mess of Hat’s breakfast dishes, and put the folding rule back in the cabinet. She could imagine the flowery declarations which would now issue forth at D. and B.; she could picture the salesmen rushing in on Ed Barnard all this morning to discuss “his author,” pouring out praise for “developing Johns,” asking him to guess what The Good World would “do,” and demanding to read it at once, though normally they wouldn’t be caught dead with the long slippery pages of galley proofs. Ed would listen, refuse to hazard predictions, thank them, and say mildly that editors could do everything for authors except write their books.
Ed always said things mildly and felt them vehemently. He was fifty, had been an editor for nearly thirty years, and unlike many editors was not a disappointed writer. His appearance was an anomaly, for he had the ascetic face of a monk and the massive body of a pugilist. His gray eyes were always clear and rested, despite ceaseless reading of typed manuscripts and published books of a hundred authors, American, British or French, obscure or well known. He loved writing; he loved writers.
Ed had told her several times that Gregory was as creative a writer as any he had ever known, and had predicted a larger recognition for his work as time went on. But now, being Ed Barnard, he would refuse to triumph openly over the saleschart worshipers at D. and B. To Abby this seemed regrettable and she found herself hoping, with an unexpected fervor, that he would at least entertain a private smugness for never having written Gregory off as “a minor author.”
Years and years ago, when Partial Eclipse and then Horn of Plenty had failed to become best sellers, Luther Digby’s letters had grown more infrequent, less eager for news of work in progress. Then they had stopped nearly altogether, except on business matters. In the beginning, Digby used to talk endlessly—how well she remembered it—about the vital function of the publisher, the duty, the privilege—to discover the new writer, to encourage him, to bring forth his work, even if it might appeal only to a limited public. Perhaps in those days Digby had meant it. After Horn of Plenty, Gregory had dismissed this talk as so much pious wind. “The truest function, duty, and privilege within Digby,” he had once remarked, “is the marketing of commodities for as much profit as possible.”
Apparently others had come to feel the same way. College texts and classics were marketable indeed, but when it came to general publishing, Ed Barnard and Alan Brown were increasingly willing not to “bother” the President of their firm. As for launching serious new writers, they knew he would balk at and often veto, always for the loftiest reasons, virtually every manuscript they believed in, unless it were by a European upon whose work some foreign publisher had already risked pounds or francs.
Abby thought, Ed and Alan are probably as glad as we are that Luther Digby isn’t the whole firm. Whatever he had, besides capital, when he started it thirty years ago, certainly vanished long ago, and if he hadn’t gone over to the business and sales end, D. and B. would practically be a textbook house by now, and Ed Barnard never would have stayed on. She smiled once more, picked up the telegram, and started for the bedroom. The living room was tidy and neat; Hat had restored the sofa to its daytime incarnation, put away sheets and blankets, even emptied and washed the ashtrays. No sudden metamorphosis, Abby thought stonily, about doing chores, no talk yet about a maid. We’ll have to straighten Miss Hat out a bit, I can see that. What was she doing with that measuring stick anyway?
She stopped, her hand on the knob of the bedroom door. That was odd, finding it on the kitchen table; it hadn’t been there last night. But Hat, gulping down her cornflakes and milk, before dashing off for school, certainly had no thought of measuring anything.
Abby glanced
Ed always said things mildly and felt them vehemently. He was fifty, had been an editor for nearly thirty years, and unlike many editors was not a disappointed writer. His appearance was an anomaly, for he had the ascetic face of a monk and the massive body of a pugilist. His gray eyes were always clear and rested, despite ceaseless reading of typed manuscripts and published books of a hundred authors, American, British or French, obscure or well known. He loved writing; he loved writers.
Ed had told her several times that Gregory was as creative a writer as any he had ever known, and had predicted a larger recognition for his work as time went on. But now, being Ed Barnard, he would refuse to triumph openly over the saleschart worshipers at D. and B. To Abby this seemed regrettable and she found herself hoping, with an unexpected fervor, that he would at least entertain a private smugness for never having written Gregory off as “a minor author.”
Years and years ago, when Partial Eclipse and then Horn of Plenty had failed to become best sellers, Luther Digby’s letters had grown more infrequent, less eager for news of work in progress. Then they had stopped nearly altogether, except on business matters. In the beginning, Digby used to talk endlessly—how well she remembered it—about the vital function of the publisher, the duty, the privilege—to discover the new writer, to encourage him, to bring forth his work, even if it might appeal only to a limited public. Perhaps in those days Digby had meant it. After Horn of Plenty, Gregory had dismissed this talk as so much pious wind. “The truest function, duty, and privilege within Digby,” he had once remarked, “is the marketing of commodities for as much profit as possible.”
Apparently others had come to feel the same way. College texts and classics were marketable indeed, but when it came to general publishing, Ed Barnard and Alan Brown were increasingly willing not to “bother” the President of their firm. As for launching serious new writers, they knew he would balk at and often veto, always for the loftiest reasons, virtually every manuscript they believed in, unless it were by a European upon whose work some foreign publisher had already risked pounds or francs.
Abby thought, Ed and Alan are probably as glad as we are that Luther Digby isn’t the whole firm. Whatever he had, besides capital, when he started it thirty years ago, certainly vanished long ago, and if he hadn’t gone over to the business and sales end, D. and B. would practically be a textbook house by now, and Ed Barnard never would have stayed on. She smiled once more, picked up the telegram, and started for the bedroom. The living room was tidy and neat; Hat had restored the sofa to its daytime incarnation, put away sheets and blankets, even emptied and washed the ashtrays. No sudden metamorphosis, Abby thought stonily, about doing chores, no talk yet about a maid. We’ll have to straighten Miss Hat out a bit, I can see that. What was she doing with that measuring stick anyway?
She stopped, her hand on the knob of the bedroom door. That was odd, finding it on the kitchen table; it hadn’t been there last night. But Hat, gulping down her cornflakes and milk, before dashing off for school, certainly had no thought of measuring anything.
Abby glanced
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