The Last Princess

by Cynthia Freeman

  “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.

  Realizing that time was getting short, she chose a lettuce-green chiffon and brushed her hair into a loose pageboy. As the bell rang, she called downstairs for Harry to put out a couple of bottles of the magnificent French Bordeaux Randolph had given them at Christmas.

  Ellis entered the small house to the crackling glow of the fire and the sweet smell of roses. He glanced about the cozy room with pleasure, turning just in time to see the loveliest woman he had ever laid eyes on walk into the room.

  Noticing the Paris gown, he reminded himself she was a Goodhue, but what really took his breath was her creamy complexion, the tumble of curling red hair, and her brilliant green eyes.

  “Mrs. Kohle?” he murmured. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” He was so entranced by her appearance he almost forgot to give Harry the champagne he’d bought to celebrate the sale of Archie Sanger.

  The evening was marvelous, enchanted. The food was delicious, the wine fit for the gods. There was a special air about Lily when she asked her husband, “What do you think?” or “How do you feel about it, darling?” Ellis had never met a woman who made a man feel that important. Shockingly he realized that he was half in love with her himself and, quite frankly, he didn’t know what he would do about it.

  Ellis was one of the most charming men Lily had ever met, though where her husband was lively, Ellis was reserved. But he had a twinkle in his eyes and a humorous turn to his mouth. Drifting from one topic to another, they discovered a great deal about each other and realized they were becoming friends. At the end of the evening, they drank a toast to Archie Sanger and their great hopes for the book.

  As Ellis rose to leave, Lily found herself clasping his hand and saying warmly, “Be sure to come out and visit us again, won’t you? We’d love to have you.”

  “You can count on it,” he smiled. “And next time, I’m determined to come early enough to meet your charming children.”

  “Just be sure you come on one of their charming days,” Harry said, laughing.

  On the drive home, all Ellis could think of was Lily Kohle. It wasn’t just her incredible looks. She was the most extraordinary woman he’d ever met, so different from all the New York women with whom he’d been involved since his bitter divorce ten years before. He couldn’t get over the gourmet meal she’d cooked without help. Or her obvious belief in Harry’s work. That’s right, he berated himself, Harry, her husband. She’s married to your newest client, and plainly, she’s very much in love with him. But try was he would, he couldn’t stop thinking of Lily Kohle.

  Ellis had found out a lot about the Kohles that evening. Although they were both from wealthy families, neither of them had any money of their own. Scuttlebutt had it that Lily Goodhue had been disinherited for marrying a Jew, and Ellis had inferred that Harry Kohle had not fared much better. Old Benjamin Kohle had not taken kindly to the idea of his son becoming a writer.

  Apparently, they had survived on Lily’s small inheritance from her grandmother and Harry’s articles—and Ellis knew just how much that kind of writing brought in. Lily had pitched in, selling homemade preserves and handmade clothes to let Harry finish his novel. And yet, in spite of their poverty, Lily seemed a happy woman.

  Chapter 17

  HARRY’S ULTIMATE DREAM WAS to have The Wars of Archie Sanger published. He had never thought beyond that day or how it would change the rest of his life. In the weeks after the publication of the book, “Harry Kohle” became a household name. As it was published at the height of the Battle of Bataan, all America discovered universal truths in this depiction of the horrors of war.

  The novel was displayed in bookstore windows in every city and reviewed on the front page of The New York Times Book Review, and within a month of publication, it hit the bestseller list.

  Harry watched with happy disbelief. Ellis kept him informed, but the reality of Harry’s fame hadn’t yet penetrated his consciousness. The only tangible aspect of the whole phenomenon was the fan letters which had begun to arrive in huge packets in his mailbox. At first Harry attempted to read them, charmed by their praise, but after a while he became overwhelmed by the sheer volume and gave up.

  Severa
l months after the book went to number one a check arrived from the agency which finally brought home his huge success. Ellis had forwarded a royalty statement giving Harry an unbelievable profit of $40,000 on the first five months of his book’s sales.

  Strangely, instead of making him feel reassured, the money filled Harry with all kinds of new anxieties. Having labored so long in poverty and obscurity, he was afraid his talent would be seduced by success. He’d become used to his new affluence—and, worse yet, believe his own reviews. Then what if it all collapsed? If instead of being a major new talent he turned out to be nothing more than a one-book author? If his creative abilities simply dried up?

  It was so tempting to use this new financial freedom to relax. Get to know the children again. Spend some time with Lily—even take the honeymoon they had never had. But Harry still felt he had to prove himself first. He had thought that the success of Archie Sanger would do it, but paradoxically, it seemed to have intensified his drive to succeed. He refused to acknowledge that a large part of his insecurity came from his parents’ refusal to acknowledge his achievement. They came to his publication party, and condescendingly mentioned his reviews. But at least in Harry’s mind, they never gave him the same respect accorded his brothers, who worked at the bank. Harry never stopped to think that this was their limitation. When his father said, “Nice job, Archie Sanger. Bit long though,” he would have said the same to Tolstoy.

  Whatever the reason, Harry knew no peace. In the ensuing months, even before the publication of The Redemption of Archie Sanger, Harry threw himself into a new work, tentatively entitled The Mountains Roared, which would be the third part of the trilogy. He paid little attention to the bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into the war. He was just pleased his eyesight was now weak enough to keep him from being drafted, but not so weak that he couldn’t write.

  Lily scarcely saw her husband. Unable to divine his deep-seated feelings of anger because of the perceived rejection by his family, it was impossible for her to understand his urgency. Did he still feel that he had something to prove to her? Well, she would have to reassure him, make him realize that in her eyes as well as in the world’s, he was a major success. She reached out the only way she knew.