“Do you see that park?” said Mr. Lively, pointing it out. “It’s my back yard—and I don’t pay a cent for it!” He chuckled, and this joke seemed to please him very much.
Mrs. D. J. opened the door herself with a bounce, before Mr. D. J. could bring out his key. She snatched the meat from Mr. Lively’s hand.
“Mother, this is one of my boys!”
Mrs. Lively answered with a loud sniff. She was a little, shrivelled, domestic-looking woman with an aggrieved expression, all wrapped about in a huge bungalow apron.
“You know I’ve got no time for talking now,” she screamed, as she ran away.
“Mrs. Lively, you see, does all her own work,” said Mr. Lively, not at all taken aback. “This house believes that the way to be happy is to work. Mrs. Lively is my treasure. I would not be where I am today without the help of Mrs. Lively. A girl of true blue.”
This seemed to be said for the benefit of the speeding Mrs. Lively. But she took no notice.
Now two children came running to meet their father. Mr. Lively introduced them as Martin and Elsie, aged six and ten respectively. They were really lovely-looking children. Elsie seemed shy and sensitive. She followed her mother into the kitchen and I could hear her semi-whispering voice plead as the swinging door swung violently. “But Mother, Daddy says he’s come to help you. Let’s be nice to him.”
As for Martin, he entertained me while his father was off washing his hands, by telling me how much money he and his sister would have from insurance when Mr. D. J. died. Of course, in the Orient this would have been shocking manners, but it just showed Martin’s practical upbringing. I’m sure he was very fond of both parents.
“Come to dinner,” screamed Mrs. Lively, popping in at the living-room door again.
“Yes, my dear. The queen of cooks, the cream of wives!” said the cheerful Mr. Lively, who had returned and was patting Martin approvingly on the head for remembering the rate of interest on some parental bonds. But Mrs. Lively was gone again. She seemed to be always running up and down, in and out. She slammed the dishes down upon the table and ran out very quickly to the kitchen, where we could hear her opening and shutting the oven with a bang.
“Is it a lemon pie night?” asked D. J., keeping up his loud and conciliatory tone. “Surely I smell lemon pie.”
“Yes!” shouted Martin and Elsie together. “Lemon pie night. You’re right!”
“I was telling Chungpa” (Mr. Lively had already inquired my given name on the way out) “about Mother’s famous lemon pies. And I was reminiscing. O well I recollect the time she came to me to get a job. A job—would you believe it?” Mr. Lively snickered, “Selling—ha ha!—books. That was before your time, Martin and Elsie. I looked her over and I said, ‘No, my dear, I can never give you that sort of job. It’s not your line. But I can—and I assure you I will—give you—Myself!’” He beamed fondly on his rather too jumpy and frowny partner of bed and board. “I am a great judge of character, as you have already sensed, Chungpa. I recognized the artist of the lemon pie. Wasn’t that the way of it, Mother? Didn’t you marry me because I wouldn’t give you any other job but my self?”
“How can you be so ridiculous, D. J.!” frowned and pouted Mrs. Lively. But he affably squeezed her and gave her a loud, benevolent kiss on the forehead, until Mrs. Lively began to melt with unwilling smiles. Now indeed she was nicer to me, and heaped my plate many times full. That steak was wonderful.
3
Of course, the whole Lively family was very human and very nice to me, except that I could not memorize the sales talk very quickly while being a help to Mrs. D. J. There had been no definite understanding about this. Being a help evidently meant washing all the dishes and cleaning the fourteen-room house, and wringing out the clothes for Mrs. Lively, and if she went out under the porte-cochere and began washing the windows of the $7000 car—as I noticed she did once or twice when I was getting ready to study and looking out of the living-room window—naturally I must go down and help her there, too. But she didn’t treat me like a servant, there was no yes-madame about it, and Mrs. D. J. was very nice at times.
She had the same repertoire as Mr. Lively about the poor boys or poor girls whom they had helped to get through some tough spot . . . and she, too, preferred some successful young salesman who now owned a beautiful home, who was prominent in clubs and who possessed a handsome car.
