Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  Thus the final dissolution of the Harcourt Mill was perhaps not quite so tragic as it might have been. True, it disrupted the economic life of Clyde and the private lives of many families who lived within its limits. It was an especially heavy blow because it soon was clear that the Harcourt property was unsalable for future industrial purposes. There were many hard words spoken, both in sorrow and in anger, but there was one thing which was a real tribute to the town, and a fact of beauty, when one came to think of it. Treachery and disaster—such was the loyalty of Clyde—could not destroy the myth of Willis Wayde. There were those who believed in him still, and who even believed he would return in his Cadillac some day and repurchase and run the Harcourt Mill again.

  XXIX

  Occasionally there were times when Willis wondered whether he should not have hopped a plane or a train in Chicago and gone straight to Boston to tell the Harcourts personally—particularly Bess—the exact and compelling reasons that made the closing of the Harcourt Mill necessary and the genuine grief and concern he felt personally for having to take such a seemingly drastic step. It might very well, on thinking it over, have been more considerate to the Harcourts, if not to himself, if he had made such a personal presentation. Sylvia, he admitted very frankly, had advised him to do so as soon as he had told her about the unpleasant step that he had been obliged to suggest to the Simcoe directors. Willis had been surprised, in fact, at how seriously Sylvia took the news, because Sylvia, what with the children and her many social and community activities of Lake Forest, had not of late taken much interest in business matters. It actually took Willis some time to convince Sylvia that the closing of the Harcourt Mill was a business and not a personal matter. Although no one was a better wife than Sylvia, she never cared to face statistical facts. Instead she worried about the more bothersome, but actually less important, angles.

  “But, Willis,” she said, “you don’t seem to think at all about what this will do to the Harcourts.”

  Of course Willis had thought of it, as he told Sylvia very distinctly.

  “It’s just as painful to me, sweetness,” he said, “as it is to the Harcourts themselves. But really, honey, I wish you would try to see, for one single, little minute that I’m not my own agent in this. I have to do what is best for Simcoe. You wouldn’t want me to be disloyal to my trust, would you?”

  “No, Willis, of course not,” Sylvia said, “but it seems so—” She stopped, as though she were groping for a word, and her forehead wrinkled.

  “So what, honey?” Willis asked, and he asked very gently.

  “So cold-blooded—and after all the years you worked there, Willis,” Sylvia said.

  Willis sighed. Although he knew he was absolutely right, it was an unhappy conversation.

  “I’ve told you I feel as badly as anyone,” he said, “but you’ve got to realize these things sometimes can’t help but happen. Frankly, from the very beginning I think both P.L. and I were a little afraid that it would be eventually impossible to integrate the Harcourt Mill into the bigger picture; but, of course, the same is true with the Rahway plant. I wish you would believe me when I tell you, sweetness, that I’ve tried for several years to do my level best to maintain a status quo. The result has been some very discouraging sheets of figures, and the situation simply can’t continue. Sometimes, one has to be cruel in order to be kind.”

  “Willis,” Sylvia said, “I know you’re kind but I don’t see why you don’t think about what’s going to happen to everyone working in the mill. You know that will bother the Harcourts terribly.”

  It was difficult for Willis to listen patiently to Sylvia’s remarks, which were tangential and had no bearing on reality. Her attitude was only another proof of the old adage that home and business do not mix. In the home, for instance, there was opportunity for a graciousness which did not operate in a corporation, and much more leeway for human kindnesses; and these home kindnesses and home charities were different from those of business. Willis could, for instance, add to the comfort of his own parents and that of Sylvia’s mother, and he could also lend a helping hand to other individuals without rendering a cost accounting. One’s very responsibilities altered when one stepped into the office elevator. They grew until they ended by becoming responsibilities to groups. He was conditioned to this sort of thinking now, and of course Sylvia had never been exposed to it—but Willis did wish that she would understand.

  “I know, honey,” he said. “I know. I’ve given a lot of thought to those workers. I realize as well as the Harcourts that there will be very considerable distress, but I wish you’d try to see the main point, which is that no broad decision can ever be made without someone’s getting hurt. Frankly, the Harcourt Mill must eventually be abandoned by somebody because it isn’t a modern plant and it’s too far away from large centers of production. You must realize that all sorts of small plants are closing every day, and you and I cannot change the trend.”

  Irritating as it was to be obliged to repeat such obvious facts, it was more irritating to have Sylvia dismiss them and turn to something else.

  “But, Willis,” she said, “didn’t I understand you to say that you knew from the beginning that this was going to happen to the Harcourt Mill if Mr. Nagel bought it?”

  Frankly Willis had to admit that he was upset by the question. Irrational and unjust though it was, it contrived to disturb the balance of his facts.

  “Now, now,” Willis said, “just wait a minute, honey.”

  But Sylvia did not wait for him to finish.

