With the early spring Jane's book made its bow to the world. It had been
widely advertised by the publishers and had the advantage of a
conspicuous loneliness, since most books are brought out in the fall.
The author was sorry when her work was actually in its final form,
because she had so enjoyed the novelty of its various processes. The
galley proof and the page proof interested her intensely; the choice of
an illustrator seemed a momentous question of great import. The colour
of the binding, whether the lettering on it should be gold or black,
these details delighted her.
But the day came when a huge package arrived with her twelve copies
allotted by the contract. She sat on the floor and looked over every
copy, patting the covers, gloating over the beauty of the book. It was
an experience she was never to repeat in all the freshness of the first
time, and she drained it of sweetness.
She showed one to small Jerry, who approved it. Then she indicted one to
Martin and sent it by messenger to his rooms, although she knew him to
be still out of town. She wrote Jerry's name in his and put it on his
dressing table. She carried one to Bobs herself.
So much for her own immediate and tangible result from her long labours.
She had expected just such pleasure from it--but the surprising thing
was the intangible effect, which she had not counted on.
Dinner and tea invitations flooded in from all sides, her own days at
home became crushes. Everybody she knew talked about this book as if it
were the only book ever written. The critics, worn out after an arduous
season of more or less mediocrity, welcomed this new author because she
had freshness; she piqued their tired faculties.
The newspapers and magazines sent people to interview her; one of the
papers made much of her appearance in the Pageant of the Prophets--her
romance with Jerry. They ran a reproduction of one of his portraits, not
being able to get a photograph of Jane.
"I get a little ad. out of this, Jane," Jerry said, as he handed her
that account.
"I don't like the publicity part," she sighed, and added as she read,
"Oh, this is ridiculous, I won't have it."
"My dear, you'll find that advertising is the most important thing in
art these days. This kind of thing is nuts and ale to your publishers."
"But, Jerry, how can it be? All this silly, untrue stuff about my
private life."
"That's what they want. The D. P. care much more for your private life
than it does for your work. The more they know--or think they
know--about it, the more willing they are to buy what you have to sell."
"It's disgusting; it debases art."
"So it does; it also popularizes it."
"I suppose that is what we want, isn't it--a democratic art?"
"Yes, if artists are to live. But it has to be spoon fed, with a rich
sauce of personality to get it down their throats," he grumbled.
"But my book isn't the popular kind--only a few people are going to read
it--so why do I have to go through this cheap advertising? It will
disgust the people who might read me, and the people it might attract
will never read me."
"Don't expect the advertiser to have any judgment, Jane. All kinds of
soap and all kinds of books are alike to him."
"Dear me, it is discouraging."
Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon insisted upon giving a dinner for Jane, with
fashionable and literary folk asked to meet her. She found herself a
celebrity of sorts, complimented and deferred to. It amused her greatly,
but the most interesting thing was Jerry's attitude. His early
resentment at her conspicuous new position had resolved into a semblance
of pride in her triumphs. The night of the Brandons' dinner she
continually was reminded of his attitude the first night he introduced
her as his wife, at Jinny Chatfield's studio party. Then, as now, he had
paid her court, possessed her, exhibited her.
Jane took her new position calmly. Her sense of humour saved her from
any undue inflation of values. She accepted the comments of those who
pretended they had read her book--relying on an outburst of adjectives
to protect the falsehood--as sweetly as she did the over-serious
consideration of some of the others.
"A masterly handling of the woman question, Mrs. Paxton," said the man
who sat next her at table.
"I wish we might call it the human question; it is yours as well as
ours, you know," she answered.
Her partner quoted the remark for weeks following the reiteration--"that
brilliant Mrs. Jerry Paxton said to me the other night at dinner...."
etc.
It is of just such trifles that reputations are built, the right word
here, an exclamation there, and the thing is done.
"Well, Jane, you're a success as a celebrity," Jerry remarked on the way
home.
"It is pleasant to have people friendly, but it is amusing to have them
make such a fuss, isn't it? You've always known you were the kind of
person you are; it seems strange that you have to do a special,
conspicuous thing to get people to see it."
Jerry laughed.
"You ungrateful wretch," he exclaimed. "I don't believe you care a rap
about this part of your success."
"I don't; I hate it. I'd like to slip away and not hear any more about
that book. I loved writing it and the making of it, but this fol-de-rol
seems so childish."
"Mrs. Brendon would like that 'fol-de-rol!' She thinks that dinner was a
brilliant event."
"It was sweet of her, of course."
"You get more of an enigma to me, Jane, as time goes on. You haven't one
iota of personal vanity. Now, I love every ounce of success I can get.
I'd like to be perpetual guest of honour. I want all the pomp and
circumstance I can manage. That's how vain I am."
