Part 14

“Do you know,” she said brightly, “such a curious thing happened! A friend of mine wrote me about a girl in Philadelphia, and I sent for her to come as governess for the children. She told me that she’d arrive on a certain day, but she didn’t come, and I never heard another word from her. I wonder if you know the name--Kittridge?”

“Philadelphia’s quite a large place,” said Anne hastily.

“Of course,” Gina assented. “Now do tell me about yourself and Robert. Was it romantic?”

“Oh, very romantic!” said Anne, in no little confusion. “It was--I think it was--unique!”

There was a pause, and Robert came directly toward them.

“Will you not sing, Gina?” he asked blandly.

“No, thank you, Robert,” said she.

But Dr. Walters came to entreat also.

“Please do, Gina!” he said, with all his honest admiration reflected in his beaming face.

“Sing ‘Old--’”

“No!” said she, so vigorously that he was startled.

He turned to Anne.

“You should hear her sing ‘Old--’”

“Please don’t ask me!” she cried.

“Of course not, if you don’t wish to,” he said gently; “but upon my word, Mrs. Wigmore’s rending of ‘Old Black Joe’ is--”

“It was ‘Old Dog Tray’ I had in mind,” observed Robert.

“That’s a hateful, silly song!” said Gina. “I can’t endure it. It’s--the whole sentiment is false. There are no Old Dog Trays!”

Robert’s hand fell lightly on her shoulder, and she turned to look at him. Something that she saw in his face brought the tears to her eyes.

“There are old friends, though, Gina,” he said, “and nothing drives them away!”

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

JUNE, 1923 Vol. LXXIX NUMBER 1

The Matador

A SENTIMENTAL EPISODE IN THE CAREER OF GRAVES, THE HARD-HEARTED OFFICE MANAGER

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Technically Graves was the personnel manager, but we called him “the matador” because it was his job to deal the death blow, to give the fatal thrust. He had, in other words, to do the “firing.”

He had developed a beautiful technique, and, like all good workmen, he enjoyed his work. He was really a very kind-hearted fellow. His idea was that it did people any amount of good to be discharged, if it were done in the right way--if, for instance, you told the departing one exactly why he or she was no longer wanted.

It was necessary, he said, to keep the nicest balance between candor and brutality. What you wanted was to destroy conceit without injuring self-respect. He added proudly that all the people whom he had fired remained his firm friends.

I asked him how he knew this, and I refused to believe it a proof of friendliness that these victims had never yet waylaid and assaulted him. He said, however, that he could always tell--that no one could deceive him. I denied that any man could know he had never been deceived. Such a negative statement was impossible to prove.

He brushed all this aside, and continued to explain his technique.

“I never tell a man that we’re laying him off because business is bad,” he said. “I try to show him what defects in himself make him the kind of man who’s always laid off as soon as business drops. And as for those printed slips in a pay envelope--‘Your services will not be required after such and such a date’--inhuman, I call _that_. No, sir! I’ll call the fellow, or the girl, as the case may be, into my office, and I’ll say something like this:

“‘Now see here, So-and-So,’ I’ll say, ‘I’m going to give you the gate; and if you’ll listen to me fair-mindedly, it’ll be the gate to something a whole lot better.’”

“Always?” I asked.

“Why, yes,” said he.

“Of course,” I continued, “you’ve kept a record of the subsequent careers of all the poor devils you’ve fired, so that you know exactly how much they’ve benefited by your valediction?”

“Well,” said Graves; “well--”

“Of course,” I went on, “you keep a card index? You write down the fault for which you discharge the fellow, and you keep track of the length of time it takes him to overcome that fault?”

“Well--”

“What, Graves?” said I sternly. “You make me a positive statement, you tell me it benefits people to be discharged by you, and you have not one fact by which to substantiate your statement. I demand to be shown one of these alleged persons!”

“Well--” he said again.