  “Because if you knew it,” Sylvia said, “I don’t think you were fair to the Harcourts. I don’t see how you could have advised them to sell out.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Willis said, and he forgot for a moment that he was talking to Sylvia, because he was aroused at last and anxious, for his own sake, to set the matter right. “Let’s get this perfectly straight. I can’t let you or anyone—anyone, understand—make such implications. In the first place, I said I was afraid it might be impossible to keep that plant. I only promised the Harcourts to do the best I could, and I have. In the second place, I was perfectly right in advising them to sell when I did, and my own personal interest had nothing whatsoever to do with that advice.”

  When Willis stopped he realized his voice had risen.

  “Willis,” Sylvia said, “please don’t get excited. Of course you did the right thing. I was only making a comment.”

  “I’m not excited in the least,” Willis said, “really, Sylvia. I’m only dealing with plain fact. They sold for twenty-five million dollars, as you very well remember.”

  “Yes, dear,” Sylvia said. “Yes, I remember.”

  “And while we’re on the remembering side,” Willis said, “you might remember, too, that they never would have got any such price for their holdings if it had not been for my management over a period of years. I have nothing to apologize for, sweetness, when I can’t stop the inevitable. I can be sorry, but that doesn’t stop the inevitable either.”

  It was a very painful conversation, but Willis could finally see from Sylvia’s expression that she had followed his line of logic. After all, she had a good mind, once she faced facts.

  “I understand what you mean, dear,” she said, “and I can see how hard it must be to try to do what is right for everyone. I do hope you’re going to see the Harcourts and explain things to them, just the way you have to me.”

  Instead of answering directly, Willis bent over Sylvia and kissed her forehead. He always loved it when she finally understood him.

  “I’m pretty busy right now, sweetness,” he said, “but I’ll mull over that suggestion. I’m not sure how this should be presented, yet, but don’t you bother your head about it. And by the way, I think I’m going to have a nice surprise for you tomorrow.”

  Sylvia looked up at him, and the line between her eyebrows deepened.

  “What sort of surprise, Willis?” she asked. And he really had to laugh at the worried
note in her voice.

  “Nothing to bother you a bit, honey,” he said, “but something I think will give you a real thrill—something we’ve often talked about, and dreamed about together, for many years. Now don’t try to guess because guessing will spoil it. Just wait until tomorrow.”

  It might actually have been better if he had taken Sylvia’s suggestion and had gone to Boston to see the Harcourts, but at the time this seemed impossible. A very tight schedule of meetings had been arranged in Chicago, the disruption of which would have been embarrassing and difficult. Besides, it was November, 1953, with hints of recession in many lines of business. The problem of inventory was acute, and one which Willis felt demanded his full attention. Also, the monthly directors’ meeting was coming up, which required not only his presence but his personal report on the whole Harcourt situation. If he were to see the Harcourts, he would have to drop everything and leave for Boston immediately, since any delay involved the risk of the Harcourts hearing the news from other sources. It simply did not seem possible to drop everything, and besides, though 1953 had been the greatest year that Simcoe had ever known, Willis was quite frankly feeling tired and not in the mood for the emotional upset which he knew would face him if he were to see Mrs. Bryson Harcourt and Bess and Bill. It seemed far more sensible to set aside several hours in which to write a series of warm personal letters to the large stockholders of the old Harcourt Mill.

  Willis reached this decision on his way from Lake Forest to the city the very next morning after he had taken the matter up with Sylvia, and he activated this decision immediately after his arrival in the office. Since he was most anxious to approach this delicate problem with a fresh mind, he asked his secretary, Mazie Minton, to clear his desk and make him unavailable to everyone. He even dismissed the idea of dictating the letters. This could be done for the final drafts, but he wished to formulate the first drafts entirely alone and undisturbed.

  It was a much harder assignment than he had thought it would be. It had been a long while since Willis had done any writing by hand, so his thoughts necessarily moved slowly. He had started with a letter to Bess Harcourt, in the belief that it might serve as a model for others. On the whole, Willis was satisfied that his letter to Bess said everything completely but concisely, with the spirit of old friendship in every line. He was never surprised that Bess did not acknowledge it, for after all no acknowledgment was necessary, and the effort of answering would have been a strain on Bess.

  Dear Bess,

  I can’t help wishing as I write these lines—and believe me I’m writing the first draft by hand—that I were physically nearer to you, your mother and Bill, so that I might tell you what I have to say here personally. I wish, too, that such a long time had not elapsed without our seeing each other personally, because I strongly feel that this is an occasion when contact would be conducive to a sympathetic understanding. However, due to distance, and due to business pressures here, this letter must act as a substitute—an adequate one, I hope.

  Believe me, Bess dear, I have signed the enclosed notice, which will appear within a few days on the bulletin boards at the Harcourt Mill, with the utmost pain and regret. The business wisdom of this step is, I am afraid, irrefutable, but this does not assuage my personal reluctance. I hope you will remember, Bess, dear, that when I advised the selling of Harcourt Associates—advice which I, and I trust you, have never regretted—I promised you that the old Harcourt Mill would always receive my fullest and sincerest interest because I felt, and still feel, toward it almost what any true descendant of your grandfather must. I am proud to say, in this moment of self-examination, that I believe I have kept this promise to the letter. Not our wishes, but economic forces, have been against us, Bess. Tender as my memories are that cling to the Harcourt Mill, its integration into our broader picture here has never been successful. Its plant is obsolescent and its day, quite frankly, is over.

