The Last Princess (16 page)

Early the next morning he finally laid the manuscript aside and rang Jerry Schwartz. Jerry was the associate whose judgment he trusted most. Now Ellis wanted some confirmation that he wasn’t dreaming.

“Could you come in here?” Ellis asked. “I have something I want you to see.”

The younger man was shocked when he saw the size of the script. “What in the world is
that?”

“I want you to read it, Jerry.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. It’s bigger than the Old Testament.”

“Be that as it may, I need your opinion.”

With a wry smile, Jerry said, “There go my evenings for the next week.”

But the following morning he knocked on Ellis’s door at nine. “You’re not going to believe this,” he admitted sheepishly, “but I read two-thirds of that script last night. I don’t think I turned out the light until four-thirty. I just couldn’t put the damned thing down. You were right—it’s a phenomenon.”

Ellis wasn’t surprised. He was as sure of the quality of this book as he had been about anything in his life.

“Sold to the right publisher, it could be one of the biggest books of the year,” he declared.

“The man’s an absolute genius,” Jerry said flatly. “As for sales, we’ll be at war in another year, and while I hate to be cynical, you can bet the public will want war stories by the time this is published.”

That was all Ellis needed to hear. “Judy, get that fellow Harry Kohle on the phone.”

When Lily answered, instinct told her this was it. Harry had been very silent, but Lily knew how he had pinned his hopes on Ellis Knox, though lately his name had been accompanied by none-too-endearing adjectives.

With a nervous stammer, she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Knox, but he’s out at the moment. May I have him call you back?”

“Yes, if you please. I’ll be in my office until five. Otherwise, he can reach me tomorrow morning.”

When Harry returned from the village, where he had gone to buy a paper, Lily cried breathlessly, “Do you know who you just missed?”

“Franklin Roosevelt?”

She could hardly get the words out. “Ellis Knox!”

Harry’s mouth fell open. He grabbed the phone and gave the operator the number.

A moment later, a voice was saying, “Mr. Kohle? I’m delighted you called. We’re very interested in your work and would like you to come into the office to discuss it further. How about tomorrow at two-thirty?”

Harry couldn’t believe his ears, but somehow he managed to stammer, “That will be fine.” Then, impulsively, he blurted out, “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Knox.”

“The name is Ellis. And there’s no need to thank me; you know, without the author, we agents have nothing to sell.”

Harry felt as though he had died and gone to heaven. It wasn’t until the next morning that Jeremy reminded Harry that he was supposed to attend the boy’s school play that afternoon.

He looked at Jeremy as he ate his oatmeal. The child had talked of nothing else for the last week. Harry swallowed his coffee, cleared his throat, and said, “Jeremy, I’m sorry but I have to go into New York today. An agent called, and he wants to talk to me about publishing my book. I’m afraid I won’t be back in time for your play.”

Jeremy’s mouth dropped in dismay. He had been so thrilled when he was chosen to play Christopher Columbus. He wanted his daddy to see him in a starring role. Numbly he stirred his oatmeal. The other children chorused, “Oh, Daddy, please, can’t you go?”

Lily spoke quickly. “Now, I know you’re disappointed that Daddy can’t be there, but there is nothing more important than your father’s work. There will be other plays, and he will be there for them. Now get your schoolbooks. The bus will be here any minute.”

As Jeremy got up from his chair he mumbled, “It’s okay about the play, Daddy. It doesn’t matter. I understand.”

Harry rose and hugged his son, silently blessing him for offering absolution. But on the train into New York he kept wondering if there was something else he could have done.

His doubts vanished the moment he entered Ellis Knox’s office. Harry didn’t know what he had expected, but the name was so dignified that he had pictured Ellis to be in his sixties. Instead, Harry was disconcerted to see a handsome man of about forty, with a square jaw, riveting gray eyes, and dark hair just touched with silver at the temples, who towered over the writer by a good four inches. His clothes were Savile Row, and he had the unmistakable appearance of a man with a table permanently reserved for him at “21.”

“I must tell you that yours was the most powerful manuscript I’ve read in years,” Ellis began as soon as Harry was seated. “Everyone else here agrees. How long did it take you to complete?”

