“You think that can happen? Do you think a man can freeze up if he really has talent?”
“Yes,” McHarg said quietly, “that can happen. I’ve seen it happen. You’ll find out, as you go on, that most of the things they say, most of the dangers that they warn you of, do not exist. They’ll talk to you, for instance, about prostituting your talent. They’ll warn you not to write for money. Not to sell your soul to Hollywood. Not to do a dozen other things that have nothing whatever to do with you or with your life. You won’t prostitute yourself. A man’s talent doesn’t get prostituted just because someone waves a fat cheque in his face. If your talent is prostituted, it is because you are a prostitute by nature. The number of writers in this world who weep into their Scotch and tell you of the great books they would have written if they hadn’t sold out to Hollywood or to the Saturday Evening Post is astonishingly large. But the number of great writers who have sold out is not large. In fact, I don’t believe there are any at all. If Thomas Hardy had been given a contract to write stories for the Saturday Evening Post, do you think he would have written like Zane Grey or like Thomas Hardy? I can tell you the answer to that one. He would have written like Thomas Hardy. He couldn’t have written like anyone else but Thomas Hardy. He would have kept on writing like Thomas Hardy whether he wrote for the Saturday Evening Post or Captain Billy’s Whizbang. You can’t prostitute a great writer, because a great writer will inevitably be himself. He couldn’t sell himself out if he wanted to. And a good many of them, I suppose, have wanted to, or thought they did. But he can freeze up. He can listen too much to the bright young men. He can learn to shadow-box, to feint and jab and weave, and he can lose his punch. So whatever you do, don’t freeze up.”
There was a rap at the door, and in response to McHarg’s summons John came in, carrying in his hand a bundle of crisp, brand-new Bank of England notes.
“I think you will find these right, sir,” he said, as he handed the money to McHarg. “I counted them. One ‘undred pounds, sir.”
McHarg took the notes, folded them into a wad, and thrust it carelessly into his pocket. “All right, John,” he said. “And now will you pack a few things?”
He got up, looked about him absently, and then, with a sudden resumption of his former feverish manner, he barked out:
“Well, George, get on your coat! We’ve got to be on our way!”
“B-b-but”—George began to temporise—“don’t you think we’d better get some lunch before we start out, Mr. McHarg? If you haven’t eaten for so long, you’ll need food. Let’s go somewhere now and get something to eat.”
George spoke with all the persuasiveness he could put into his voice. By this time he was beginning to feel very hungry, and thought longingly of the “prime bit” of gammon and peas that Mrs. Purvis had prepared for him. Also he hoped that if he could only get McHarg to have lunch before starting, he could use the occasion diplomatically to dissuade him from his intention of departing forthwith, and taking him along willy-nilly, on a tour that was apparently designed to embrace a good portion of the British Isles. But McHarg, as if he foresaw Webber’s design, and also feared, perhaps, the effect of further delay upon his almost exhausted energies, snapped curtly, with inflexible decision:
“We’ll eat somewhere on the road. We’re getting out of town at once.”