He was so much perturbed that I hadn’t the heart to perturb him further. He was such an honest, artless, enthusiastic fellow, and altogether so likable, that I can’t for the life of me explain why it was so natural to worry and badger him; but everybody did. When some especially woeful-looking derelict passed by, some one was sure to call Graves to the window and say something like--

“See here, Graves! Isn’t that the shipping clerk you discharged for not keeping his nails manicured?”

Rather gruesomely, we used to read aloud from the newspapers various reports of suicides.

Unknown man found in the river--nothing to identify him but a scrap of paper in his pocket, on which was written “Graves drove me to this.”

These fictitious papers varied. Sometimes they said:

And after Graves had turned me down, What could I do but go and drown? Graves told me all I didn’t oughter, Despair then drove me to the water.

We kept up a fiction that twelve desperate men were banded together to take vengeance on him, and that their motto was “Give Graves the final discharge.” I dare say we were pretty tiresome about it, and sometimes I am afraid we hurt the poor devil more than we intended.

Of course “firing” was not all that Graves had to do. There was also the hiring, but he wasn’t nearly so enthusiastic about that--or at least he was warier, for his mistakes in character analysis could be too readily checked up. He pretended that he took every one on trial, and withheld even mental opinions until he had observed the applicant.

That, however, wasn’t true. Many and many a time he was tremendously hopeful about some fellow who turned out to be quite worthless. I say “fellow,” because he was notably reticent about the girls, and never hopeful.

He objected to girls in an office. He said that the principle of the thing was wrong, and so on; but the real reason was that he was afraid of them. They knew this very well. Once he had had a booklet of “Suggestions” printed and circulated among them. He wrote it in a chatty and reasonable style, as for instance:

It isn’t a question of morals, but one of tone. We can’t have quite the tone I’m sure we should all like to have in this office while some of our young ladies wear peekaboo waists and openwork stockings, and put paint and powder on their faces. In a ballroom these things are all well enough, but--

The next morning he received a visit from the severe and efficient Miss Kelly.

“Mr. Graves,” said she, “about your ‘Suggestions’--I have been in this office six years, and have never seen a peekaboo waist. I have not observed that openwork hosiery has been worn. My department has asked me to mention this to you, as we feel it an unmerited slight. Incidentally, Mr. Graves,” she added, “girls don’t as a rule wear waists in a ballroom. _Even_ stenographers have _some_ knowledge of etiquette!”

The conscientious Graves bought a household periodical, and found no mention of peekaboo blouses and openwork stockings. Unfortunately he was discovered reading this magazine, and he had to explain. He became a little annoyed at hearing so much laughter.

“Oh, shut up!” he exclaimed. “I know I’ve heard of those things. Read articles about ’em in the newspapers.”

“But when?” somebody wished to know. “When did you last cast a glance at a girl, oh, innocent and artless Graves?”

“Well,” he said, scowling, “the difference is so small that no one but an idiot would laugh. I might have said ‘sheer hosiery’ and ‘chiffon blouses.’”

Graves talking about chiffon blouses was too much. He regretted those “Suggestions,” and made no more. We subscribed to a fashion magazine for him, and by a most pleasing error it came addressed to “Miss F. Graves.” This was even better than we had planned.

II

One day Graves came to me with a beaming face.

“You know I don’t often express an opinion on an untried worker,” he said; “but this time I’ve made a find. I’ve got just the sort of girl I want in the office. She’s a college graduate; comes of an old Southern family--”

“And her father died, and she was obliged to go out into the world and earn a living,” I said.

He was amazed.

“How did you find out about that?” he demanded.

“She hasn’t had any experience,” I continued; “but ah, what class!”

“Now see here,” said Graves. “You’ve been talking to Miss Clare!”

“I know Miss Clare like my own sister,” I told him. “I’ve met her a thousand times. I’ve read her in books and seen her in movies--”

“Oh, that!” said Graves. “Well, you’re entirely wrong, you chump. She’s absolutely original.”

