VI
Gina was shocked and hurt beyond measure. She had thought it very strange of Murchison to write to her from Philadelphia, to say, without explanation, that he would be there for a week or two on private business. How unfriendly of him to have private business after all these years!
After that he didn’t come near her for three months. He telephoned now and then, and said he was very busy; apparently he did not notice how grieved was her manner.
And then, after all this, what happened? A thing incredible—he telephoned to her one afternoon and told her that he had been married that morning. She could never, never forgive such brutality. He might at least have given her a chance to marry Dr. Walters first!
“Where are you now, Robert?” she inquired sternly.
“We’re in New York for—”
“Then you must come to dinner to-night with your—bride,” she said.
“But—” he began.
“It seems to me that is the least you can do,” said Gina, and he was defeated.
Naturally she had Dr. Walters there for dinner, and naturally she was charmingly gracious and kind. No denying that she was impressed by the youth and prettiness of Robert’s wife. The fact that a well bred, lovely creature certainly not more than twenty-one or twenty-two had been willing to marry him forced her to admit that she had not appreciated him.[Pg 79]
“You have a wonderful man in Robert,” she gravely assured his wife.
“Isn’t he?” said Anne. “There’s no one like him!”
Then, of course, she had to look at him, to see if he was still there and still as wonderful. He was. He met her glance, and they smiled at each other with sublime confidence and understanding. Gina found it a little hard to go on talking.
“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![Pg 80]”
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.