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The Decency of Time
Harper’s Weekly (March 6, 1909) : 27
U Michigan copy/scan (via hathitrust) : link
 

      A sense of the decency of time is more or less inherent in all of us, and it is the desire to remain true to this ideal that makes loosening the hold on an emotion a matter for such delicate manipulation. To be sure that the proper amount of time has passed is desirable, yet a natural leaning toward comfort and easy relations with oneself necessitates a smothering of any exaggerated ideas on the subject of time, and a pretty close clipping of it off. To know the exact moment at which one can cease to be angry with retained dignity for oneself and no lessening of the effect on others intimates an alert ear turned toward the public voice. We do not wish to hang on to anger, have it grow stale and obnoxious on our hands, only at last to be unable to get rid of it and so drag the cumbersome thing reluctantly about, feeling a shade ridiculous as we hear it bumping along behind. To let go of it too quickly is bad, for one then runs the risk of its being thought of little value, a worthless imitation of anger, and a thing to be got rid of lightly. These two extremes must be sedulously avoided and a medium course chosen that is for some reason called natural. This in spite of the fact that one only made up one’s mind to it after the most laborious weighing and uncertain leaning toward first one side and then the other. The middle course may be and, as a matter of fact, is wise; but natural is the last word to be applied.
      If we cease to love, or begin to, or re-begin, with a speed that we know will be regarded coldly, there is nothing for it but to pretend that a seemly amount of time has elapsed. Not that the world objects to any of these or other moods as detached happenings. A second marriage, a change of politics, a forgiven heir — these things, if performed in a cleared space, plenty of hours and weeks and months to be seen stretching on all sides, are looked upon favorably, and no one loses prestige because of them. But if a shock is too quickly recovered from, or new surroundings with any suddenness grown accustomed to, the world bristles its back and lowers with an antagonistic eye. It is all very amiable and sweet-tempered to become resigned after two years, but to bear up a suspicion too bravely, at the end of, say, six months — that is a thing to lower voices and set whispers going. The world is surprisingly finicky about these matters, and is squeamish as to what it stomachs. The inevitable must be faced, yes; but have a care that you do not face it in any precipitate manner. Everybody knows what you will do when you are freed from the particular bond you at present publicly strain at. They sympathize with you, soil the bond with the dust of their tongues; but when you are finally freed they quiver with anxiety for time which is in danger of being disregarded. An obeisance must be made to implacable time no matter how much of an interruption you find it. The world refuses to meet your eye and wheezes: “Of course we know that you are singing for joy, we are delighted to hear of your happiness; only, for a month, a year, we beg of you a decent silence; if you cannot manage tears which we admit would be insincere, at least have the delicacy not to laugh.” An obeisance must be made to implacable time no matter how much of an interruption you find it. The world refuses to meet your eye and wheezes: “Of course we know that you are singing for joy, we are delighted to hear of your happiness; only, for a month, a year, we beg of you a decent silence; if you cannot manage tears which we admit would be insincere, at least have the delicacy not to laugh.”
      The bubbling up of emotion they recognize, but they want to feel that it naturally grew cold at the removal of the fire. Equilibrium was regained, a sane calm experienced, before the bubbling began a second time and mounted to the furious boil which caused their nervousness. And they — indefinite, adamant they — are quite right. If you react quickly, in Heaven’s name do not admit it. Jumble dates, rearrange the sequence of things so that to all purposes you will have made a gradual ascent and come down the other side at anything but a breakneck pace before scampering up the second hill which was almost indiscreetly close at hand. It is the leaping from peak to peak that shocks persons of scheduled life. They have the air of pained fields through which an express rushes. They stare in stationary reproof, and murmur, “Don’t tell me that, going at such a speed, you haven’t failed to stop at a great many stations?” The regard for this attitude has become so general that many of us, in our desire to imitate it, sit unhappily on a station platform which we feel no sympathy with, and, if left to our own devices, would not even have whistled at in passing. We sit on the bare edge of the seat and, at the faintest intimation that time and the public are willing, we leap from our place and tear down a track clearly marked by forerunners.
      A change, if it is not to throw disrepute on your preceding actions, must be conducted under cover of a trip abroad or the visit of a passing revivalist. If a proselytizing friend wishes you to admit him in the right he should take into consideration your ticklish position. You want to be converted, but at what point of his argument shall you go over to his side? If you do it too soon he will think you were with him from the beginning and so get little enjoyment out of your arrival. If you wait too long and then give up he will think you either did it from exhaustion or to stop his haranguing arguments. The natural indecision of the situation pushes one close to dementia.
      Half the awkward complications of the minor class are caused by an uncertainty as to when we ought to let a mood, a sentiment, go. The feeling it was sincere and simple, it gave us no trouble at all; but when to stop feeling it, there lies the difficulty. Half the awkward complications of the minor class are caused by an uncertainty as to when we ought to let a mood, a sentiment, go. The feeling it was sincere and simple, it gave us no trouble at all; but when to stop feeling it, there lies the difficulty. How can one be sure that it is proper ever to cease feeling a thing that it was pre-eminently proper at the time to feel. If you have done something wrong you regret it. So far your position is a comfortable one. You cannot help regretting it, and every one encourages your regretting it. You are staunch in your remorse and at peace with the world. After a while you become interested in newly gathered impetus, and you do not care two cents whether you did that wrong thing or not. It bores you to death and you cannot be bothered with it, yet — well, it is not quite time to throw it away, at least not all of it, and you are obliged, when no one is looking, to throw off small amounts, which, if caught sight of, have to be explained by a hurried avowal of an incapacity since early childhood to keep in step with the calendar.
      The lyric chirping of young married people so expresses their happiness that they would not like to have others think they no longer feel it, though for some time they have both been longing to use a more colloquial note, something contented, in fact delighted, but a shade less trilling, with fewer grace notes. The difficulty is for both to take it at the same moment, feeling that they have done their duty by the early note and have not shed it sooner than any one else. On these balancings and waverings hang tiny tragedies. To loosen one’s grip on a thing that was good to hold, to straighten from a weight that should keep your head bowed indefinitely — here is a matter for careful reckoning. A thing that cannot be made transparent by explanations (there is hardly anything human that can, though never will we admit this) will obviously be made possible by the convenient method of separating effect and cause with a goodly amount of time... It is a thing to test the value of a stop-watch, the exact moment at which you ceased to miss the departed comrade, when you stopped saying thank you and became absorbed in enjoyment, forgetting who made it possible. So much importance is attached to the number of minutes and years involved that it is considered an exposure of one’s character, and consequent care for one’s reputation accounts for the phases held on to long after they were meaningless. It is so much better to err on the safe side that sustained moods have become marks of honor, and we issue from them as slowly, by stages as clearly defined as those that govern the laying aside of mourning. The black and white, the gray, the mauve, are so many warnings to the public that they had best prepare themselves, as we are about to act as formerly. The even calm of our way is to be resumed, and our first thought is to break it gently to our stern, inexorable nurse, the public.
      A thing that cannot be made transparent by explanations (there is hardly anything human that can, though never will we admit this) will obviously be made possible by the convenient method of separating effect and cause with a goodly amount of time, and time, having helped us out on so many occasions, deserves all the consideration that is shown it.
 

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