by Joy Callaway
“You’re asking me about publishing a book.” It was a statement, not a question. I nodded. “Why didn’t you ask John?” The question came out airy and he plucked the pencil from his desk and twirled it between his fingers. I opened my mouth to answer, but didn’t know what to say, if I should tell him that Mr. Hopper had suggested I seek him out. He glanced at me. “Oh. You already have.” Mr. Blaine dropped the pencil onto the desk and stared up at the pink and white stained glass above him. “I don’t know why you’re here then. You’ve likely found all of the answers you need.”
“Actually, I didn’t ask him,” I said honestly. “He’s already been published and it’s been quite some time since he’s had to seek out a publisher.” I was treading on thin ice. Surely Mr. Blaine didn’t like to be reminded that Mr. Hopper had been published and he hadn’t.
“That’s true.” Tom smiled at me and I felt the tension drop from my shoulders. “I suppose I’m a little sore over it taking me this long to find a publisher myself. Sorry for my tone.” He paused. “Poker. You’re familiar?”
“Vaguely. My uncles played in the war.”
“Publishing is about as random as a poker hand—that is, if your material is good—the wild cards being who you know and what the publishers want—and their tastes are fickle.”
“It seems that attempting acceptance in any of the literary—” I started to sympathize, to say that being well received by a literary magazine appeared to be as random, but Mr. Blaine cut me off.
“In my case, I know my writing is compelling, and I’ve got the first wild card in my back pocket. I have a rather known last name and am acquainted with plenty of publishers and editors, they just refuse to give my books a chance. As much as they say they want something different, they don’t. For example, John’s editor, Fred Harvey at Henry Holt. He read both of our books. He loved John’s romanticized novel about war, but was disgusted with mine about the disparity between the classes.”
“I doubt he was disgusted,” I said. All of my rejections had been pointed, but polite.
“You don’t believe me? I still have his letter. I’ll bring it next time. He didn’t like the way I made the upper class seem so unfeeling and, I quote, ‘the lower class seem so disgustingly desolate.’ He thought I was using class extremes instead of averages and was absolutely appalled by my love scene between a woman of the streets, if you will, and a man of means.” Choosing to ignore the mention of a love scene, I was stunned by the brutal honesty of Mr. Blaine’s rejection. I couldn’t fathom that sort of dismissal—if I were ever brave enough to face publishers. “But, I’ve decided to go a different route.” Mr. Blaine pushed a piece of paper off the top of a copy of The Century magazine, and waved the volume in front of me. I’d already read this particular edition at least ten times over. “I’ve decided to read for a change.” He paused to stare at the cover adorned with an illustration of a Greek goddess. “They say that Richard Gilder selects the best writers in the world for his magazine. I’m hoping their excellence will inspire.”
“I often hope the same,” I said. The magazine always included literary greats like Mark Twain and Henry James and the illustrator Monty Flagg, as well as articles and short stories from promising debut writers. Suddenly, an idea dawned on me and I plucked the magazine from Mr. Blaine’s hand. He laughed as I flipped through.
“If you’d like me to procure a copy for you, I’m sure that John subscribes—”
“I’ve been rejected, too, Mr. Blaine. Never from this magazine, but from several others.” I’d submitted the story of Grandfather James to Scribner’s and Atlantic Monthly last March. The magazines had been running Civil War stories commemorating the twenty-fifth year of the Union’s victory, and I’d thought my grandfather’s story a heartening tale of American resilience. The editors felt differently, and I’d been so discouraged by their rejections that I hadn’t tried other publications. “But I’m willing to give it another go and I think you should as well. We should write stories to submit to The Century. Nearly every name on these pages has made something of their writing.”
“I think that that’s a marvelous idea, Miss Loftin.” Mr. Blaine pulled the magazine from my grasp and set it on the desk behind him. “And you’re correct. It’s commonly known that editors from all of the most prominent houses peruse it, even those with their own monthly publications—Charles Scribner’s Sons, Henry Holt, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, among others. G. P. Putnam’s Sons are particularly interested in The Century’s writers, I’ve heard. It’s as easy as one of them reading your story and loving your style.”
