Part 49 (2/2)
_B._ That is to say, that because one talented author astonished the public by style and merits peculiarly his own, and established, as it were, a school for neophites, his popularity is to be injured by contemptible imitators. It is sufficient to drive a man mad, to find that the tinsel of others, if to be purchased more cheaply, is to be p.a.w.ned upon the public instead of his gold; and more annoying still, that the majority of the public cannot appreciate the difference between the metal and the alloy. Do you know, Ansard, that by getting up this work, you really injure the popularity of a man of great talent?
_A._ Will he pay my tailor's bill?
_B._ No; I daresay he has enough to do to pay his own. What does your tailor say?
_A._ He is a staunch reformer, and on March the 1st he declares that he will have the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill--carried to my credit. Mr C., on the 10th of February, also expects the novel, the whole novel, and nothing but the novel, and that must be a fas.h.i.+onable novel. Look here, Barnstaple. (_Shows his tailor's bill._)
_B._ I see how it is. He ”pays your poverty, and not your will.”
_A._ And, by your leave, I thus must pay my bill (_bowing._)
_B._ Well, well, I can help you: nothing more difficult than to write a good novel, and nothing more easy than to write a bad one. If I were not above the temptation, I could pen you a dozen of the latter every ordinary year, and thirteen, perhaps, in the biss.e.xtile. So banish that Christmas cloud from your brow; leave off nibbling your pen at the wrong end, and clap a fresh nib to the right one. I have an hour to spare.
_A._ I thank you: that spare hour of yours may save me many a spare day.
I'm all attention--proceed.
_B._ The first point to be considered is the _tempus_, or time; the next the _locus_, or place; and lastly, the _dramatis personae_; and thus, chapter upon chapter, will you build a novel.
_A._ Build!
_B._ Yes, build; you have had your dimensions given, the interior is left to your own decoration. First, as to the opening. Suppose we introduce the hero in his dressing-room. We have something of the kind in Pelham; and if we can't copy his merits, we must his peculiarities.
Besides, it always is effective: a dressing-room or boudoir of supposed great people, is admitting the vulgar into the arcana, which they delight in.
_A._ Nothing can be better.
_B._ Then, as to time; as the hero is still in bed, suppose we say four o'clock in the afternoon?
_A._ In the morning, you mean.
_B._ No; the afternoon. I grant you that fas.h.i.+onable young men in real life get up much about the same time as other people; but in a fas.h.i.+onable novel your real exclusive never rises early. The very idea makes the tradesman's wife lift up her eyes. So begin. ”It was about thirty-three minutes after four, _post meridian_----”
_A._ Minute--to a minute!
_B._ ”That the Honourable Augustus Bouverie's finely chiselled----”
_A._ Chiselled!
_B._ Yes; great people are always chiselled; common people are only cast.--”Finely chiselled head was still rec.u.mbent upon his silk-encased pillow. His luxuriant and Antinous-like curls were now confined in _papillotes_ of the finest satin paper, and the _tout ensemble_ of his head----”
_A._ _Tout ensemble!_
_B._ Yes; go on.--”Was gently compressed by a caul of the finest net-work, composed of the threads spun from the beauteous production of the Italian worm.”
_A._ Ah! now I perceive--a silk nightcap. But why can't I say at once a silk nightcap?
_B._ Because you are writing a fas.h.i.+onable novel.--”With the forefinger of his gloved left hand----”
<script>