  But, Bess, dear, let us not repine, but instead keep the memory of the Old Mill green in our sentiments. Agonizing though this whole decision is, I know that you and Bill, who now hold substantial blocks of Simcoe stock, will in the end come to my way of thinking. In the final analysis, deeply though our affections may be rooted in the past, you and I and all of us who have homes and families to care for, must look down the road ahead. As a fine, old New England preacher (was it Ralph Waldo Emerson?) once succinctly put it: “Look up, not down. Look forward, not back, and lend a hand.”

  If I may, Bess, dear, I’d like to close my letter on that final note. As I say, I wish I might be sitting with you now in your welcoming library, or taking a late-autumn walk with you in the country, perhaps up to the pine woods that you and I explored so thoroughly so many years ago, so that I could give you personally some sense of the loyalty and affection I have ever had for you and yours. Let me only conclude that in the midst of the very heavy burden of responsibility that this very active company has placed upon my shoulders, one of the things that makes the work worthwhile is the belief that I am in a position to lend a hand. If there is ever anything I can do for you, please call on me in that spirit.

  Sylvia, by the way, who also loves the Harcourt Mill, has asked me particularly to extend her most affectionate greetings to you and Edward; and she adds—and in this I heartily concur—that any time your journeying may lead you to Chicago, don’t forget the Waydes are always waiting in Lake Forest.

  Sincerely as always and devotedly,

  Willis Wayde

  Perhaps, instead of relying solely on his own judgment, it might have been the better part of wisdom to have shown his letter to Sylvia before he mailed it; but as it was, it seemed to Willis that it was a good letter. He never had any valid reason to revise his opinion of it, and the other letters he wrote appeared to him equally satisfactory. What with the series of drafts, and then luncheon, and finally some absolutely essential afternoon appointments, the business day was almost over by the time he signed the letters.

  “Mazie,” Willis asked, when Mazie Minton finally placed them on his desk ready for his signature, and stood prepared to blot and fold them, “do you think those letters were adequate under the circumstances?” It was a great consolation to have someone like Mazie there, who had worked in the Harcourt Mill so long. Willis’s doubts were dispelled by Mazie’s immediate and enthusiastic comment.

  “I think they are all just wonderful, Mr. Wayde,” she said, “especially the one to Mrs. Ewing. That one, I think, is especially lovely.”

  “Thanks, Mazie,” Willis said. “At any rate, no one can say I didn’t try.” And then he changed the subject. As he had said to Bess, it was always better to be looking forward, and he had not forgotten the surprise for Sylvia.

  “I wonder if you’d slip the travel folders and our itinerary for May and June into my briefcase so I can take them home with me,” Willis said. “I want to show them to Mrs. Wayde. Now that this Harcourt matter is settled, I believe we can keep the schedule. Mazie, would you see if Mrs. Wayde can be reached at home?”

  By the time that Sylvia was on the telephone Willis was deep in the travel file. Though it was only November and they would not be leaving until May, he seemed already to be on the threshold of a wonderful experience.

  “Sylvia,” he said half playfully, but still seriously, “how would it be if you and I took a trip to Europe? Not immediately, but next May and June.… No, I’m serious about this one, honey, just you and me, and nothing for you to worry about because I have everything arranged already. We have a suite on the veranda deck of the Elizabeth, and a car and chauffeur to meet us at Cherbourg, and reservations at the Ritz in Paris. I’ll bring the full details back with me tonight, sweetness. It’s sort of like the story of the magic carpet, isn’t it? All the things we’ve talked about for so long being brought to pass. So beginning now, we’ve got to be making our plans, Mrs. Wayde.”

  It was strange, he was thinking, that they had delayed that dream so long, and that they had never been to Europe, i
n spite of all their conversations. The war, of course, had intervened, and after the war one thing had seemed to follow another, but at last life seemed to be on an even keel. Besides, he had been invited to attend the Paris convention of International Industrial Production in June. This was really a must, and old P.L. himself had said that Willis really ought to go. Besides, he and Sylvia had always dreamed of Paris.

  XXX

  It was not fair to say that Stephen Decker was unfriendly to Willis Wayde, because the word “unfriendly” was too definite, and indefiniteness had come to be one of Steve’s outstanding weaknesses, when he had been able to retire after his father’s death. It was not fair, either, to say that Steve disliked Willis, because he was too easygoing to dislike anyone aggressively. But then, as he always said when he described the time he and his wife, May, met the Waydes at a sidewalk café on the Champs Elysées, he had never liked Willis very much.

  The Deckers ran into the Waydes in Paris late one June afternoon. There was no place like Paris, Steve pointed out, to create cleavages of taste between men and women. Just when you had an opportunity to participate mildly in a Continental way of life, women became seized with a thirst for culture. That very morning May had expressed a wish to motor through the château country—a very girlish desire, and May no longer was in pigtails.

  “But, Steve,” she said, “we can’t ever be sure when we are going to be able to leave the children again.”