Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

by Anthony Trollope

  My first manuscript I gave up to my mother, agreeing with her that

  it would be as well that she should not look at it before she gave

  it to a publisher. I knew that she did not give me credit for the

  sort of cleverness necessary for such work. I could see in the

  faces and hear in the voices of those of my friends who were around

  me at the house in Cumberland,--my mother, my sister, my brother-in-law,

  and, I think, my brother,--that they had not expected me to come

  out as one of the family authors. There were three or four in the

  field before me, and it seemed to be almost absurd that another

  should wish to add himself to the number. My father had written

  much,--those long ecclesiastical descriptions,--quite unsuccessfully.

  My mother had become one of the popular authors of the day. My

  brother had commenced, and had been fairly well paid for his work.

  My sister, Mrs. Tilley, had also written a novel, which was at the

  time in manuscript--which was published afterwards without her name,

  and was called Chollerton. I could perceive that this attempt of

  mine was felt to be an unfortunate aggravation of the disease.

  My mother, however, did the best she could for me, and soon reported

  that Mr. Newby, of Mortimer Street, was to publish the book. It

  was to be printed at his expense, and he was to give me half the

  profits. Half the profits! Many a young author expects much from such

  an undertaking. I can, with truth, declare that I expected nothing.

  And I got nothing. Nor did I expect fame, or even acknowledgment.

  I was sure that the book would fail, and it did fail most absolutely.

  I never heard of a person reading it in those days. If there was

  any notice taken of it by any critic of the day, I did not see it.

  I never asked any questions about it, or wrote a single letter on

  the subject to the publisher. I have Mr. Newby's agreement with me,

  in duplicate, and one or two preliminary notes; but beyond that I

  did not have a word from Mr. Newby. I am sure that he did not wrong

  me in that he paid me nothing. It is probable that he did not sell

  fifty copies of the work;--but of what he did sell he gave me no

  account.

  I do not remember that I felt in any way disappointed or hurt. I

  am quite sure that no word of complaint passed my lips. I think I

  may say that after the publication I never said a word about the

  book, even to my wife. The fact that I had written and published

  it, and that I was writing another, did not in the least interfere

  with my life, or with my determination to make the best I could of

  the Post Office. In Ireland, I think that no one knew that I had

  written a novel. But I went on writing. The Macdermots was published

  in 1847, and The Kellys and the O'Kellys followed in 1848. I

  changed my publisher, but did not change my fortune. This second

  Irish story was sent into the world by Mr. Colburn, who had

  long been my mother's publisher, who reigned in Great Marlborough

  Street, and I believe created the business which is now carried on

  by Messrs. Hurst & Blackett. He had previously been in partnership

  with Mr. Bentley in New Burlington Street. I made the same agreement

  as before as to half profits, and with precisely the same results.

  The book was not only not read, but was never heard of,--at any

  rate, in Ireland. And yet it is a good Irish story, much inferior

  to The Macdermots as to plot, but superior in the mode of telling.

  Again I held my tongue, and not only said nothing but felt nothing.

  Any success would, I think, have carried me off my legs, but I was

  altogether prepared for failure. Though I thoroughly enjoyed the

  writing of these books, I did not imagine, when the time came for

  publishing them, that any one would condescend to read them.

  But in reference to The O'Kellys there arose a circumstance which

  set my mind to work on a subject which has exercised it much ever

  since. I made my first acquaintance with criticism. A dear friend

  of mine to whom the book had been sent,--as have all my books,--wrote

  me word to Ireland that he had been dining at some club with a man

  high in authority among the gods of the Times newspaper, and that

  this special god had almost promised that The O'Kellys should be

  noticed in that most influential of "organs." The information moved

  me very much; but it set me thinking whether the notice, should it

  ever appear, would not have been more valuable, at any rate, more

  honest, if it had been produced by other means;--if, for instance,

  the writer of the notice had been instigated by the merits or demerits

  of the book instead of by the friendship of a friend. And I made

  up my mind then that, should I continue this trade of authorship,

  I would have no dealings with any critic on my own behalf. I would

  neither ask for nor deplore criticism, nor would I ever thank a

  critic for praise, or quarrel with him, even in my own heart, for

  censure. To this rule I have adhered with absolute strictness, and

  this rule I would recommend to all young authors. What can be got

  by touting among the critics is never worth the ignominy. The same

  may, of course, be said of all things acquired by ignominious means.

