Part 56 (2/2)
_A._ Well, I thought that one who was so very particular, must have been the standard of perfection herself.
_B._ That does not at all follow.
_A._ But what I wish to read to you is the way in which I have managed that my secret shall never be divulged. It is known only to four.
_B._ A secret known to four people! You must be quick then.
_A._ So I am, as you shall hear; they all meet in a dark gallery, but do not expect to meet any one but the hero, whom they intend to murder, each one having, unknown to the others, made an appointment with him for that purpose, on the pretence of telling him the great secret.
Altogether the scene is well described, but it is long, so I'll come at once to the _denouement_.
_B._ Pray do.
_A._ ”Absenpresentini felt his way by the slimy wall, when the breath of another human being caught his ear: he paused, and held his own breath.
'No, no,' muttered the other, 'the _secret of blood and gold_ shall remain with me alone. Let him come, and he shall find death.' In a second, the dagger of Absenpresentini was in the mutterer's bosom:--he fell without a groan. 'To me alone the secret of blood and gold, and with me it remains,' exclaimed Absenpresentini. 'It does remain with you,' cried Phosphorini, driving his dagger into his back:--Absenpresentini fell without a groan, and Phosphorini, withdrawing his dagger, exclaimed, 'Who is now to tell the secret but me?' 'Not you,' cried Vortiskini, raising up his sword and striking at where the voice proceeded. The trusty steel cleft the head of the abandoned Phosphorini, who fell without a groan. 'Now will I retain the secret of blood and gold,' said Vortiskini, as he sheathed his sword.
'Thou shalt,' exclaimed the wily Jesuit, as he struck his stiletto to the heart of the robber, who fell without a groan. 'With me only does the secret now rest, by which our order might be disgraced; with me it dies,' and the Jesuit raised his hand. 'Thus to the glory and the honour of his society does Manfredini sacrifice his life.' He struck the keen-pointed instrument into his heart, and died without a groan.
'Stop,' cried our hero.”
_B._ And I agree with your hero: stop, Ansard, or you'll kill me too--but not without a groan.
_A._ Don't you think it would act well?
_B._ Quite as well as it reads; pray is it all like this?
_A._ You shall judge for yourself. I have half killed myself with writing it, for I chew opium every night to obtain ideas. Now again----
_B._ Spare me, Ansard, spare me; my nerves are rather delicate; for the remainder I will take your word.
_A._ I wish my duns would do the same, even if it were only my washerwoman; but there's no more tick for me here, except this old watch of my father's, which serves to remind me of what I cannot obtain from others--time; but, however, there is a time for all things, and when the time comes that my romance is ready, my creditors will obtain the _ready_.
_B._ Your only excuse, Ansard.
_A._ I beg your pardon. The public require strong writing now-a-days. We have thousands who write well, and the public are nauseated with what is called _good writing_.
_B._ And so they want something bad, eh? Well, Ansard, you certainly can supply them.
_A._ My dear Barnstaple, you must not disparage this style of writing--it is not bad--there is a great art in it. It may be termed writing intellectual and ethereal. You observe, that it never allows probabilities or even possibilities to stand in its way. The dross of humanity is rejected: all the common wants and grosser feelings of our natures are disallowed. It is a novel which is all mind and pa.s.sion.
Corporeal attributes and necessities are thrown on one side, as they would destroy the charm of perfectability. Nothing can soil, or defile, or destroy my heroine; suffering adds l.u.s.tre to her beauty, as pure gold is tried by fire: nothing can kill her, because she is all mind. As for my men, you will observe when you read my work----
_B._ When I do!
_A._ Which, of course, you will--that they also have their appet.i.tes in abeyance; they never want to eat, or drink, or sleep--are always at hand when required, without regard to time or s.p.a.ce. Now there is a great beauty in this description of writing. The women adore it because they find their s.e.x divested of those human necessities, without which they would indeed be angels! the mirror is held up to them, and they find themselves perfect--no wonder they are pleased. The other s.e.x are also very glad to dwell upon female perfectability, which they can only find in a romance, although they have often dreamt of it in their younger days.
_B._ There is some truth in these remarks. Every milliner's girl, who devours your pages in bed by the half-hour's light of tallow stolen for the purpose, imagines a strong similarity between herself and your Angelicanarinella, and every shop-boy measuring tape or weighing yellow soap will find out attributes common to himself and to your hero.
_A._ Exactly. As long as you draw perfection in both s.e.xes, you are certain to be read, because by so doing you flatter human nature and self-love, and transfer it to the individual who reads. Now a picture of real life----
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