“Do you want that skit back, or can I keep it?”
“Skit? What skit?”
“The thing you gave me yesterday.”
“That! Light your fire with it. This fellow----”
“Yes,” I said; “I’ll light a fire with it. I see you’re busy.”
“Oh, no! I’m not,” he said. “I’ve nothing to do. What’s the good of my
writing? I earn less and less with every book that comes out. I’m dying
of poverty.”
“That’s because you won’t consider the Public.”
“How can I consider the Public when I don’t know what they want?”
“Because you won’t take the trouble to find out. If I suggested a way
to you of pleasing the Public and making money you’d kick me out of the
room.”
And the words, “For instance, I’ve got a little gold-mine of yours
in my pocket,” were on the tip of my tongue, but I choked them back.
‘Daren’t risk it!’ I thought. ‘He’s given you the thing. _Carte
blanche--cartes serrés!_’
I took the gold-mine away and promptly rough-shaped it for the film.
It was perfectly easy, without any alteration of the story. Then I was
faced with the temptation to put his name to it. The point was this:
If I took it to a film company as an authorless scenario I should
only get authorless terms; whereas, if I put his name to it, with a
little talking I could double the terms at least. The film public
didn’t know his name, of course, but the inner literary public did, and
it’s wonderful how you can impress the market with the word ‘genius’
judiciously used. It was too dangerous, however; and at last I hit on a
middle course. I would take it to them with no name attached, but tell
them it was by ‘a genius,’ and suggest that they could make capital out
of the incognito. I knew they would feel it _was_ by a genius.
I took it to an excellent company next day with a covering note saying:
“The author, a man of recognised literary genius, for certain reasons
prefers to remain unknown.” They took a fortnight in which to rise, but
they rose. They had to. The thing was too good in itself. For a week
I played them over terms. Twice I delivered an ultimatum--twice they
surrendered: they knew too well what they had got. I could have made
a contract with two thousand pounds down which would have brought at
least another two thousand pounds before the contract term closed; but
I compounded for one that gave me three thousand pounds down as likely
to lead to less difficulty with Bruce. The terms were not a whit too
good for what was really the ‘acme’ of scenarios. If I could have been
quite open I could certainly have done better. Finally, however, I
signed the contract, delivered the manuscript, and received a cheque
for the price. I was elated, and at the same time knew that my troubles
were just beginning. With Bruce’s feeling about the film how the deuce
should I get him to take the money? Could I go to his publishers and
conspire with them to trickle it out to him gradually as if it came
from his books? That meant letting them into the secret; besides, he
was too used to receiving practically nothing from his books; it would
lead him to make enquiry, and the secret was bound to come out. Could
I get a lawyer to spring an inheritance on him? That would mean no end
of lying and elaboration, even if a lawyer would consent. Should I send
him the money in Bank of England notes with the words: ‘From a lifelong
admirer of your genius?’ I was afraid he would suspect a trick, or
stolen notes, and go to the police to trace them. Or should I just go,
put the cheque on the table and tell him the truth?
The question worried me terribly, for I didn’t feel entitled to
consult others who knew him. It was the sort of thing that, if talked
over, would certainly leak out. It was not desirable, however, to
delay cashing a big cheque like that. Besides, they had started on
the production. It happened to be a slack time, with a dearth of good
films, so that they were rushing it on. And in the meantime there was
Bruce--starved of everything he wanted, unable to get away for want of
money, depressed about his health and his future. And yet so completely
had he always seemed to me different, strange, superior to this
civilisation of ours, that the idea of going to him and saying simply:
“This is yours, for the film you wrote,” scared me. I could hear his:
“I? Write for the cinema? What do you mean?”
When I came to think of it, I had surely taken an extravagant liberty
in marketing the thing without consulting him. I felt he would never
forgive that, and my feeling towards him was so affectionate, even
reverential, that I simply hated the idea of being wiped out of his
good books. At last I hit on a way that by introducing my own interest
might break my fall. I cashed the cheque, lodged the money at my bank,
drew my own cheque on it for the full amount, and, armed with that and
the contract, went to see him.
He was lying on two chairs smoking his Brazilians and playing with
a stray cat which had attached itself to him. He seemed rather less
prickly than usual, and, after beating about the bushes of his health
and other matters, I began:
“I’ve got a confession to make, Bruce.”
“Confession!” he said. “What confession?”
“You remember that skit on the film you wrote and gave me about six
weeks ago?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do--about an Octoroon.”
He chuckled. “Oh! ah! That!”