his knowledge of his own genius and of his duty towards it were always. with him; it was a sacred flame, and he the priest who .must ever tend it. Therefore he felt himself justified in denying to an importunate world any share in what was so infinitely precious, so terribly transitory—his time. Even to the rest of the world, even t" ordinary mortals like you and me, there come moments of revolt at the thought of all the time we have to waste. Life is so short and we scatter its moments too rashly. We listen to such empty, meaningless gossip, endure such aimless, boring people, worry over such worthless trifles whoso insignificance we shall realise in a week’s time; we write such silly, unwanted letters—or, if we are still more feeble, don’t write them, and worry over the fact that we don’t—we read such tririal, frivolous, books. “It all goes to make up life,” you say; yes, but is such a total sum really worth the making or the keeping? That, it seems to me, is the point, and one which we can each only decide for ourselves. Very often 1 feel that my own life is made up of inconsequent trifles, that 1 am “ poured from vessel to vessel.” hoping always, achieving never. But 1 know also that it is my sort of life, and I must live it; I am not one of those single-minded, ruthless people who can banish bores, tear up letters unread, ignore all the ordinary conventions of society. I can avoid the least necessary, I can narrow down the list; but I cannot obliterate it, for 1 am neither bravo enough nor selfish enough to wish to live alone. I feel myself to be a unit in a vast social system, unimportant but necessary, and I must play my part therein; that, it seems to me. is the sole reason for having been set within it. Moreover, we all of ns receive so many “ little nnreinembcred acts of kindness and of love ” that we feel it not only our duty hut our desire to return them. As an insignificant part of this great system 1 have my obligations, and the discharge of them seems to me much more important than my poor time. But then it is my time, not Goethe's, and 1 have no illusions about its value. It is of no great importance to anybody except myself, nor over will be. That is the comfortable thing about not being either a genius, or even a very talented person ; you are not cheating the world of any brilliant flash, no masterpiece lies unwritten because you choose to spend your time in ordinary human contacts. No one will be a whit the poorer if I never write the book I have planned to write nor dream the dreams that lie always so alluringly beyond the horizon. The law of compensation which has denied me extraordinary gifts has given me all sorts of little happinesses. Not that any of us. commonplace or gifted, should fritter away our time in

ways that do not satisfy even ourselves. Our time may not be very valuable to the world, but it is intensely valuable to us, being all the time, indeed, that we shall ever have. Empty social observances, idiotic conventions, insincere human relationships—if these give us no pleasure, then we should avoid them as the plague. Without being as ruthless as Goethe, this is surely possible for most of us. For myself, I know very well that I shall never attain more, that the end of 1936 will probably find me at its close, as all the other years have done, comparing the petty done, the undone vast. But not unhappily, for, if I have wasted time. I have gained in happy human contacts. Moreover, 1 shall have committed no crime, for, being only an ordinary person, if 1 waste my "time who cares?