“I knew that,” said I. “She makes the most wonderful clothes for herself out of old quilts, and she can get up the most delicious little suppers for two for thirty cents--”

He laughed, with that disarming good humor of his.

“Well, I haven’t got as far as that yet,” he said. “I don’t know what she eats or makes her clothes out of, but I can tell you this--she’s the neatest, most sensible-looking girl in the place!”

When I saw Miss Clare, I had to admit that in some ways she deviated from the usual type. She was what you might call a tall, willowy blonde. She had fine eyes, and knew it; but she was not kittenish, or pathetic, or appealing. She was doggedly in earnest. I liked her for that.

When I knew her better, I liked her for many other things, too. She was as honest and candid as daylight, and she left her fine old Southern family and her college and all her past glories where they belonged. She was there to work.

I was really sorry when the efficient Miss Kelly spoke about her.

“She’s _stupid_!” she told me, with fierce exasperation. “I’ve told Mr. Graves several times that she doesn’t measure up to our standard of efficiency. I don’t see why he keeps her on!”

“Beauty in daily life,” said I. “It’s what Morris recommended. She’s an ornament to the office, Miss Kelly. She has artistic value.”

“Superfluous ornaments have no value anywhere,” said Miss Kelly. “I worked once for an interior decorator, and I learned that. A thing must not only be beautiful in itself, but in harmony with its surroundings, and serving some definite purpose. She isn’t and doesn’t, and she ought to be scrapped!”

Now not only was Miss Kelly a notably good-looking young woman, and intelligent and alert and sensible, but she was infallible. Graves knew it. He had had other disagreements with her, and had always been worsted. Still, for a time, he defied her in regard to Miss Clare.

“D’you know,” he said to me, “I hate like poison to discharge that poor girl! You see, this is her first job, and it’ll be hard for her to get another, with only a four weeks’ record here.”

“Oh, no, Graves,” said I. “Not at all! After you’ve talked to her and pointed out her faults, she--well, she’ll get rid of her faults, don’t you see? And after that--”

Then Graves declared, with a sort of magnificence:

“She hasn’t any _faults_, exactly. It’s lack of training that’s the trouble. If she could stay on here a little longer, she’d do as well as the others--and better. She has brains!”

“Why can’t she stay?” I asked.

“Her output’s below the average,” he said dismally. “Miss Kelly keeps charts and so on.” He scowled. “Miss Kelly’s worth her weight in gold, and all that,” he said, “but she’s pig-headed. I’ve tried to explain to her that it’s actually more efficient to keep and train an employee, even if you have to shift him to another department, than to break in a new one. I’ve shown her in black and white what the actual cost of this eternal hiring and firing is; but no! She jumps down my throat with a lot of her own figures about what this Miss Clare costs the department every day. Hair-splitting, that’s all it is!”

Graves should have been warned, each time he opened his mouth, that what he said would be used against him. Of course this was. Each time he dealt the death blow, we reminded him of the cost of this eternal hiring and firing, and how much more efficient it was, and so on.

Miss Clare was shifted out of Miss Kelly’s department into another, which had a human man, young Allen, at its head; but he, too, rebelled.

“She won’t do,” he said to Graves. “She tries, but she’s--well, I don’t know just what the trouble is. She’s simply not on the job.”

“I’ll have a talk with her,” said Graves. “I’ll see if I can find out what’s wrong.”

III

I saw Miss Clare going into Graves’s office, and I felt sorry for him. I shouldn’t have enjoyed pointing out her faults to her. She was very young and quite without affectation, but she had a natural and altogether charming dignity about her. You couldn’t think of her as an office worker; you were obliged to remember all the time that she was a woman.

She came out after half an hour, looking downcast and grave. She smiled at me, as she passed, with the air of a lady who never neglects her social obligations, but I fancied her lips quivered a trifle.

