Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

by Anthony Trollope

  popular. He wrote a life of Canning, and he brought out an annotated

  edition of the British poets; but he achieved no great success.

  I have known no man better read in English literature. Hence his

  conversation had a peculiar charm, but he was not equally happy

  with his pen. He will long be remembered at the Literary Fund

  Committees, of which he was a staunch and most trusted supporter.

  I think it was he who first introduced me to that board. It has

  often been said that literary men are peculiarly apt to think that

  they are slighted and unappreciated. Robert Bell certainly never

  achieved the position in literature which he once aspired to fill,

  and which he was justified in thinking that he could earn for

  himself. I have frequently discussed these subjects with him, but

  I never heard from his mouth a word of complaint as to his own

  literary fate. He liked to hear the chimes go at midnight, and he

  loved to have ginger hot in his mouth. On such occasions no sound

  ever came out of a man's lips sweeter than his wit and gentle

  revelry.

  George Lewes,--with his wife, whom all the world knows as George

  Eliot,--has also been and still is one of my dearest friends.

  He is, I think, the acutest critic I know,--and the severest. His

  severity, however, is a fault. His intention to be honest, even when

  honesty may give pain, has caused him to give pain when honesty has

  not required it. He is essentially a doubter, and has encouraged

  himself to doubt till the faculty of trusting has almost left him.

  I am not speaking of the personal trust which one man feels in

  another, but of that confidence in literary excellence, which is,

  I think, necessary for the full enjoyment of literature. In one

  modern writer he did believe thoroughly. Nothing can be more charming

  than the unstinted admiration which he has accorded to everything

  that comes from the pen of the wonderful woman to whom his lot has

  been united. To her name I shall recur again when speaking of the

  novelists of the present day.

  Of "Billy Russell," as we always used to call him, I may say

  that I never knew but one man equal to him in the quickness and

  continuance of witty speech. That one man was Charles Lever--also

  an Irishman--whom I had known from an earlier date, and also with

  close intimacy. Of the two, I think that Lever was perhaps the

  more astounding producer of good things. His manner was perhaps a

  little the happier, and his turns more sharp and unexpected. But

  "Billy" also was marvellous. Whether abroad as special correspondent,

  or at home amidst the flurry of his newspaper work, he was a charming

  companion; his ready wit always gave him the last word.

  Of Thackeray I will speak again when I record his death.

  There were many others whom I met for the first time at George

  Smith's table. Albert Smith, for the first, and indeed for the last

  time, as he died soon after; Higgins, whom all the world knew as

  Jacob Omnium, a man I greatly regarded; Dallas, who for a time was

  literary critic to the Times, and who certainly in that capacity

  did better work than has appeared since in the same department;

  George Augustus Sala, who, had he given himself fair play, would

  have risen to higher eminence than that of being the best writer

  in his day of sensational leading articles; and Fitz-James Stephen,

  a man of very different calibre, who had not yet culminated, but

  who, no doubt, will culminate among our judges. There were many

  others;--but I cannot now recall their various names as identified

  with those banquets.

  Of Framley Parsonage I need only further say, that as I wrote it I

  became more closely than ever acquainted with the new shire which

  I had added to the English counties. I had it all in my mind,--its

  roads and railroads, its towns and parishes, its members of Parliament,

  and the different hunts which rode over it. I knew all the great

  lords and their castles, the squires and their parks, the rectors

  and their churches. This was the fourth novel of which I had placed

  the scene in Barsetshire, and as I wrote it I made a map of the

  dear county. Throughout these stories there has been no name given

  to a fictitious site which does not represent to me a spot of which I

  know all the accessories, as though I had lived and wandered there.

  CHAPTER IX "CASTLE RICHMOND;" "BROWN, JONES, AND ROBINSON;" "NORTH AMERICA;" "ORLEY FARM"

  When I had half-finished Framley Parsonage, I went back to my other

  story, Castle Richmond, which I was writing for Messrs. Chapman &

  Hall, and completed that. I think that this was the only occasion

  on which I have had two different novels in my mind at the same

  time. This, however, did not create either difficulty or confusion.

  Many of us live in different circles; and when we go from our friends

  in the town to our friends in the country, we do not usually fail

  to remember the little details of the one life or the other. The

  parson at Rusticum, with his wife and his wife's mother, and all

  his belongings; and our old friend, the Squire, with his family

  history; and Farmer Mudge, who has been cross with us, because we

  rode so unnecessarily over his barley; and that rascally poacher,

  once a gamekeeper, who now traps all the foxes; and pretty Mary

  Cann, whose marriage with the wheelwright we did something to

  expedite;--though we are alive to them all, do not drive out of our

  brain the club gossip, or the memories of last season's dinners, or

  any incident of our London intimacies. In our lives we are always

  weaving novels, and we manage to keep the different tales distinct.