Mrs. Lively was rather an indulgent mother. But she was always working very hard when at home. She did everything herself in running that big house, except that once a week a washwoman came to do the big things. But next day Mrs. Lively ironed everything herself. It was my job to bring things in from the line in the back yard, and to wring out the things she did not give to the laundress. Of course, she cooked all her own meals, ordering from stores by telephone, except the meat or something special which Mr. Lively loved to get on the way home. She cooked many pies, biscuits, and muffins. When she burned them, she would cry. I never saw anybody crying so much over unimportant things! When Mr. Lively came home, he usually found her angry, or in tears. She was as perpetually flustered and aggrieved as he was beaming and assured. Then he would get her out of this by kissing. Gradually she would recover . . . speak a little, cry a little, finish the sentence. A good cryer. A good laugher. And Mr. Lively said she was a good woman and a good wife—and very tenderhearted. Mr. Lively always said to me that I was lucky to come into a beautiful American home and see the inside and know how things were running inside.
“It’s a great pity that many Oriental students never have a chance to see American home life before they return. The Americans are models of family life, and you have a lot to learn.”
They all went to bed rather early, and I was left alone with good lights and a good chair for reading, and a fairly large number of books which at least made a beautiful decoration for the living room. I examined all these books while I was there, and I think Mrs. Lively thought I should help more, because I burned so much electric light. They had Dickens, Scott, Kipling, Stevenson, Mark Twain, Shakespeare, Longfellow—mostly with pages uncut. Elsie was the only reader among them, and she hadn’t got around to all the books yet. As for contemporary writers, the Livelys did not have any except Henry van Dyke, Robert Service, and Edgar Guest. Edgar Guest’s Poems was their most recent book. It was autographed. Mr. Guest had lectured in one of the Y.M.C.A.’s where Mr. Lively also spoke. When Mr. Lively told me about it, he said, “Mr. Guest is a grand fellow—because he makes a lot of money with his writing and he is a good moral man; he is well known.” I think Mr. Lively wanted an endorsed statement from him on the Universal Education work to be used in selling.
4
The classes in advanced salesmanship for which I had been waiting were beginning. I had to go into the city for them, since they took place in Mr. Lively’s private office. Here were comfortable chairs all right, and a big desk for Mr. Lively, with a blackboard to one side of the desk. We did not pray, though I somewhat missed that. Mr. Lively opened the meeting by asking in Sunday-school voice: “Our company—what does it stand for? What has been its motto for twenty-five years? What is it known for?”
Silence from all the students, whom Mr. Lively held with his hypnotic eye. A lady who sat in the back spoke up in ringing tones: “I think it’s—Service, Mr. Lively.”
“Yes, Service,” beamed Mr. Lively. “Our company lives to give service. Doing good is the secret of how it makes money. We are famed for service to customer, to salesman, to home, church, country throughout this great magnificent United States of America. The point I will make then is—Service, beginning with a capital S. We’ll just put that down to remember.” And he drew a large expansive capital S on the board, running from top to bottom, and at the very top finished out the word in small letters.
“Now I think of something else this company has plenty of—something beginning with S. Can anybody suggest it? Well, I will tel
l you,” pursued Mr. Lively. “It is—STUFF!” and he clapped one hand on the palm of the other to emphasize. “And with Service and the right Stuff—what else? Come, what is needed to make sales?”
The same lady from the back of the room said, “Sticking, I think, Mr. Lively.”
“Right! The difference between a good salesman and a poor salesman is sticking to it. Now—we add up Service, Stuff, Sticking—what does that come to?”
“Sales!” sings out the voice from the back of the room.
“Sales, of course! And it’s sales that make the successful man or woman in business.
Success
Sales
Sticking
Stuff
Service
(And we mount the ladder.) But it takes all four S’s to make the big S in Success! Now—if we draw a line like this through all the S’s” (our teacher playfully suited the action to the word), “what do we get, folks? Why, yes! The American dollar!”
Everybody laughed. I thought Mr. Lively would surely approve of the Chinese character for Buddha, which is man with a dollar sign after it (so: 佛).
