Olla Podrida

Ansard. That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with that fact?

Barnstaple. No. Travellers always go to bed at the end of each chapter. It is a wise plan, and to a certain degree it must be followed. You must have a baggage adventure—be separated from it—some sharp little urchin has seized upon your valise—it is nowhere to be found—quite in despair—walk to the Hotel d’Angleterre, and find that you are met by the landlord and garçons, who inform you that your carriage is in the remise, and your rooms ready—ascend to your bedroom—find that your baggage is not only there, but neatly laid out—your portmanteau unstrapped—your trunk uncorded—and the little rascal of a commissaire standing by with his hat in his hand, and a smile de malice, having installed himself as your domestique de place—take him for his impudence—praise the “Cotelettes and the vin de Beaune”—wish the reader good night, and go to bed. Thus ends the first chapter.

(Ansardgets up and takesBarnstaple’shand, which he shakes warmly without speaking. Barnstaplesmiles and walks out. Ansardis left hard at work at his desk.)

Arthur Ansardin his Chambers, solus, with his pen in his hand.

Ansard. Capital! that last was a hit. It has all the appearance of reality. To be sure, I borrowed the hint, but that nobody will be able to prove. (Yawns.) Heigho! I have only got half way on my journey yet, and my ideas are quite exhausted. I am as much worn out and distressed as one of the German post-horses which I described in my last chapter. (Nods, and then falls fast asleep.)

Barnstapletaps at the door; receiving no answer, he enters.

Barnstaple. So—quite fast. What can have put him to sleep? (Reads the manuscript on the table.) No wonder, enough to put anybody to sleep apparently. Why, Ansard!

Ansard. (starting up, still half asleep.) Already? Why, I’ve hardly shut my eyes. Well, I’ll be dressed directly; let them get some café ready below. Henri, did you order the hind-spring to be repaired! (Nods again with his eyes shut.)

Barnstaple. Hallo! What now, Ansard, do you really think that you are travelling?

Ansard. (waking up). Upon my word, Barnstaple, I was so dreaming. I thought I was in my bed at the Hotel de Londres, after the fatiguing day’s journey I described yesterday. I certainly have written myself into the conviction that I was travelling post.

Barnstaple. All the better—you have embodied yourself in your own work, which every writer of fiction ought to do; but they can seldom attain to such a desideratum. Now, tell me, how do you get on?

Ansard. Thank you—pretty well. I have been going it with four post-horses these last three weeks.

Barnstaple. And how far have you got?

Ansard. Half way—that is, into the middle of my second volume. But I’m very glad that you’re come to my assistance, Barnstaple; for to tell you the truth, I was breaking down.

Barnstaple. Yes, you said something about the hind-spring of your carriage.

Ansard. That I can repair without your assistance; but my spirits are breaking down. I want society. This travelling post is dull work. Now, if I could introduce a companion—

Barnstaple. So you shall. At the next town that you stop at, buy a Poodle.

Ansard. A Poodle! Barnstaple? How the devil shall I be assisted by a poodle?

Barnstaple. He will prove a more faithful friend to you in your exigence, and a better companion than one of your own species. A male companion, after all, is soon expended, and a female, which would be more agreeable, is not admissible. If you admit a young traveller into your carriage—what then? He is handsome, pleasant, romantic, and so forth; but you must not give his opinions in contradiction to your own, and if they coincide, it is superfluous. Now, a poodle is a dog of parts, and it is more likely that you fall in with a sagacious dog than with a sagacious man. The poodle is the thing; you must recount your meeting, his purchase, size, colour, and qualifications, and anecdotes of his sagacity, vouched for by the landlord, and all the garçons of the hotel. As you proceed on your travels, his attachment to you increases, and wind up every third chapter with “your faithful Mouton.”

Ansard. Will not all that be considered frivolous?

Barnstaple. Frivolous! by no means. The frivolous will like it, and those who may have more sense, although they may think that Mouton does not at all assist your travelling researches, are too well acquainted with the virtues of the canine race, and the attachment insensibly imbibed for so faithful an attendant, not to forgive your affectionate mention of him. Besides it will go far to assist the verisimilitude of your travels. As for your female readers, they will prefer Mouton even to you.

Ansard. All-powerful and mighty magician, whose wand of humbug, like that of Aaron’s, swallows up all others, not excepting that of divine Truth, I obey you! Mouton shall be summoned to my aid: he shall flourish, and my pen shall flourish in praise of his endless perfections. But, Barnstaple, what shall I give for him?

Barnstaple. (thinks awhile.) Not less than forty louis.

Ansard. Forty louis for a poodle!

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?

Barnstaple. Have you talked about cooks?

Ansard. As yet, not a word.

Barnstaple. By this time you ought to have some knowledge of gastronomy. Talk seriously about eating.

Ansard. (writes.) I have made a memo.

Barnstaple. Have you had no affront?

Ansard. Not one.

B. Then be seriously affronted—complain to the burgomaster, or mayor, or commandant, whoever it may be—they attempt to bully—you are resolute and firm as an Englishman—insist upon being righted—they must make you a thousand apologies. This will tickle the national vanity, and be read with interest.

Ansard. (writes.) I have been affronted. Anything else which may proceed from your prolific brain, Barnstaple?

Barnstaple. Have you had a serious illness?

Ansard. Never complained even of a headache.

Barnstaple. Then do everything but die—Henri weeping and inconsolable—Mouton howling at the foot of your bed—kick the surgeons out of the room—and cure yourself with three dozen of champagne.

Ansard. (writes.) Very sick—cured with three dozen of champagne—I wish the illness would in reality come on, if I were certain of the cure gratis. Go on, my dear Barnstaple.

Barnstaple. You may work in an episode here—delirium—lucid intervals—gentle female voice—delicate attentions—mysterious discovery from loquacious landlady—eternal gratitude—but no marriage—an apostrophe—and all the rest left to conjecture.

Ansard. (writes down.) Silent attentions—conjecture—I can manage that, I think.

Barnstaple. By the bye, have you brought in Madame de Staël?

Ansard. No—how the devil am I to bring her in?