“G. P. Putnam’s Sons?” The name came out of my mouth before I could stop it, a girly squeak that caused Mr. Blaine to cock his head at me.
“Have your eye on that one, do you?” He laughed.
“Not really,” I sputtered. “I mean, I suppose.” I felt myself blushing and turned my head.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has their favorites,” Mr. Blaine said, weaving his hands behind his head. “It’s rumored that the Putnam brothers are especially loyal readers since their former magazine, Putnam’s Monthly Magazine of American Literature, Science, and Art, was bought by The Century. If you’re keen on catching their eye, submitting a story to Gilder would be a smart idea.” He scribbled a few words on a loose sheet of paper. “Shall we agree to hold each other accountable for these stories? Perhaps read each other’s work? I’d be happy to review yours if you’ll take a look at mine.” I barely heard him. I was sure I’d be rejected, but the possibility that my writing could be read by George Putnam made nerves fly madly around my stomach like a thousand fleeing bats.
“I’d love that,” I said bleakly.
“Well, in that case, could you come over here for a moment? I’ve made a list of possible book ideas and suppose I could use one for my story. I’d like your opinion.” I stepped forward to take a look. He shuffled the papers on the desk and flattened one on top. Barely able to see the letters against the dim of the room, I leaned closer to read the bullet-pointed list. “Ben Franklin and his relation to the post; The French Huguenots and their exodus to the United States.” “I know that they’re both superb ideas. Simply choose the one you find most appealing.” I felt my eyes begin to roll, but stopped them before he could see me.
“I like both, but find the Franklin idea particularly interesting,” I said, swallowing the compulsion to deem them both boring out of spite.
“Thank you, Miss Loftin,” he said. “Do you know how I came upon it? I was up in Rye on holiday when I came across a marker of sorts near the road. It seemed to speak to me, to tell me that if I only regarded it long enough, it would give me an idea that would change the world. I know that—”
“I must go, Mr. Blaine,” I interrupted, taking Mr. Hopper’s advice. “I apologize for interrupting. I look forward to reading your story. Farewell for now,” I said hurriedly. Opening the door, I stepped into the hallway before he could insist I stay to hear the last of his tale.
Walking quickly toward the trill of a flute over the lulling notes of the piano and someone shouting the name “Rebecca!” over and over, I eyed the large-faced grandfather clock with a carved shell motif, stunned that it was nearing two in the morning. I turned sharply into the drawing room, expecting a thinned crowd at best, even given the noise, but was shocked to find it just as crammed as before. Forcing my way through the throng, I looked for Franklin.
“Miss Loftin?” A short brunette girl wearing a gorgeous black gown with undulating bands of deep emerald velvet and gold braid materialized out of the dim. I nodded, wracking my brain for her name. Lydia had just introduced us. “What fortune that our paths crossed. I know you mentioned you’d just penned a novel. Would you mind listening to the opening paragraph of my story? I’m on my way to read it. I often write poetry and shorter works, but this is my first attempt at a novella and I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. It’ll only take a moment.”
“I’d love to,”
I said and grinned at her, wishing she’d mentioned her name.
“Thank you,” she said. “I would’ve read it earlier, but my husband, Teddy, summoned me back to my parents’ home for a few hours to greet some friends going on to the country with us tomorrow. Never mind that I see them nearly every day back home in Newport.” She paused. “He means well, but doesn’t understand,” she said, almost to herself. I followed her through the maze of people gathered around the fireplace and waited as she laughed with a lone harpist for a moment before leaning down and grabbing a disheveled stack of papers from a spot against the wall.
