A pale, dark-complexioned young man, elegantly attired, sits before me. His hair is neatly parted on the side and boldly thrown back over his forehead; he is clearly half snob and half artist; in short, one of that remarkable type of young man that is so common in a modern metropolis. His complaints are the customary complaints of the modern neurotic. He is tired and weak, incapable of prolonged mental application. He is a clerk in an office, and has already lost one position because of his inability to use his brains any longer. With some difficulty his father had secured a position for him in a bank where a bright future seems to await him but where a dull present bears him down. All day it’s nothing but figures, figures, figures. He cannot endure that. His patience is almost exhausted; the figures swim before his eyes, and he makes more mistakes than is tolerable in an official of a bank. He begs me for a certificate that will officially vouch for his unendurable condition and make it possible for him to resign from his office in an honourable way before he is discharged for incompetence.
“Yes, and what will you do then? Have you another position in prospect?”
[Pg 58]
“Certainly,” he replied, with a certain alacrity which was in striking contrast with his careless melancholy. “I want to make myself independent. I am not fitted for office work, and I can’t bear to be bossed around and instructed by every Tom, Dick, or Harry who happens to have been on the job a few years longer than I.”
“Ah! now I understand your inability to figure. You are living in a state of permanent psychic conflict. Because you have no desire to work you cannot work. But what kind of business do you wish to go into? What have you learned?”
“Learned? To tell the truth, only what one learns in a trade school. I don’t want to go into business. I only want the certificate to show my father that my health will not permit me to work in an office. Do you think it’s good for anybody to work from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., with only one hour for luncheon?”
“That would be only eight hours work a day! I assure you that there are thousands who would be happy to work only so little. Shall you work less when you are independent?”
“Certainly. Then I won’t have to work at all.”
“So!” I replied in amazement. “I am curious to know what sort of business that is where one doesn’t have to work. What do you intend to do when your father gives you money?”
A blissful smile passed over the interesting [Pg 59]youth’s face like a beam of celestial light. “I know all about sports. I’m going to play the races!”
I must admit I was considerably taken aback. I know how reluctant to work many a modern man is whose whole energy is expended in dreams. But that a sensible man should think of such a thing was new to me. Such a peculiar motivation for the purpose of becoming independent. The matter kept running through my head a long time. I soon noticed that this youth was only an extreme type of a very common species—a species that expresses itself in a passion for independence. When we investigate the deeper causes of this passion we invariably find the desire to secure for oneself the utmost amount of pleasure from a very small investment. But independence is only apparently the coveted ideal; behind it lies not only the desire for freedom, not only the proud feeling of self-reliance. No, in many cases the kernel of the matter is—laziness.
Independence! Proud, brazen word! How many sacrifices hast thou not demanded and dost still demand daily! Who is ignorant of these little daily tragedies of which no newspaper makes mention! The salesman who, after he had for years enjoyed a care-free and assured position, has fallen a victim to the craving for independence, and has to contend with cares and worries so long that at last, broken down and battered, he renounces his beautiful dream and [Pg 60]willingly submits his once proud neck to the yoke; the writer who starts his own newspaper and sees his hard-saved gold flow away in beautifully printed sheets; the actor who becomes the director of his own company; the merchant who builds his own factory,—an endless procession of men who wished to make themselves independent.
It would be one-sided not to admit that in addition to the aforementioned element of wanting to make one’s work easier there is also a certain ambition to get ahead of one’s neighbours. Modern man is linked to life by a thousand bonds. He is only a little screw in a vast machine—a screw that has little or no influence on the working efficacy of the complicated apparatus, that can be lightly thrown aside or replaced. We all feel the burden of modern life, and instinctively we all fret under it and work against it. We long to sever the link that ties us to commonplace day and to become the lever that sets the machinery in motion.
Stupid beginning! Hopeless and thankless! Who can be independent and absolute nowadays? Is there any calling that can boast of standing outside life? It is a delusive dream which beckons and betrays us. We change masters only. That’s very simple. But we are far from becoming independent thereby. We have a hundred masters instead of one. The employee who has made himself “independent” has lost his master but becomes the slave of innumerable [Pg 61]new tyrants to whose wills he must bow: his customers. Therein he resembles the so-called free professions which are in reality not f............