  But in this matter it is so easy to fall into the dirt. Facilis

  descensus Averni. There seems to be but little fault in suggesting

  to a friend that a few words in this or that journal would be of

  service. But any praise so obtained must be an injustice to the

  public, for whose instruction, and not for the sustentation of the

  author, such notices are intended. And from such mild suggestion

  the descent to crawling at the critic's feet, to the sending of

  presents, and at last to a mutual understanding between critics

  and criticised, is only too easy. Other evils follow, for the

  denouncing of which this is hardly the place;--though I trust I

  may find such place before my work is finished. I took no notice

  of my friend's letter, but I was not the less careful in watching

  The Times. At last the review came,--a real review in The Times. I

  learned it by heart, and can now give, if not the words, the exact

  purport. "Of The Kellys and the O'Kellys we may say what the master

  said to his footman, when the man complained of the constant supply

  of legs of mutton on the kitchen table. Well, John, legs of mutton

  are good, substantial food;' and we may say also what John replied:

  'Substantial, sir,--yes, they are substantial, but a little coarse.'"

  That was the review, and even that did not sell the book!

  From Mr. Colburn I did receive an account, showing that 375 copies

  of the book had been printed, that 140 had been sold,--to those,

  I presume, who liked substantial food though it was coarse,--and

  that he had incurred a loss of (pounds)63 19S. 1 1/2d. The truth of the

  account I never for a moment doubted; nor did I doubt the wisdom

  of the advice given to me in the following letter, though I never

  thought of obeying it--

  "GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET,

  November 11, 1848.

  "MY DEAR SIR,--I am sorry to say that absence from
town and other

  circumstances have prevented me from earlier inquiring into the

  results of the sale of The Kellys and the O'Kellys, with which the

  greatest efforts have been used, but in vain. The sale has been,

  I regret to say, so small that the loss upon the publication is

  very considerable; and it appears clear to me that, although in

  consequence of the great number of novels that are published, the

  sale of each, with some few exceptions, must be small, yet it is

  evident that readers do not like novels on Irish subjects as well

  as on others. Thus, you will perceive, it is impossible for me to

  give any encouragement to you to proceed in novel-writing.

  "As, however, I understand you have nearly finished the novel La Vendee,

  perhaps you will favour me with a sight of it when convenient.--I

  remain, etc., etc.,

  "H. COLBURN."

  This, though not strictly logical, was a rational letter, telling

  a plain truth plainly. I did not like the assurance that "the

  greatest efforts had been used," thinking that any efforts which

  might be made for the popularity of a book ought to have come from

  the author;--but I took in good part Mr. Colburn's assurance that

  he could not encourage me in the career I had commenced. I would

  have bet twenty to one against my own success. But by continuing

  I could lose only pen and paper; and if the one chance in twenty

  did turn up in my favour, then how much might I win!

  CHAPTER V My first success 1849-1855

  I had at once gone to work on a third novel, and had nearly

  completed it, when I was informed of the absolute failure of the

  former. I find, however, that the agreement for its publication was

  not made till 1850, by which time I imagine that Mr. Colburn must

  have forgotten the disastrous result of The O'Kellys, as he thereby

  agrees to give me (pounds)20 down for my "new historical novel, to be

  called La Vendee." He agreed also to pay me (pounds)30 more when he had

  sold 350 copies, and (pounds)50 more should he sell 450 within six months. I

  got my (pounds)20, and then heard no more of (pounds)a Vendee, not even receiving

  any account. Perhaps the historical title had appeared more alluring

  to him than an Irish subject; though it was not long afterwards that

  I received a warning from the very same house of business against

  historical novels,--as I will tell at length when the proper time

  comes.

  I have no doubt that the result of the sale of this story was

  no better than that of the two that had gone before. I asked no

  questions, however, and to this day have received no information.

  The story is certainly inferior to those which had gone before;--chiefly

  because I knew accurately the life of the people in Ireland, and

  knew, in truth, nothing of life in the La Vendee country, and also

  because the facts of the present time came more within the limits

  of my powers of story-telling than those of past years. But I read

  the book the other day, and am not ashamed of it. The conception

  as to the feeling of the people is, I think, true; the characters

  are distinct, and the tale is not dull. As far as I can remember,

  this morsel of criticism is the only one that was ever written on

  the book.

  I had, however, received (pounds)20. Alas! alas! years were to roll by

  before I should earn by my pen another shilling. And, indeed, I

  was well aware that I had not earned that; but that the money had

  been "talked out of" the worthy publisher by the earnestness of

  my brother, who made the bargain for me. I have known very much

  of publishers and have been surprised by much in their mode of

  business,--by the apparent lavishness and by the apparent hardness

  to authors in the same men,--but by nothing so much as by the ease

  with which they can occasionally be persuaded to throw away small

  sums of money. If you will only make the payment future instead of

  present, you may generally twist a few pounds in your own or your

  client's favour. "You might as well promise her (pounds)20. This day six

  months will do very well." The publisher, though he knows that the

  money will never come back to him, thinks it worth his while to

  rid himself of your importunity at so cheap a price.