“The successful salesman is a success. Remembering my little table. An invaluable aid. Apply it. In matrimony, for example. When you want to clinch the deal!” Mr. Lively winked, and continued to beam inspiringly into our eyes. “Cultivate the personality of the successful salesman. Active, positive, alert, aggressive.” And certainly he seemed the epitome of every word. I listened receptively. Was I not being admitted into the Holy of Holies of the American civilization? This was just the very baptism I needed.
“Now I’ll turn you over to our teacher, Miss Fulton, who has come all the way from Cincinnati to teach you.” (She with the voice in the back came forward modestly rubbing her hands and smiling.) “Miss Fulton started as a saleswoman. Soon she was selling fifteen copies of our work a day. She went up, up, up. There was no stopping the lady. Today she has a beautiful home in Cincinnati and a country-house in Michigan. She has her own car, her chauffeur, and stocks and bonds in the bank as security.”
Miss Fulton was about forty-five and quite stylishly dressed. She had black hair, curled and marcelled, with white and red colors on her face that moved rather stiffly when she smiled. Gold teeth gleamed in her successful smile.
“I’m sure it’s very nice of Mr. Lively to say all this about me. But—why—the only way to make good is to go ahead. I know I am addressing a picked class. That is a help. All before me have the fortunate gift of a positive personality. A lot of people do not have this. But because you have—each and every one of you—Mr. Lively has picked you out to be his salesmen. I would say, from my experience, Mr. Lively is a very careful man when he picks. Isn’t that so, Mr. Lively?”
I looked around at the class that Mr. Lively had picked. There were several ex-ministers, a widowed mother who had brought her little girl of seven to attend the class with her, a group of college boys on vacation, etc.
“To begin with, salesmanship is an art. It is not easy. Few things in this life sell themselves. Or look at it this way. If you are able to sell the customer something he wants, we can hardly call that salesmanship, can we? The good salesman makes the customer want the unwanted article.”
To me this was novel to hear, and the opposite of Confucius’s saying, “Serve as you wish to be served.” How would you like to be forced to buy something you did not want? But Miss Fulton was hurrying on to the next point.
“When you begin to understand this other side—the creative side—of salesmanship, it may mean your entrance into a new life. It may revolutionize your personality. But first a few rules of common sense. Get up early. Start the day right. Have a good breakfast (not just grapefruit and coffee). Never try to sell on an empty stomach. (The anemic person, the person with no vitality does not make a good salesman.) Never try to sell on a full stomach—you may not take full advantage of a situation. Remember, you are training as for an athletic event. Salesmanship is a contest. You must be vital, dynamic, for constantly you will have to overcome sales resistance. No customer willingly buys. He struggles against buying though it may be for his own good. . . . Be vital, dynamic,” Miss Fulton consulted her notes again. “Well, just be sensible. Be good to yourself. You are your own asset or liability. Go to bed early. Lie down a few minutes after each meal for a rest or a snooze. You will be surprised at the surplus vitality you can accumulate this way.” Now I understood why Mr. Lively lay down always after eating. He was recharging his vitality for some more profits and good investments.
“Then, as a salesman, you must take special pains with your appearance. (But let me remind you, have nothing conspicuous in your dress. You want all your customer’s attention centered on what you have to say, not on your red necktie.) See that your teeth are well cleaned, mouth well washed, fingernails immaculate, hair neat. Make yourself an attractive human being. But when you are selling, you must dress rather humbly—plainly, avoiding all that is gay or expensive-looking.”