Harry almost pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Even though he’d been confident
Archie Sanger
was good, he had been desperate for outside confirmation of its impact.

“How long did it take me?” he repeated. “Well, I started it while I was at Columbia. But then I got married, had a family, and was forced to put it aside. Still,
Archie
burned in my head. Luckily for me, my wife helped me to survive while I wrote the book.”

“Lucky for us, too,” said Ellis, pleased to find that Harry Kohle was not only an extraordinary writer, but an articulate, handsome man. “Now I understand that you are a writer by profession. Where have you been published?”

“
Esquire, Harper’s, The Atlantic Monthly.
” Harry ran quickly down the list, omitting
McCall’s
and
Redbook
.

“I think I have read some of your pieces. I knew your name sounded familiar.”

With the preliminary amenities out of the way, Ellis moved quickly. He drew up an agency contract which Harry scarcely read before scribbling his signature at the bottom. Then the two men stood up and shook hands once again.

“I hope that this will be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship,” Ellis said. “I have every confidence in your book.”

Harry left the building walking on air. He couldn’t wait to get home to tell Lily.

In the agency, Ellis knew he had his work cut out for him. He knew he had a major novel to sell, but it was so long that several of his closest editorial contacts rejected the script without, Ellis suspected, even reading it.

Finally, one afternoon he lunched with Charlie Blair of Farnsworth and Barnes, an old friend and virtually his last hope. “Just read it, for Christ’s sake,” Ellis insisted. “Would I be pushing this if I didn’t think it was something truly out of the ordinary? Haven’t I given you enough winners to ask you to look yourself?”

Blair wearily acquiesced. “Okay, Ellis, you win. Leave the first hundred pages and I’ll get back to you.”

When he read the portion of the novel that night, he became as excited as Ellis had. The book was extraordinary.

The next morning he called Ellis and said tersely, “Bring that monster over right away.”

Closeting himself in his office, he did nothing all day until he reached the last page. What a book! he thought as he sat back to ponder its commercial possibilities.

The following Monday morning over coffee and Danish at the conference table, he tried to ignite his colleagues’ enthusiasm. Everyone trusted Blair’s judgment, but the other editors saw no way they could publish such a long book.

“For God’s sake, Charlie,” said his publisher. “It’s not a book, it’s a goddamn tome.”

Upset and angry, Blair went back to his office. As one of the owners, he knew he could take on any project he wanted, but he also knew the danger of publishing a book without full house support. After a while he picked up the phone and called Ellis.

“The book is great,” he said to the agent, “but everyone has problems with the length. It’s several hundred pages more than
Gone With the Wind
. Your writer is simply going to have to face some severe cutting if he ever wants his book published at a popular price.”

“I’m not sure how Kohle will react. He’s very protective of his work.”

“Tell him we don’t want to change anything, just shorten it. Look what Perkins did on Thomas Wolfe. Many major writers get cut and if I promise to do it myself, you know you’ll be in good hands. Tell him if we can reduce the book by a third, we’ll pay three thousand dollars.”

“Let me try,” said Ellis. “But I can’t guarantee success.”

“What’s Kohle like?” asked Blair. “I’m curious, after reading his book.”

“Intense, dedicated, believes passionately in his work. The whole world could cave in, so long as it doesn’t touch his typewriter. Lives on a farm in upstate New York with a wife and four children. Incidentally, she’s the former Lily Goodhue, and he’s from the Kohle banking clan.”

Charlie snorted. “Guy probably doesn’t even need the dough. Well, speak to him and let me know.”

At first Harry exploded when Ellis suggested cutting a third of the book.

“Forget it,” he shouted. “How dare they, those Philistines! The answer is definitely no.”

Ellis let Harry fume until he’d run out of steam. Then he said, “Come on, Harry, you’ve got to be reasonable. Several other publishing houses have refused even to read the book on account of its length. Charlie Blair has promised to work very closely with you, and he’s a hell of an editor. I know how you feel, but sometimes you’ve got to compromise.”

“When they’re done it will be theirs and not mine. I can’t do it, Ellis; I’ve struggled too hard.”

“Well,” Ellis said, “don’t make any hasty decisions. I think something can be worked out. Why don’t you sleep on it.”

