Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

by Anthony Trollope

  To carry out my scheme I have had to spread my picture over so wide

  a canvas that I cannot expect that any lover of such art should

  trouble himself to look at it as a whole. Who will read Can You

  Forgive Her? Phineas Finn, Phineas Redux, and The Prime Minister

  consecutively, in order that they may understand the characters of

  the Duke of Omnium, of Plantagenet Palliser, and of Lady Glencora?

  Who will ever know that they should be so read? But in the performance

  of the work I had much gratification, and was enabled from time to

  time to have in this way that fling at the political doings of the

  day which every man likes to take, if not in one fashion then in

  another. I look upon this string of characters,--carried sometimes

  into other novels than those just named,--as the best work of

  my life. Taking him altogether, I think that Plantagenet Palliser

  stands more firmly on the ground than any other personage I have

  created.

  On Christmas day, 1863, we were startled by the news of Thackeray's

  death. He had then for many months given up the editorship of the

  Cornhill Magazine,--a position for which he was hardly fitted either

  by his habits or temperament,--but was still employed in writing

  for its pages. I had known him only for four years, but had grown

  into much intimacy with him and his family. I regard him as one

  of the most tender-hearted human beings I ever knew, who, with an

  exaggerated contempt for the foibles of the world at large, would

  entertain an almost equally exaggerated sympathy with the joys

  and troubles of individuals around him. He had been unfortunate in

  early life--unfortunate in regard to money--unfortunate with an

  afflicted wife--unfortunate in having his home broken up before

  his children were fit to be his companions. This threw him too much

  upon clubs, and taught him to dislike general society. But it never

  affected his heart, or clouded his imagination. He could still revel

  in the pangs and joys of fictitious life, and could still feel--as

  he did to the very last--the duty of showing to his readers the

  evil consequences of evil conduct. It was perhaps his chief fault

  as a writer that he could never abstain from that dash of satire

  which he felt to be demanded by the weaknesses which he saw around

  him. The satirist who writes nothing but satire should write but

  little,--or it will seem that his satire springs rather from his

  own caustic nature than from the sins of the world in which he

  lives. I myself regard Esmond as the greatest novel in the English

  language, basing that judgment upon the excellence of its language,

  on the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth of

  its delineations in regard to the tine selected, and on its great

  pathos. There are also in it a few scenes so told that even Scott

  has never equalled the telling. Let any one who doubts this read

  the passage in which Lady Castlewood induces the Duke of Hamilton to

  think that his nuptials with Beatrice will be honoured if Colonel

  Esmond will give away the bride. When he went from us he left behind

  living novelists with great names; but I think that they who best

  understood the matter felt that the greatest master of fiction of

  this age had gone.

  Rachel Ray underwent a fate which no other novel of mine has

  encountered. Some years before this a periodical called Good Words

  had been established under the editorship of my friend Dr. Norman

  Macleod, a well-known Presbyterian pastor in Glasgow. In 1863 he

  asked me to write a novel for his magazine, explaining to me that

  his principles did not teach him to confine his matter to religious

  subjects, and paying me the compliment of saying that he would feel

  himself quite safe in my hands. In reply I told him I thought he

  was wrong in his choice; that though he might wish to give a novel

  to the readers of Good Words, a novel from me would hardly be what

  he wanted, and that I could not undertake to write either with

  any specially religious tendency, or in any fashion different from

  that which was usual to me. As worldly and--if any one thought me

  wicked--as wicked as I had heretofore been, I must still be, should

  I write for Good Words. He persisted in his request, and I came

  to terms as to a story for the periodical. I wrote it and sent it

  to him, and shortly afterwards received it back--a considerable

  portion having been printed--with an intimation that it would not

  do. A letter more full of wailing and repentance no man ever wrote.

  It was, he said, all his own fault. He should have taken my advice.

  He should have known better. But the story, such as it was, he

  could not give to his readers in the pages of Good Words. Would I

  forgive him? Any pecuniary loss to which his decision might subject

  me the owner of the publication would willingly make good. There

  was some loss--or rather would have been--and that money I exacted,

  feeling that the fault had in truth been with the editor. There is

  the tale now to speak for itself. It is not brilliant nor in any

  way very excellent; but it certainly is not very wicked. There is

  some dancing in one of the early chapters, described, no doubt,

  with that approval of the amusement which I have always entertained;

  and it was this to which my friend demurred. It is more true of

  novels than perhaps of anything else, that one man's food is another

  man's poison.

  Miss Mackenzie was written with a desire to prove that a novel may

  be produced without any love; but even in this attempt it breaks

  down before the conclusion. In order that I might be strong in my

  purpose, I took for my heroine a very unattractive old maid, who

  was overwhelmed with money troubles; but even she was in love before

  the end of the book, and made a romantic marriage with an old man.

  There is in this story an attack upon charitable bazaars, made

  with a violence which will, I think, convince any reader that such

  attempts at raising money were at the time very odious to me. I beg

  to say that since that I have had no occasion to alter my opinion.

  Miss Mackenzie was published in the early spring of 1865.

