Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

by Anthony Trollope

  which I wrote for the Cornhill; and it was for this that I received

  the highest rate of pay that was ever accorded to me. It was the

  same length as Framley Parsonage, and the price was (pounds)2800. Whether

  much or little, it was offered by the proprietor of the magazine,

  and was paid in a single cheque.

  In The Claverings I did not follow the habit which had now become

  very common to me, of introducing personages whose names are already

  known to the readers of novels, and whose characters were familiar

  to myself. If I remember rightly, no one appears here who had

  appeared before or who has been allowed to appear since. I consider

  the story as a whole to be good, though I am not aware that the

  public has ever corroborated that verdict. The chief character

  is that of a young woman who has married manifestly for money and

  rank,--so manifestly that she does not herself pretend, even while

  she is making the marriage, that she has any other reason. The

  man is old, disreputable, and a wornout debauchee. Then comes the

  punishment natural to the offence. When she is free, the man whom

  she had loved, and who had loved her, is engaged to another woman.

  He vacillates and is weak,--in which weakness is the fault of the

  book, as he plays the part of hero. But she is strong--strong in

  her purpose, strong in her desires, and strong in her consciousness

  that the punishment which comes upon her has been deserved.

  But the chief merit of The Clarverings is in the genuine fun of

  some of the scenes. Humour has not been my forte, but I am inclined

  to think that the characters of Captain Boodle, Archie Clavering,

  and Sophie Gordeloup are humorous. Count Pateroff, the brother of

  Sophie, is also good, and disposes of the young hero's interference

  in a somewhat masterly manner. In The Claverings, too, there is a

  wife whose husband is a brute to her, who loses an only child--his

  heir--and who is rebuked by her lord because the boy dies. Her

  sorrow is, I think, pathetic. From beginning to end the story is

  well told. But I doubt now whether any one reads The Claverings.

  When I remember how many novels I have written, I have no right

  to expect that above a few of them shall endure even to the second

  year beyond publication. This story closed my connection with the

  Cornhill Magazine;--but not with its owner, Mr. George Smith, who

  subsequently brought out a further novel of mine in a separate

  form, and who about this time established the Pall Mall Gazette,

  to which paper I was for some years a contributor.

  It was in 1865 that the Pall Mall Gazette was commenced, the

  name having been taken from a fictitious periodical, which was the

  offspring of Thackeray's brain. It was set on foot by the unassisted

  energy and resources of George Smith, who had succeeded by means

  of his magazine and his publishing connection in getting around him

  a society of literary men who sufficed, as far as literary ability

  went, to float the paper at one under favourable auspices. His two

  strongest staffs probably were "Jacob Omnium," whom I regard as the

  most forcible newspaper writer of my days, and Fitz-James Stephen,

  the most conscientious and industrious. To them the Pall Mall

  Gazette owed very much of its early success,--and to the untiring

  energy and general ability of its proprietor. Among its other

  contributors were George Lewes, Hannay,--who, I think, came up

  from Edinburgh for employment on its columns,--Lord Houghton, Lord

  Strangford, Charles Merivale, Greenwood the present editor, Greg,

  myself, and very many others;--so many others, that I have met

  at a Pall Mall dinner a crowd of guests who would have filled the

  House of Commons more respectably than I have seen it filled even

  on important occasions. There are many who now remember--and no

  doubt when this is published there will be left some to remember--the

  great stroke of business which was done by the revelations of a

  visitor to one of the casual wards in London. A person had to be

  selected who would undergo the misery of a night among the usual

  occupants of a casual ward in a London poorhouse, and who should at

  the same time be able to record what he felt and saw. The choice

  fell upon Mr. Greenwood's brother, who certainly possessed the

  courage and the powers of endurance. The description, which was

  very well given, was, I think, chiefly written by the brother of

  the Casual himself. It had a great effect, which was increased by

  secrecy as to the person who encountered all the horrors of that

  night. I was more than once assured that Lard Houghton was the man.

  I heard it asserted also that I myself had been the hero. At last

  the unknown one could no longer endure that his honours should be

  hidden, and revealed the truth,--in opposition, I fear, to promises

  to the contrary, and instigated by a conviction that if known he

  could turn his honours to account. In the meantime, however, that

  record of a night passed in a workhouse had done more to establish

  the sale of the journal than all the legal lore of Stephen, or the

  polemical power of Higgins, or the critical acumen of Lewes.

