I had written The Leavenworth Case, and taken the mass of manuscript to the Putnams. Opened up it was not the most inviting copy a publisher had ever seen, for it had been written on such kind and sizes of paper as could he procured wherever I might happen to be.
As it took me two years to write the story and my traveling then was considerable, you can readily imagine Mr Putnam’s first impression. Answering his inquiry about the story’s length I said 185,000 words. It was left for the “readers” to pass upon. They spoke well of it; but Mr Putnam requested that the story be cut down one-half in length. I found this to be impossible, but cut out 40,000 words and re-submitted it. It was not what Mr Putnam had requested, but if Rossiter Johnson would pass favorably on the story as it stood they would publish it. Imagine the situation! A young author’s first book to be published by the first publisher to whom it had been offered, “if.”
Well, Mr Johnson exiled himself from his dear New York at our home in Brooklyn. Mum as an oyster he seated himself and closed his eyes—I with my manuscript at hand commenced reading. This was Saturday afternoon. I read on and on until dinner time. The only encouragement I received as I looked up anxiously at the conclusion of a chapter was: “Another—go on—next—yes.”
I ate little at the meal; after it I read on until after midnight, the only break being a shift in Mr Johnson’s position and the doubt-inspiring monosyllables that embellished each chapter like a tailpiece.
I have slept sounder than I did that night. After breakfast next morning we were at it again, I with a dry throat and parched lips and Mr Johnson with the non-committal comments and closed eyes. He, however, did not rise to leave, nor did I stop reading, until luncheon time. After that slight respite Mr Johnson seemed impatient to go on. Of course I interpreted his impatience to my disadvantage and the balance of the story was read with doubt and fear in every sentence as to the outcome. Unnerved, feverish and hopeless I concluded the reading about dinner time.
Those who know Mr Johnson could not imagine his being a source of discomfort to anyone, but no one could have relieved the tension except by telling me outright that it should be put in type at once. This Mr Johnson did not do. He spoke encouragingly, however, dined and went away. The next day Mr Putnam asked me to send the manuscript to him for publication and I became a real author.
You have asked me to tell you about the hardest day’s work I ever did. For a twenty-four hour day I have not known its fellow. It is twenty-eight years since that little reading before a slim house, but so vivid is the recollection that did space permit it would not tax my memory to go into numerous details connected with the occasion which meant so much to me.