The woman sunk into a waiting armchair by the fire. I looked at the crowd gathered around me waiting to hear her words, and wondered why she’d felt the need to ask me to join them. She lifted her face to us and her eyes squinted, as though she was thinking. “I’ll be reading a short passage, only the first paragraph of my novella, which is all I’ve got so far.” She laughed, a high-pitched jingle that made me grin. “I haven’t worked it all out in my head, but here’s the premise: it’s about a man whose career is falling apart, but who needs to be successful to marry his fiancée,” she said, tapping her fingers on the mound of paper in her hand. The problem of money seemed to be a common theme, both in fiction and reality. I focused on her words. I wasn’t going to let Charlie into my head. Not now. “Knowing there’s no way to salvage his career, he searches his brain and remembers these letters he has from a famous, but deceased former lover, so he removes his name from the letters and sells them for a fortune. There will, of course, be complications with his plan, but that’s as far as I’ve thought so far. Do you find it boring?” Hanging on her words, I found myself staring at her waiting for more, and shook my head, wishing I could’ve come up with a premise that seemed half as enticing.
“Absolutely not! It sounds incredible,” someone said. Her thin lips drew up.
“I think you’re all just kind.” Sorting through the stack of papers, she yanked one out and set it on top of the others. “There’s a chance that it’ll be entirely awful. If it is, that’s all right, but I want you to tell me. Be brutal.”
“I promise,” a thin man with a curling mustache proclaimed loudly. She smiled.
“I’ll be counting on that, Mr. Daniels,” she said.
“I’ve remained tonight for the sole purpose of hearing her prose. Her poetry speaks to me.” A young woman who appeared to be no older than sixteen whispered in my ear, “It’s incredible . . . what Mr. Hopper has created here.” I turned my head in time to see her cheeks flush at his name. “Do you know that he was inspired by a Parisian salon? He spoke to me . . . privately . . . about how he came to form it.” With her words, I felt foolish for thinking that Mr. Hopper was actually interested in my writing. His reputation was clearly valid: he was versed in making all women feel exceptional. “This society has inspired me to continue with ceramics, even though my parents don’t approve.”
“I’m glad to hear it, I—”
“Glennard dropped the Spectator and sat looking into the fire.” The reading began. I was thankful for the interruption. “The club was filling up, but he still had to himself the small inner room, with its darkening outlook down the rain-streaked prospect of Fifth Avenue.” She read with feeling. The scene reflected not only in her words but also in her face. “It was all dull and dismal enough, yet a moment earlier his boredom had been perversely tinged by a sense of resentment at the thought that, as things were going, he might in time have to surrender even the despised privilege of boring himself within those particular four walls.” She looked across all of us, and then her lips turned up. “And that is all I have, I’m afraid.” Everyone remained silent for a moment longer before the first bold soul offered an opinion. Soon the rest of her audience surged forward, and the sound of comments and praise were lost to the hum of the room. I remained standing where I was, reveling in the scene she’d created, wishing she’d written more. Her prose was so lovely and immersive, I’d felt as though I’d been in the room with Glennard.
After her audience had gone on to the next reading or painting, I made my way toward her. I tried to think of something critical to say, but was unable come up with anything. I wasn’t going to be at all helpful in my critique. At first listen, it was perfect. I thought of my muddled manuscript in Mr. Hopper’s drawer and cringed at the dissonance between the seamless brilliance of what she’d just read and my words.
“It’s an exquisite start,” I said loudly, my voice projecting over the small orchestra that had once again started playing. I felt like a fraud. What did I know of novel writing? I’d only just written one terrible draft myself. Bent over her friend Mr. Daniels’s shoulder, squinting at his notepad, she jolted up, and plastered a hand to her heart.
“Good Lord, you startled me.” She laughed and turned back to Mr. Daniels. “I like it. I really do,” I heard her say to him, “but I can already tell where it’s going. Sophie is going to choose Joseph over Harold, am I right?” He nodded and frowned at the page. “My advice? Even them out a little. Don’t make Joseph such a catch and Harold such a dolt and it’ll be wonderful,” she continued. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” Turning, she grinned at me and nodded to a space near the doorway.
“Thank you for your sincerity, Mrs. Wharton,” Mr. Daniels called out behind us and she nodded at him as we walked away. Edith, I remembered suddenly. That was her name.