  A man does, in truth, remember that which it interests him to

  remember; and when we hear that memory has gone as age has come on,

  we should understand that the capacity for interest in the matter

  concerned has perished. A man will be generally very old and feeble

  before he forgets how much money he has in the funds. There is

  a good deal to be learned by any one who wishes to write a novel

  well; but when the art has been acquired, I do not see why two or

  three should not be well written at the same time. I have never

  found myself thinking much about the work that I had to do till

  I was doing it. I have indeed for many years almost abandoned the

  effort to think, trusting myself, with the narrowest thread of

  a plot, to work the matter out when the pen is in my hand. But my

  mind is constantly employing itself on the work I have done. Had

  I left either Framley Parsonage or Castle Richmond half-finished

  fifteen years ago, I think I could complete the tales now with very

  little trouble. I have not looked at Castle Richmond since it was

  published; and poor as the work is, I remember all the incidents.

  Castle Richmond certainly was not a success,--though the plot is a

  fairly good plot, and is much more of a plot than I have generally

  been able to find. The scene is laid in Ireland, during the famine;

  and I am well aware now that English readers no longer like Irish

  stories. I cannot understand why it
should be so, as the Irish

  character is peculiarly well fitted for romance. But Irish subjects

  generally have become distasteful. This novel, however, is of

  itself a weak production. The characters do not excite sympathy.

  The heroine has two lovers, one of whom is a scamp and the other

  a prig. As regards the scamp, the girl's mother is her own rival.

  Rivalry of the same nature has been admirably depicted by Thackeray

  in his Esmond; but there the mother's love seems to be justified

  by the girl's indifference. In Castle Richmond the mother strives

  to rob her daughter of the man's love. The girl herself has no

  character; and the mother, who is strong enough, is almost revolting.

  The dialogue is often lively, and some of the incidents are well

  told; but the story as a whole was a failure. I cannot remember,

  however, that it was roughly handled by the critics when it came

  out; and I much doubt whether anything so hard was said of it then

  as that which I have said here.

  I was now settled at Waltham Cross, in a house in which I could

  entertain a few friends modestly, where we grew our cabbages

  and strawberries, made our own butter, and killed our own pigs. I

  occupied it for twelve years, and they were years to me of great

  prosperity. In 1861 I became a member of the Garrick Club, with

  which institution I have since been much identified. I had belonged

  to it about two years, when, on Thackeray's death, I was invited

  to fill his place on the Committee, and I have been one of that

  august body ever since. Having up to that time lived very little

  among men, having known hitherto nothing of clubs, having even as

  a boy been banished from social gatherings, I enjoyed infinitely at

  first the gaiety of the Garrick. It was a festival to me to dine

  there--which I did indeed but seldom; and a great delight to play

  a rubber in the little room up-stairs of an afternoon. I am speaking

  now of the old club in King Street. This playing of whist before

  dinner has since that become a habit with me, so that unless there

  be something else special to do--unless there be hunting, or I am

  wanted to ride in the park by the young tyrant of my household--it

  is "my custom always in the afternoon." I have sometimes felt sore

  with myself for this persistency, feeling that I was making myself

  a slave to an amusement which has not after all very much to

  recommend it. I have often thought that I would break myself away

  from it, and "swear off," as Rip Van Winkle says. But my swearing

  off has been like that of Rip Van Winkle. And now, as I think of

  it coolly, I do not know but that I have been right to cling to it.

  As a man grows old he wants amusement, more even than when he is

  young; and then it becomes so difficult to find amusement. Reading

  should, no doubt, be the delight of men's leisure hours. Had I to

  choose between books and cards, I should no doubt take the books.

  But I find that I can seldom read with pleasure for above an hour

  and a half at a time, or more than three hours a day. As I write

  this I am aware that hunting must soon be abandoned. After sixty

  it is given but to few men to ride straight across country, and I

  cannot bring myself to adopt any other mode of riding. I think that

  without cards I should now be much at a loss. When I began to play

  at the Garrick, I did so simply because I liked the society of the

  men who played.

  I think that I became popular among those with whom I associated.

  I have long been aware of a certain weakness in my own character,

  which I may call a craving for love. I have ever had a wish to be

  liked by those around me,--a wish that during the first half of

  my life was never gratified. In my school-days no small part of my

  misery came from the envy with which I regarded the popularity of

  popular boys. They seemed to me to live in a social paradise, while

  the desolation of my pandemonium was complete. And afterwards,

  when I was in London as a young man, I had but few friends. Among

  the clerks in the Post Office I held my own fairly for the first

  two or three years; but even then I regarded myself as something of

  a pariah. My Irish life had been much better. I had had my wife and

  children, and had been sustained by a feeling of general respect.

