Don't Pick Me

CHAPTER XXIX

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.