Barnstaple. Most certainly; not a sou less. The value of any thing in the eyes of the world is exactly what it costs. Mouton, at a five-franc piece, would excite no interest; and his value to the reader will increase in proportion to his price, which will be considered an undeniable proof of all his wonderful sagacity, with which you are to amuse the reader.
Ansard. But in what is to consist his sagacity?
Barnstaple. He must do everything but speak. Indeed, he must so far speak as to howl the first part of “Lieber Augustin.”
Ansard. His instinct shall put our boasted reason to the blush. But—I think I had better not bring him home with me.
Barnstaple. Of course not. In the first place, it’s absolutely necessary to kill him, lest his reputation should induce people to seek him out, which they would do, although, in all probability, they never will his master. Lady Cork would certainly invite him to a literary soirée. You must therefore kill him in the most effective way possible, and you will derive the advantage of filling up at least ten pages with his last moments—licking your hand, your own lamentations, violent and inconsolable grief on the part of Henri, and tanning his skin as a memorial.
Ansard. A beautiful episode, for which receive my best thanks. But, Barnstaple, I have very few effective passages as yet. I have remodelled several descriptions of mountains, precipices, waterfalls, and such wonders of the creation—expressed my contempt and surprise at the fear acknowledged by other travellers, in several instances. I have lost my way twice—met three wolves—been four times benighted—and indebted to lights at a distance for a bed at midnight, after the horses have refused to proceed. All is incident, and I am quite hard up for description. Now, I have marked down a fine passage in —’s work—a beautiful description of a cathedral with a grand procession. (Reads.) “What with the effect of the sun’s brightest beams upon the ancient glass windows—various hues reflected upon the gothic pillars—gorgeousness of the procession—sacerdotal ornaments—tossing of censers—crowds of people—elevation of the host, and sinking down of the populace en masse.” It really is a magnificent line of writing, and which my work requires. One or two like that in my book would do well to be quoted by impartial critics, before the public are permitted to read it. But here, you observe, is a difficulty. I dare not borrow the passage.
Barnstaple. But you shall borrow it—you shall be even finer than he is, and yet he shall not dare to accuse you of plagiarism.
Ansard. How is that possible, my dear Barnstaple? I am all impatience.
Barnstaple. His description is at a certain hour of the day. All you have to do is to portray the scene in nearly the same words. You have as much right to visit a cathedral as he has, and as for the rest—here is the secret. You must visit it at night. Instead of “glorious beams,” you will talk of “pale melancholy light;” instead of “the stained windows throwing their various hues upon the gothic pile,” you must “darken the massive pile, and light up the windows with the silver rays of the moon.” The glorious orb of day must give place to thousands of wax tapers—the splendid fret—work of the roof you must regret was not to be clearly distinguished—but you must be in ecstasies with the broad light and shade—the blaze at the altar—solemn hour of night—feelings of awe—half a Catholic—religious reflections, etcetera. Don’t you perceive?
Ansard. I do. Like the rest of my work, it shall be all moonshine. It shall be done, Barnstaple; but have you not another idea or two to help me with?