After hanging up, Harry sat in his study for a long time. He knew the length of the book was a problem, and not only did he want
Archie
published, he wanted it to sell. He wasn’t so naive to believe the public would pay twice as much for an unknown writer than they did for Theodore Dreiser. So while it would kill him to do it—he loved every paragraph, sentence, and word in
Archie Sanger
, he decided he would have to give in. He only hoped that Charlie Blair was half as good an editor as Ellis said he was.

That night, he held Lily close, needing the comfort of her warmth and strength. “Lily, I’ve come to a decision about Charlie Blair’s offer; I’m going along with him.”

“But I thought you told Ellis you wouldn’t even consider it. We’re not that desperate for money. Why don’t you wait and try a few more publishing houses?”

“Because I want the book out. By the time it’s printed, America may well be at war. The timing will be perfect. Just because I’m a stubborn bastard doesn’t mean I’m unrealistic. After all, I don’t have Kohle blood in my veins for nothing.”

Hugging him, Lily knew how much he wanted his book to be a success. How much he needed to regain his father’s respect.

Harry slept restlessly, trying to think of a way to cut the book without losing its strength. Finally, at four in the morning, he had an inspiration. Barely able to contain his excitement, he called Ellis at home at eight.

“I’ve got it,” he shouted. “The perfect solution. The way the book is structured, we can publish it as two separate novels. The first would be
The Wars of Archie Sanger
, and the second
The Redemption.
It will just mean writing a couple of new chapters at the end of one and at the beginning of the other.”

“My God, that’s brilliant!” said Ellis. “And you’re supposed to be a novice at this game?”

“Do you think Blair will agree?”

“Hell, yes! Do you realize what this means? We’ll have two books to sell. I’ll call Charlie as soon as the office opens.”

“You’ll let me know how it goes?” Harry asked anxiously.

“The second I hear.”

Harry hung over the phone all morning, but it didn’t ring until almost lunchtime.

“I won’t keep you in suspense,” Ellis said. “Farnsworth and Barnes agree to the idea of two books and are offering five thousand dollars.”

Harry’s heart leapt up in his chest. God, how he and Lily had struggled to arrive at this day! His dream had come true.

“I’ll be damned,” he finally stammered. “There’s no way for them to back out?”

Ellis smiled. “Not a chance.”

There was a long silence before Harry said, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to. This is only the beginning.”

“Listen, Ellis. I know that it’s a hell of a long way, but could you drive up this evening? Lily has heard so much about you; she’d love to meet you. I want you here to share our celebration.”

Ellis was only too happy to oblige.

“Ellis Knox coming for dinner—oh my God, Harry! How am I going to entertain him, an important New York agent?”

“Just as you always do, darling. Perfectly.”

Lily piled the children into the car and dashed into the village, where for once she bought lavishly. This was no time for thrift.

By the time she returned home, her menu was set. First she made her silky homemade chicken-liver pâté which tasted almost like foie gras, then began preparing stuffed mushrooms and melba toast. Turning to the main course, she lovingly readied veal Cordon Bleu. She was most confident of her dessert: a spectacular lemon meringue pie.

She wanted everything to be absolutely perfect. Ellis was, amazingly, the first guest they had ever had to dinner—except, of course, her cousin Randolph, who was always happy to take potluck. But the heavy oak kitchen table wouldn’t do for tonight, and they didn’t have a dining room.

Finally she decided she would serve them in the living room. She dragged a round corner table in front of the fireplace and covered it with her one beautiful tablecloth. Then she put out her nicest china, an antique flowered Limoges she had found at a Fourth of July fair. Only she would know that her own dinner plate had a crack in it and that Harry’s saucer was chipped underneath. A huge bouquet of roses brightened the center of the table, and Lily looked at her handiwork with satisfaction.

She fed the children early, then put them to bed, quelling their protests with lavish bribes about taking them to the carnival the following week.

After that, she spent a little time in front of the old-fashioned pier glass, trying on her long-unused collection of Parisian frocks. She supposed that they had formed part of her trousseau; her life had certainly provided little opportunity to flaunt them. After a long day hoeing potatoes, it had seemed incongruous to dress for dinner.