  My work was various. I wrote much on the subject of the American

  War, on which my feelings were at the time very keen,--subscribing,

  if I remember right, my name to all that I wrote. I contributed

  also some sets of sketches, of which those concerning hunting found

  favour with the public. They were republished afterwards, and had

  a considerable sale, and may, I think, still be recommended to those

  who are fond of hunting, as being accurate in their description of

  the different classes of people who are to be met in the hunting-field.

  There was also a set of clerical sketches, which was considered to

  be of sufficient importance to bring down upon my head the critical

  wrath of a great dean of that period. The most ill-natured review

  that was ever written upon any work of mine appeared in the

  Contemporary Review with reference to these Clerical Sketches. The

  critic told me that I did not understand Greek. That charge has

  been made not unfrequently by those who have felt themselves strong

  in that pride-producing language. It is much to read Greek with

  ease, but it is not disgraceful to be unable to do so. To pretend

  to read it without being able,--that is disgraceful. The critic,

  however, had been driven to wrath by my saying that Deans of the

  Church of England loved to revisit the glimpses of the metropolitan

  moon.

  I also did some critical work for the Pall Mall,--as I did also for

  The Fortnightly. It was not to my taste, but was done in conformity

  with strict conscientious scruples. I read what I took in hand, and

  said what I believed to be true,--always giving to the matter time

  altogether incommensurate with the pecuniary result to myself. In

  doing this for the Pall Mall, I fell into great sorrow. A gentleman,

  whose wife was dear to me as if she were my own sister; was in

  some trouble as to his conduct in the public service. He had been

  bl
amed, as he thought unjustly, and vindicated himself in a pamphlet.

  This he handed to me one day, asking me to read it, and express my

  opinion about it if I found that I had an opinion. I thought the

  request injudicious, and I did not read the pamphlet. He met me

  again, and, handing me a second pamphlet, pressed me very hard. I

  promised him that I would read it, and that if I found myself able

  I would express myself;--but that I must say not what I wished

  to think, but what I did think. To this of course he assented. I

  then went very much out of my way to study the subject,--which was

  one requiring study. I found, or thought that I found, that the

  conduct of the gentleman in his office had been indiscreet; but that

  charges made against himself affecting his honour were baseless.

  This I said, emphasising much more strongly than was necessary the

  opinion which I had formed of his indiscretion,--as will so often

  be the case when a man has a pen in his hand. It is like a club

  or sledge-hammer,--in using which, either for defence or attack,

  a man can hardly measure the strength of the blows he gives. Of

  course there was offence,--and a breaking off of intercourse between

  loving friends,--and a sense of wrong received, and I must own,

  too, of wrong done. It certainly was not open to me to whitewash

  with honesty him whom I did not find to be white; but there was no

  duty incumbent on me to declare what was his colour in my eyes,--no

  duty even to ascertain. But I had been ruffled by the persistency

  of the gentleman's request,--which should not have been made,--and

  I punished him for his wrong-doing by doing a wrong myself. I must

  add, that before he died his wife succeeded in bringing us together.

  In the early days of the paper, the proprietor, who at that time

  acted also as chief editor, asked me to undertake a duty,--of which

  the agony would indeed at no one moment have been so sharp as that

  endured in the casual ward, but might have been prolonged until

  human nature sank under it. He suggested to me that I should during

  an entire season attend the May meetings in Exeter Hall, and give

  a graphic and, if possible, amusing description of the proceedings.

  I did attend one,--which lasted three hours,--and wrote a paper which

  I think was called A Zulu in Search of a Religion. But when the

  meeting was over I went to that spirited proprietor, and begged him

  to impose upon me some task more equal to my strength. Not even on

  behalf of the Pall Mall Gazette, which was very dear to me, could

  I go through a second May meeting,--much less endure a season of

  such martyrdom.

  I have to acknowledge that I found myself unfit for work on

  a newspaper. I had not taken to it early enough in life to learn

  its ways and bear its trammels. I was fidgety when any work was

  altered in accordance with the judgment of the editor, who, of

  course, was responsible for what appeared. I wanted to select my

  own subjects,--not to have them selected for me; to write when I

  pleased,--and not when it suited others. As a permanent member of

  the staff I was of no use, and after two or three years I dropped

  out of the work.

  From the commencement of my success as a writer, which I date

  from the beginning of the Cornhill Magazine, I had always felt an

  injustice in literary affairs which had never afflicted me or even

  suggested itself to me while I was unsuccessful. It seemed to me

  that a name once earned carried with it too much favour. I indeed

  had never reached a height to which praise was awarded as a matter

  of course; but there were others who sat on higher seats to whom

  the critics brought unmeasured incense and adulation, even when

  they wrote, as they sometimes did write, trash which from a beginner

  would not have been thought worthy of the slightest notice. I hope

  no one will think that in saying this I am actuated by jealousy

  of others. Though I never reached that height, still I had so

  far progressed that that which I wrote was received with too much

  favour. The injustice which struck me did not consist in that which

  was withheld from me, but in that which was given to me. I felt

  that aspirants coming up below me might do work as good as mine,

  and probably much better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated.