  But even in Ireland I had in truth lived but little in society.

  Our means had been sufficient for our wants, but insufficient for

  entertaining others. It was not till we had settled ourselves at

  Waltham that I really began to live much with others. The Garrick

  Club was the first assemblage of men at which I felt myself to be

  popular.

  I soon became a member of other clubs. There was the Arts Club in

  Hanover Square, of which I saw the opening, but from which, after

  three or four years, I withdrew my name, having found that during

  these three or four years I had not once entered the building.

  Then I was one of the originators of the Civil Service Club--not

  from judgment, but instigated to do so by others. That also I left

  for the same reason. In 1864 I received the honour of being elected

  by the Committee at the Athenaeum. For this I was indebted to the

  kindness of Lord Stanhope; and I never was more surprised than when

  I was informed of the fact. About the same time I became a member

  of the Cosmopolitan, a little club that meets twice a week in

  Charles Street, Berkeley Square, and supplies to all its members,

  and its members' friends, tea and brandy and water without charge!

  The gatherings there I used to think very delightful. One met

  Jacob Omnium, Monckton Mimes, Tom Hughes, William Stirling, Henry

  Reeve, Arthur Russell, Tom Taylor, and such like; and generally

  a strong political element, thoroughly well mixed, gave a certain

  spirit to the place. Lord Ripon, Lord Stanley, William Forster,

  Lord Enfield, Lord Kimberley, George Bentinck, Vernon Harcourt,

  Bromley Davenport, Knatchbull Huguessen, with many others, used to

  whisper the secrets of Parliament with free tongues. Afterwards I

  became a member of the Turf, which I found to be serviceable--or

  the reverse--only for the playing of whist at high points.

  In August, 1861, I wrote another novel for the Cornhill Magazine.

  It was a short story, about one volume in length, and was called

  The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson. In this I attempted a

  style for which I certainly was not qualified, and to which I never

  had again recourse. It was meant to be funny, was full of slang,

  and was intended as a satire on the ways of trade. Still I think

  that there is some good fun it it, but I have heard no one else

  express such an opinion. I do not know that I ever heard any opinion

  expressed on it, except by the publisher, who kindly remarked

  that he did not think it was equal to my usual work. Though he had

  purchased the copyright, he did not republish the story in a book

  form till 1870, and then it passed into the world of letters sub

  silentio. I do not know that it was ever criticised or ever read.

  I received (pounds)600 for it. From
that time to this I have been paid at

  about that rate for my work--(pounds)600 for the quantity contained in

  an ordinary novel volume, or (pounds)3000 for a long tale published in

  twenty parts, which is equal in length to five such volumes. I have

  occasionally, I think, received something more than this, never

  I think less for any tale, except when I have published my work

  anonymously. [Footnote: Since the date at which this was written

  I have encountered a diminution in price.] Having said so much, I

  need not further specify the prices as I mention the books as they

  were written. I will, however, when I am completing this memoir,

  give a list of all the sums I have received for my literary labours.

  I think that Brown, Jones and Robinson was the hardest bargain I

  ever sold to a publisher.

  In 1861 the War of Secession had broken out in America, and from

  the first I interested myself much in the question. My mother

  had thirty years previously written a very popular, but, as I had

  thought, a somewhat unjust book about our cousins over the water.

  She had seen what was distasteful in the manners of a young people,

  but had hardly recognised their energy. I had entertained for

  many years an ambition to follow her footsteps there, and to write

  another book. I had already paid a short visit to New York City and

  State on my way home from the West Indies, but had not seen enough

  then to justify me in the expression of any opinion. The breaking

  out of the war did not make me think that the time was peculiarly

  fit for such inquiry as I wished to make, but it did represent itself

  as an occasion on which a book might be popular. I consequently

  consulted the two great powers with whom I was concerned. Messrs.

  Chapman & Hall, the publishers, were one power, and I had no difficulty

  in arranging my affairs with them. They agreed to publish the book

  on my terms, and bade me God-speed on my journey. The other power

  was the Postmaster-General and Mr. Rowland Hill, the Secretary of

  the Post Office. I wanted leave of absence for the unusual period

  of nine months, and fearing that I should not get it by the ordinary

  process of asking the Secretary, I went direct to his lordship.

  "Is it on the plea of ill-health?" he asked, looking into my face,

  which was then that of a very robust man. His lordship knew the