  But while I was writing La Vendee I made a literary attempt in

  another direction. In 1847 and 1848 there had come upon Ireland

  the desolation and destruction, first of the famine, and then of

  the pestilence which succeeded the famine. It was my duty at that

  time to be travelling constantly in those parts of Ireland in which

  the misery and troubles thence arising were, perhaps, at their

  worst. The western parts of Cork, Kerry, and Clare were pre-eminently

  unfortunate. The efforts,--I may say, the successful efforts,--made

  by the Government to stay the hands of death will still be in the

  remembrance of many:--how Sir Robert Peel was instigated to repeal the

  Corn Laws; and how, subsequently, Lord John Russell took measures

  for employing the people, and supplying the country with Indian

  corn. The expediency of these latter measures was questioned by

  many. The people themselves wished, of course, to be fed without

  working; and the gentry, who were mainly responsible for the rates,

  were disposed to think that the management of affairs was taken

  too much out of their own hands. My mind at the time was busy with

  the matter, and, thinking that the Government was right, I was

  inclined to defend them as far as my small powers went. S. G. O.

  (Lord Sydney Godolphin Osborne) was at that time denouncing the

  Irish scheme of the Administration in the Times, using very strong

  language,--as those who remember his style will know. I fancied

  then,--as I still think,--that I understood the country much better

  than he did; and I was anxious to show that the steps taken for

  mitigating the terrible evil of the times were the best which the

  Minister of the day could have adopted. In 1848 I was in London,

  and, full of my purpose, I presented myself to Mr. John Forster,--who

  has since been an intimate and valued friend,--but who was at that

  time the editor of the Examiner. I think that that portion of the

  literary world which understands the fabrication of newspapers

  will admit that neither before his time, nor since, has there been

  a more capable editor of a weekly newspaper. As a literary man, he

  was not without his faults. That which the cabman is reported to

  have said of him before the magistrate is quite true. He was always

  "an arbitrary cove." As a critic, he belonged to the school of

  Bentley and Gifford,--who would always bray in a literary mortar

  all critics who disagreed from them, as though such disagreement

  were a personal offence requiring personal castigation. But that

  very eagerness made him a good editor. Into whatever he did he put

  his very heart and soul. During his time the Examiner was almost

  all that a Liberal weekly paper should be. So to John Forster I

  went, and was shown into that room in Lincoln's Inn Fields in which,

  some three or four years earl
ier, Dickens had given that reading of

  which there is an illustration with portraits in the second volume

  of his life.

  At this time I knew no literary men. A few I had met when living

  with my mother, but that had been now so long ago that all such

  acquaintance had died out. I knew who they were as far as a man

  could get such knowledge from the papers of the day, and felt myself

  as in part belonging to the guild, through my mother, and in some

  degree by my own unsuccessful efforts. But it was not probable that

  any one would admit my claim;--nor on this occasion did I make any

  claim. I stated my name and official position, and the fact that

  opportunities had been given me of seeing the poorhouses in Ireland,

  and of making myself acquainted with the circumstances of the

  time. Would a series of letters on the subject be accepted by the

  Examiner? The great man, who loomed very large to me, was pleased

  to say that if the letters should recommend themselves by their

  style and matter, if they were not too long, and if,--every reader

  will know how on such occasions an editor will guard himself,--if

  this and if that, they should be favourably entertained. They were

  favourably entertained,--if printing and publication be favourable

  entertainment. But I heard no more of them. The world in Ireland

  did not declare that the Government had at last been adequately

  defended, nor did the treasurer of the Examiner send me a cheque

  in return.

  Whether there ought to have been a cheque I do not even yet know.

  A man who writes a single letter to a newspaper, of course, is not

  paid for it,--nor for any number of letters on some point personal

  to himself. I have since written sets of letters to newspapers, and

  have been paid for them; but then I have bargained for a price. On

  this occasion I had hopes; but they never ran high, and I was not

  much disappointed. I have no copy now of those letters, and could

  not refer to them without much trouble; nor do I remember what I

  said. But I know that I did my best in writing them.

  When my historical novel failed, as completely as had its predecessors,

  the two Irish novels, I began to ask myself whether, after all,

  that was my proper line. I had never thought of questioning the

  justice of the verdict expressed against me. The idea that I was

  the unfortunate owner of unappreciated genius never troubled me. I