  In order to test this, I determined to be such an aspirant myself,

  and to begin a course of novels anonymously, in order that I might

  see whether I could obtain a second identity,--whether as I had made

  one mark by such literary ability as I possessed, I might succeed

  in doing so again. In 1865 I began a short tale called Nina Balatka,

  which in 1866 was published anonymously in Blackwood's Magazine.

  In 1867 this was followed by another of the same length, called

  Linda Tressel. I will speak of them together, as they are of the

  same nature and of nearly equal merit. Mr. Blackwood, who himself

  read the MS. of Nina Balatka, expressed an opinion that it would

  not from its style be discovered to have been written by me;--but

  it was discovered by Mr. Hutton of the Spectator, who found the

  repeated use of some special phrase which had rested upon his ear

  too frequently when reading for the purpose of criticism other

  works of mine. He declared in his paper that Nina Balatka was by

  me, showing I think more sagacity than good nature. I ought not,

  however, to complain of him, as of all the critics of my work he

  has been the most observant, and generally the most eulogistic.

  Nina Balatka never rose sufficiently high in reputation to make

  its detection a matter of any importance. Once or twice I heard the

  story mentioned by readers who did not know me to be the author,

  and always with praise; but it had no real success. The same may

  be said of Linda Tressel. Blackwood, who of course knew the author,

  was willing to publish them, trusting that works by an experienced

  writer would make their way, even without the writer's name, and he

  was willing to pay me for them, perhaps half what they would have

  fetched with my name. But he did not find the speculation answer,

  and declined a third attempt, though a third such tale was written

  for him.

  Nevertheless I am sure that the two stories are good. Perhaps the

  first is somewhat the better, as being the less lachrymose. They

  were both written very quickly, but with a considerable amount of

  labour; and both were written immediately after visits to the towns

  in which the scenes are laid,--Prague, mainly, and Nuremberg. Of

  course I had endeavoured to change not only my manner of language,

  but my manner of story-telling also; and in this, pace Mr. Hutton,

  I think that I was successful. English life in them there was none.

  There was more of romance proper than had been usual with me. And

  I made an attempt at local colouring, at descriptions of scenes

  and places, which has not been usual with me. In all this I am

  confident that I was in a measure successful. In the loves, and

  fears, and hatreds, both of Nina and of Linda, there is much that


  is pathetic. Prague is Prague, and Nuremberg is Nuremberg. I know

  that the stories are good, but they missed the object with which

  they had been written. Of course there is not in this any evidence

  that I might not have succeeded a second time as I succeeded before,

  had I gone on with the same dogged perseverance. Mr. Blackwood,

  had I still further reduced my price, would probably have continued

  the experiment. Another ten years of unpaid unflagging labour might

  have built up a second reputation. But this at any rate did seem

  clear to me, that with all the increased advantages which practice

  in my art must have given me, I could not induce English readers

  to read what I gave to them, unless I gave it with my name.

  I do not wish to have it supposed from this that I quarrel with public

  judgment in affairs of literature. It is a matter of course that

  in all things the public should trust to established reputation. It

  is as natural that a novel reader wanting novels should send to a

  library for those by George Eliot or Wilkie Collins, as that a lady

  when she wants a pie for a picnic should go to Fortnum & Mason.

  Fortnum & Mason can only make themselves Fortnum & Mason by dint of

  time and good pies combined. If Titian were to send us a portrait

  from the other world, as certain dead poets send their poetry by

  means of a medium, it would be some time before the art critic of

  the Times would discover its value. We may sneer at the want of

  judgment thus displayed, but such slowness of judgment is human and

  has always existed. I say all this here because my thoughts on the

  matter have forced upon me the conviction that very much consideration

  is due to the bitter feelings of disappointed authors.

  We who have succeeded are so apt to tell new aspirants not to

  aspire, because the thing to be done may probably be beyond their

  reach. "My dear young lady, had you not better stay at home and darn

  your stockings?" "As, sir, you have asked for my candid opinion,

  I can only counsel you to try some other work of life which may be

  better suited to your abilities." What old-established successful

  author has not said such words as these to humble aspirants for

  critical advice, till they have become almost formulas? No doubt

  there is cruelty in such answers; but the man who makes them has