“All right. Be honest,” she said when we stopped. “I’m eager to hear the opinion of another female writer. The general consensus seemed to be that it was satisfactory, but I’m not so sure. Is it compelling enough?”
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help,” I started. “I don’t have much to say other than I wanted to read more. I was there. I was in that room with Glennard.”
“Oh wonderful! That’s exactly what I was after. Thank you.” Mrs. Wharton clapped her hands. She bundled her stack of papers under her arm and began to walk toward the door, but I stopped her.
“Are you sure you don’t live in town?” I asked stupidly. She cocked her head at me, no doubt wondering what I was after by asking. “It’s just . . . I wish you did. I’d love to read more of your story and hear your thoughts on mine. There aren’t many of us and it was so nice to run into you.” I was babbling, but meant what I said. It had been evident by the crowd gathered around her and in the words of the young girl I’d stood beside that her poetry had already made its mark. I’d never been in the company of such a promising female writer, and found myself inspired. I knew the world would someday know her name. When it did, I wanted to be there alongside.
“Oh.” She laughed under her breath. “Believe me, I wish I did, too. I lived here before I got married and used to treasure these meetings. Being around this many artists is good for the soul.” Gripping my hand, she smiled and let go, walking into the foyer. “It was lovely to meet you. Thank you again, Miss Loftin.”
I turned and shuffled back into the drawing room yawning. Squinting, I spotted Mr. Hopper leaning against one of the bookshelves, book between his fingers. He caught sight of me and beckoned me over.
“Do they ever get tired and go home?” I asked loudly, attempting to speak over the instrumentalists now playing what sounded like Bach.
“Eventually,” Mr. Hopper said, grinning into the room.
“I just met the most talented writer, Mrs. Edith Wharton,” I said. “Do you know her?”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Hopper said, shrugging. “I don’t recognize the name, but might know her face. Did you have an enjoyable talk with Tom?” I didn’t say anything, so Mr. Hopper turned to look at me, grimacing at my pursed lips and tapered eyes. “Sorry.” Chuckling under his breath, he shrugged.
“That’s all right. I’m just being dramatic. It wasn’t bad, really,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re going to exchange work and it was nice to talk about publication. I could do without the boasting, though.”
“Perhaps you should work on your own bravado,”
Mr. Hopper nudged me. “It’s quite irritating, I’ll admit, though I’m glad talking with him was helpful. Come, let’s find Frank. It’s late and he’s probably been looking for you.” The thought of the hour made me fretful. Mother had always been clear that we weren’t to ever be out past eleven, and that was only permitted if we were attending a performance. As glad as she’d been for me to attend the Society with Frank, I doubted she’d dismiss my absence in the wee hours of the morning if she woke to find our beds empty.
We walked past two people gathered under the chandelier. I looked over the shoulder of the taller man to find he’d almost completed a painting of the room. The heavy cloud of smoke had been left out of his depiction and the details of the room—the flames licking the etched fireplaces, the flying angels along the ceiling—were accurate and vivid behind the immaculately garbed crowd and the obvious focus on a lovely brunette woman tucked against the wall across from us. Mr. Hopper leaned into me as we walked past. “He might as well take advantage of the view while he can,” he whispered, nodding toward the woman who was sitting alone, legs pressed against the wall as though she’d like to dissolve into it.
“Who is that?” I asked. She looked familiar, naturally flushed cheeks atop pouty lips. I looked away when she noticed me staring.
“Maude Adams. I’m shocked she’s here.”
“The actress?” I asked, recognizing her easily upon second glance. Her face was often plastered on the front page of the papers. She’d been on the stage since a child, most recently playing Dora Prescott in Men and Women.
“Yes. I haven’t seen her off the stage in some time—I don’t think anyone has.” Mr. Hopper lifted his hand to wave at her, but she blushed and turned to face the wall.
“Really? Why?” The hum of the cello beneath the high staccato notes of the violin grew louder as we neared and Franklin materialized beside me.