“Poor girl!” I thought. “She’s out of place here. She hasn’t the stuff in her for a competitive worker. She’ll never get on!”

I was so sympathetic to Graves that he told me the story of the interview.

“The poor girl’s worried sick,” he said. “It seems she’s trying to support her mother, and she’s so desperately afraid she won’t make good that she can’t do her work. She does try, you know, and she’s fairly accurate, but she’s slow, and she knows it. She said she’d never tried to hurry before, and when she does, she gets nervous.” He paused, and frowned a little. “Well,” he said, “it’s irregular, but I think it’ll work. I’m going to let her come half an hour earlier than the other girls and stay an hour later, so that she can finish her share of the work.”

“That’s hard on her, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Not so hard as getting fired,” he answered. “She’s got a queer point of view about that. She says that if she were discharged, she’d be so discouraged that she’d--I think she said she’d go to pieces.”

“Lacks stamina,” I observed.

“Well,” said Graves, “there’s more than one sort of stamina. It takes some grit for a girl brought up as she’s been to tackle the job of supporting herself and her mother, I can tell you!”

I agreed with him, and said so, and he was delighted; but he paid heavily for his kind-heartedness. Miss Kelly let the thing go on for one week. Then, on Saturday morning, she appeared before him.

“Mr. Graves,” she said, “after due consideration, I have decided that the only course for me is to leave this office. I shall remain, of course, until you have filled my position to your satisfaction.”

She knew perfectly well how invaluable, how irreplaceable she was.

“Now, see here, Miss Kelly,” said Graves, as man to man. “This wants talking about. Sit down and let’s discuss it frankly.”

She did sit down, and I thought she looked alarmingly frank.

“Certainly, Mr. Graves,” she said very pleasantly.

“Now, then, what’s the trouble? Not enough salary?”

“My salary is quite as much as the overhead permits,” said she. “In proportion to the calculated profits, it is perfectly fair and adequate. No, Mr. Graves--it’s a question of prestige and morale.”

Graves looked serious.

“My girls are constantly coming to me now with requests to be allowed to finish their work at irregular and unauthorized hours, instead of keeping up to the standard output required by my department. They assert that a girl in Mr. Allen’s department was allowed to do this, and they had never understood that employment in his department carried any special privileges. I went to Mr. Allen about this. I pointed out to him that it affected the morale of my girls to see one of his people favored, but he told me he could do nothing. He said it was not his idea, and--”

“All right!” said Graves, suddenly getting up, with a flushed face and a constrained smile. “I--very likely you’re right, Miss Kelly. I’ll--I’ll make some adjustment that’ll suit you.”

“Please don’t consider suiting _me_,” said Miss Kelly. “It’s the morale of the office, Mr. Graves.”

And she went away like Pallas Athene from a battleground.

I honestly pitied Graves, he was so wretched.

“Well, you know,” he said, “she’s right. It does upset the routine, and so on; but, hang it all, that girl simply couldn’t stand being discharged! She has pluck enough, and all that, but she’s sensitive. She’s too darned sensitive entirely. I wish to Heaven she’d picked out some other office to start in! She’s got some fool idea in her head that it’s the first job that makes or breaks you. It’s no use pointing out her faults to her; she knows ’em. She’s trying to overcome them; but she’s just naturally slow.”

He tried her at filing. Not for long, though; the tumult was too great. He tried her at bookkeeping; but she herself admitted that figures were not her forte.

“There must be _something_ that girl can do, or can be taught to do!” he cried in despair. “Everybody has some aptitude, and she’s not stupid. She can talk well about books and so on.”

“Do you talk to her, Graves?” I asked. “Much?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered innocently. “I talk to her a lot. I try to find out what she’s adapted for; but I can’t, for the life of me. And yet I can’t fire her. I simply can’t do it. She says no one else would give her the same chance I do; and that’s no lie. She wouldn’t last a week in any other office!”

“Unless--” said I, and hesitated.

“Unless what?” asked Graves.