"I understand it, in you, Jerry, but I seem to be entirely different."
So sensitive was Jerry to public opinion that by insensible degrees he
drifted into an acceptance of Jane's new position. He deferred to her
opinions, he even referred to her work.
"What are you busy with now, Jane?" he inquired.
"I'm working out an absorbing situation," she answered, and outlined it
to him. He was interested and they discussed it for some time. "It's all
I can do to tear myself away from my desk these days; I feel as if I
just must have more time."
"Can't we manage with lunch later?"
"No, not if we get you ready for a model at two. I can't seem to get off
any earlier in the morning."
"Why not?"
"Well, I have to do the ordering and get Baby bathed and off to sleep."
"Can't Anna do that?"
"No, she can't order, and I don't want her to bathe Baby."
"I might manage the ordering for a week or so, until you get the story
along past the climax."
"Jerry! would you?" she exclaimed.
"Why not? I'm here all morning--might as well."
"You dear! That would give me a half-an-hour earlier start."
"Anybody who can get up in the morning, and go at her work the way you
do, ought to have a free rein."
"Morning's my time, afternoon is yours; we're very well suited to each
other in some ways, Jerry," she laughed.
"Where's Christiansen these days?" he asked.
"He's out of town--with his wife, I suspect."
"Poor devil! It's hard lines, isn't it?"
"Yes, but Martin is one of the few who are big enough to suffer."
"How do you mean?"
"So many people are so selfish and small-minded that they can only cry
and protest against afflictions, but there are some who welcome the
bitter with the sweet--who grow big and fruitful with sorrow. Martin is
like that. I think him the biggest man I've ever known," she added
simply.
The studio crowd arranged a party in the Chatfields' studio which Jinny
called a "coronation" in Jane's honour. It was to be a surprise and they
told Jerry the details and gave him orders about getting her there, with
no suspicion of the real nature of the event.
"It's sweet of you, Jinny, but Jane won't like it," he said.
"Yes, she will! Every woman likes to be made much of. She made her other
debut in my house and I want her for this one. We're so proud of her, we
don't know what to do, Jerry!" she answered feelingly.
"All right. I'll get her there at nine o'clock, but I've warned you!" he
laughed.
As it was, he had a great struggle to get Hamlet to the feast. Jane was
too tired to go anywhere, she said, and they could go to see Jinny any
time. Then when he had finally induced her to go, she could not see why
he insisted on her wearing her newest frock.
"Oh, I just like you in it and none of them have seen it. Suit yourself,
of course," he said.
So with a sigh, Jane arrayed herself. Jerry thought she had never looked
so well, with a deepened pallor of weariness and faint blue shadows
about her eyes.
When they arrived at the Chatfields' the big studio room was empty, but
in one end of it was a huge throne on a dais. Their host received them
with great dignity and to Jane's astonishment drew her hand through his
arm and led her to the throne.
"Sit there just a minute, Jane," he urged.
"But what for? What is this?"
He almost pushed her into the chair of state and the moment she was
seated, music struck and a procession began of all the artist folk. They
wore paper caps and robes and they approached the astounded Jane, who
would have fled, had Chatfield not prevented. A page bore a crown of
laurel leaves, which the head chamberlain set upon her head with
appropriate ceremonial words. Then the various officials of her court
presented her with the insignia of her royalty--a great pen, a huge key
to her counting house--an exquisite gauze veil, the cloak of imagination
was laid about her shoulders. Then a beautiful handmade book, entitled
"The Coronation of Queen Jane the First," in which were all the names of
her subjects, was offered.
Bobs, dressed as Ariel, brought her a crystal globe and explained in
charming verse that she was to gaze into it and see life, know the
powers of the air, follow the trail of the sun and moon into the realm
of universal knowledge, whither she was to lead her subjects.
Jane's first feeling was one of protest as the position was forced upon
her, but the spontaneity of their tribute, with its friendly impulse,
melted her first embarrassment into gratitude and affection.
When they ended the ceremony, by singing "Auld Lang Syne," she was near
to tears.
"Speech! Speech!" they cried, and she rose at once.
"My good friends, I feel sure that your acquaintance with the Cinderella
story of plain Jane Judd will excuse Queen Jane the First for lack of
royal words of thanks, but I am both touched and grateful, because you
are the oldest friends I have in New York, and many times in the years
back of us you've proved yourselves the truest.... Couldn't you let
Jerry finish this speech? He makes so much better ones than I do!"
"No, no; down with the men!" cried Bobs.
"Long live Queen Jane!" shouted the host, and on the wave of sound that
followed Jane floated into her own, in their world of dreams and visions
and struggles, where she had for so long a time been a silent onlooker.