Miss Fulton paused just a moment for breath, then continued. “And now a few words about technique.” She held up the sales-talk manual, which I had been memorizing now for several weeks. “This is your sales-Bible. You must not question it, or try any innovations until you have first tried out all that is contained here. This manual holds the cream of what all great salesmen and saleswomen have found most practical. We know these talks to be successful, they come from men and women who are Successes. . . . ‘And by their fruits shall ye know them. . . . ’ Do not talk about anything that has nothing to do with business. Let every word you use be planned to put the deal over. Never forget why you are there, and that you are fighting for time, time to convince the customer. Now you know it takes twelve minutes to give the main sales talk. If you think you have succeeded after the first five minutes, get out that sales form. For heaven’s sake don’t waste time then!” Miss Fulton spoke in such tones of admonitory horror, that there was a general laugh, and a bright smile from Miss Fulton herself. “But if you feel you have not sold your article, keep the sales form in the background. Don’t hesitate. Go on to the second talk, to the third. You are not likely to run out of material, for you have an hour’s talk prepared for you in this manual. After that, you can scrap the manual and try your own resources. Anyhow, keep at it, until you are forced to leave or have convinced the customer. Perhaps you may see her looking confused. (I say she, for most of your customers will be women.) Confusion is the first sign of weakening. You must seize on it. Take out your sales form now and say softly, ‘Just sign here, under your neighbor, Mrs. Smith. . . . ’ Or if you can’t say that, because Mrs. Smith hasn’t bought yet, say, ‘Sign here, leaving room for Mrs. Smith. She is my next customer.’ If once you have a signature, you are safe. The form is a contract saying she will pay. Some women sign without knowing exactly what they are signing. But people never withdraw from the written contract. After that you must say in a gentle, firm voice, ‘Now in order to meet certain regulations, the company asks for a five-dollar deposit’—say the amount very low. (Always quote prices in a low, soft voice.)
“At this point she is likely to say, ‘But I have no money right now.’ Don’t hesitate. Suggest some way to get the money. Or offer to lend her the money. It will appear as a generous gesture. People in a house or an apartment are not likely to run away. Say, ‘I happen to have this five-dollar bill in my purse.’ (And you must always have it.) ‘I am going to lend it to you, as I see you want these books so much. The company does not authorize me to do this, but I will deposit my own five dollars in your name.’ Then you give her the bill, and let her place it in your hands. When the books are sent C.O.D. with her signature underneath and a bill for the full amount, including your loan, you will find she always pays.”
I began to feel rather tired and sleepy, and to wonder how many more minutes of sales talk Miss Fulton herself had. But now she folded up her notes and placed
them on the desk, so she seemed to be nearing some conclusion.
“Just a word about the different bindings. Always begin with an ambition to sell the most expensive. It is the most beautiful and the best (and of course you know you are making more money for yourself as well as your company when you sell the most expensive binding). So take it for granted that she will want the most expensive binding. If you see you are failing, come down to the cheaper, and only at the last, the cheapest of all. That is better than nothing. If you see she never had any intention of taking anything else, you might even add, in the interest of selling, that you find her very wise.”
Miss Fulton ended the first lesson with the advice to sleep with the Bible on a table beside us and the sales talk under our pillow, for she said: “But never forget the motto of our company—Service, service to others. We all know that we are not only helping ourselves and the company in placing Universal Education in all American homes, but we are making the customer do what we know is good for her. We are spreading the light of knowledge and a true foundation of good Christian character.”
I began to understand better and better the seemingly divided policies of Western missionaries and Western business men. It all depended on which side you were on, the salesman or the customer, to get the rightness of this point of view.
5
The park which Mr. Lively boasted of as his back yard was very large, with streams and a small lake, woods, paths, and wild flowers. Of course it was open to the public as well as to the Livelys. One Sunday afternoon while I was walking there, I was much surprised to see George Jum coming toward me with his usual demure grin, and June beside him. George had dropped some hints in a letter that he might be coming to Boston, as June had a dancing engagement there. But I was unprepared to meet him quite so soon. We took a walk together around the park and George pointed out some nice nooks. He said next time he would bring a clean sheet to spread out on the grass, so no grass stains would spoil June’s white dress, and there they could sit or snooze and be comfortable. I felt slightly embarrassed until I remembered that it really wasn’t Mr. Lively’s back yard. We stopped before the Lively house for a moment and shook hands all around, but Jum refused to come in and meet my benefactors, as June had to get back to town for some engagement. He promised to come again at the earliest opportunity, however, and as George and June moved off arm in arm and very chummy, I looked up and saw Mrs. Lively peering at them out of one of the upstairs windows. Mrs. Lively promptly asked me about them. I told her it was my friend from New York and his fiancée, and did not understand why she still appeared so shocked. But her mouth closed tight and she said nothing.
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