“Unless there were another personnel manager as--as conscientious as you.”

“Well,” said Graves, “it’s this way--there’s a big responsibility attached to my job. I shouldn’t like to think I’d destroyed the self-confidence of a girl like Miss Clare.”

“Anything would be better than that,” I said.

Graves looked at me with dawning suspicion.

“Well, you’re all wrong,” he said severely, “if you think there’s any--any personal element in this. It’s simply that I’ve got a heavy responsibility--”

“You bet you have!” said I, and left him with that.

IV

The thing began to assume a dramatic aspect. Graves was a haunted man. He was obliged, or he felt himself obliged, to find a place for Miss Clare in our organization, and the task was a hideous one.

He changed. His brisk self-assurance gave place to a harassed air, and he acquired a new and rather touching way of appealing to the rest of us. In fact, we were all deeply concerned about Miss Clare. We would go joyously to Graves, to tell him we thought something had turned up that would suit her. We always phrased it that way; but it never did suit her.

In the final analysis this was Graves’s fault, because it was he who had made the office so brutally efficient. To be more frank than modest, it was not so much that Miss Clare was very bad as that the rest of us were so good. She failed to come up to our standard. Graves was the _Frankenstein_ who had created this monster, and now he had to suffer for it.

One morning he arrived with a grim and desperate expression.

“An execution?” I asked.

I had become very friendly with Graves during this little complication. He seemed to me less amusing than before, and much more human and engaging.

“Yes,” said he. “She’s got to go. I’ve been thinking it over pretty seriously. I’m afraid I’ve wasted the firm’s time and money in this instance; but you don’t know how hard--”

“Graves,” I said, “you’re inconsistent. You’ll destroy any number of harmless lives, and boast of it, and then you’ll apologize for having been kindly and generous and altogether admirable.”

He turned red.

“Oh, get out!” he said, like a small boy, but the sympathy pleased him. “Well, you see, it’s--well, she tries hard.”

No one denied that. Indeed, the unfortunate Miss Clare looked exhausted and wan from her terrific efforts. She came early in the morning, before there was any work given out, and she was always contriving plans for working through her lunch hour. She was always thwarted in this, however. We were too efficient to allow people not to eat; neither was she allowed to stay after five o’clock.

This day, as on so many others, she was still typing frantically at half past twelve, hoping to escape detection; but Miss Kelly espied her.

“You ought to be out for lunch, Miss Clare,” she said, in a human, decent, kindly way. “Run along now. You’ll do all the better when you come back.”

This was painful to me, because I knew that the poor girl was going to be fired when she came back; but she didn’t suspect. She raised her weary, anxious eyes to Miss Kelly’s face.

“Please let me stay!” she entreated. “I’ve fallen behind, and this hour will help me to catch up.”

“No, Miss Clare, it won’t. You’ll be ill, and--” Miss Kelly began.

She was interrupted by the suave and mellow voice of Mr. Reddiman, our great president.

“What’s this?” said he. “What’s this? One of our young women making herself ill, eh? Working too hard?”

Every newcomer in our office marveled at Mr. Reddiman, and resented him, and was convinced that he had no ability, no force, no possible qualifications for being president of the company; but that never lasted. Mr. Reddiman grew on you little by little until, after a few months, you were willing to admit that you could scarcely have done better yourself.

He had a mild, slow way. He put me in mind of an old gardener pottering about in a greenhouse, when, with his hands clasped behind him, he walked through the various rooms, stopping here and there. He was a notably successful gardener, however. He made the business grow; and--he got things done.

“I’m not working too hard!” said Miss Clare, perilously close to tears. “I don’t _want_ any lunch. I want to finish these letters.”

“No, no, no, no!” said he pleasantly. “That won’t do. We can’t have that!”

The poor creature was blandly hustled out of the office, well knowing that Miss Kelly would be questioned about her, and that Miss Kelly would answer with complete frankness.