  At the same time I was engaged with others in establishing a

  periodical Review, in which some of us trusted much, and from which

  we expected great things. There was, however, in truth so little

  combination of idea among us, that we were not justified in our

  trust or in our expectations. And yet we were honest in our purpose,

  and have, I think, done some good by our honesty. The matter on which

  we were all agreed was freedom of speech, combined with personal

  responsibility. We would be neither conservative nor liberal, neither

  religious nor free-thinking, neither popular nor exclusive;--but

  we would let any man who had a thing to say, and knew how to say

  it, speak freely. But he should always speak with the responsibility

  of his name attached. In the very beginning I militated against this

  impossible negation of principles,--and did so most irrationally,

  seeing that I had agreed to the n
egation of principles,--by declaring

  that nothing should appear denying or questioning the divinity of

  Christ. It was a most preposterous claim to make for such a publication

  as we proposed, and it at once drove from us one or two who had

  proposed to join us. But we went on, and our company--limited--was

  formed. We subscribed, I think, (pounds)1250 each. I at least subscribed

  that amount, and--having agreed to bring out our publication every

  fortnight, after the manner of the well-known French publication,--we

  called it The Fortnightly. We secured the services of G. H. Lewes

  as our editor. We agreed to manage our finances by a Board, which

  was to meet once a fortnight, and of which I was the Chairman.

  And we determined that the payments for our literature should be

  made on a liberal and strictly ready-money system. We carried out

  our principles till our money was all gone, and then we sold the

  copyright to Messrs. Chapman & Hall for a trifle. But before we

  parted with our property we found that a fortnightly issue was not

  popular with the trade through whose hands the work must reach the

  public; and, as our periodical had not become sufficiently popular

  itself to bear down such opposition, we succumbed, and brought

  it out once a month. Still it was The Fortnightly, and still it

  is The Fortnightly. Of all the serial publications of the day, it

  probably is the most serious, the most earnest, the least devoted

  to amusement, the least flippant, the least jocose,--and yet it

  has the face to show itself month after month to the world, with

  so absurd a misnomer! It is, as all who know the laws of modern

  literature are aware, a very serious thing to change the name of

  a periodical. By doing so you begin an altogether new enterprise.

  Therefore should the name be well chosen;--whereas this was very

  ill chosen, a fault for which I alone was responsible.

  That theory of eclecticism was altogether impracticable. It was as

  though a gentleman should go into the House of Commons determined

  to support no party, but to serve his country by individual utterances.

  Such gentlemen have gone into the House of Commons, but they have

  not served their country much. Of course the project broke down.

  Liberalism, freethinking, and open inquiry will never object to appear

  in company with their opposites, because they have the conceit to

  think that they can quell those opposites; but the opposites will

  not appear in conjunction with liberalism, free-thinking, and open

  inquiry. As a natural consequence, our new publication became an

  organ of liberalism, free-thinking, and open inquiry. The result

  has been good; and though there is much in the now established

  principles of The Fortnightly with which I do not myself agree, I

  may safely say that the publication has assured an individuality,

  and asserted for itself a position in our periodical literature,

  which is well understood and highly respected.

  As to myself and my own hopes in the matter,--I was craving after

  some increase in literary honesty, which I think is still desirable but

  which is hardly to be attained by the means which then recommended

  themselves to me. In one of the early numbers I wrote a paper

  advocating the signature of the authors to periodical writing,

  admitting that the system should not be extended to journalistic

  articles on political subjects. I think that I made the best of

  my case; but further consideration has caused me to doubt whether

  the reasons which induced me to make an exception in favour of

  political writing do not extend themselves also to writing on other

  subjects. Much of the literary criticism which we now have is very

  bad indeed;--. so bad as to be open to the charge both of dishonesty

  and incapacity. Books are criticised without being read,--are

  criticised by favour,--and are trusted by editors to the criticism

  of the incompetent. If the names of the critics were demanded,

  editors would be more careful. But I fear the effect would be that

  we should get but little criticism, and that the public would put

  but little trust in that little. An ordinary reader would not care

  to have his books recommended to him by Jones; but the recommendation

  of the great unknown comes to him with all the weight of the Times,

  the Spectator, or the Saturday.

  Though I admit so much, I am not a recreant from the doctrine I then

  preached. I think that the name of the author does tend to honesty,

  and that the knowledge that it will be inserted adds much to the

  author's industry and care. It debars him also from illegitimate

  license and dishonest assertions. A man should never be ashamed

  to acknowledge that which he is not ashamed to publish. In The

  Fortnightly everything has been signed, and in this way good has,

  I think, been done. Signatures to articles in other periodicals

  have become much more common since The Fortnightly was commenced.

  After a time Mr. Lewes retired from the editorship, feeling that

  the work pressed too severely on his moderate strength. Our loss

  in him was very great, and there was considerable difficulty in

  finding a successor. I must say that the present proprietor has

  been fortunate in the choice he did make. Mr. John Morley has done

  the work with admirable patience, zeal, and capacity. Of course

  he has got around him a set of contributors whose modes of thought

  are what we may call much advanced; he being "much advanced" himself,

  would not work with other aids. The periodical has a peculiar tone

  of its own; but it holds its own with ability, and though there

  are many who perhaps hate it, there are none who despise it. When

  the company sold it, having spent about (pounds)9000 on it, it was worth

  little or nothing. Now I believe it to be a good property.

  My own last personal concern with it was on a matter, of fox-hunting.

  [Footnote: I have written various articles for it since, especially

  two on Cicero, to which I devoted great labour.] There came out in

  it an article from the pen of Mr. Freeman the historian, condemning

  the amusement, which I love, on the grounds of cruelty and general

  brutality. Was it possible, asked Mr. Freeman, quoting from Cicero,

  that any educated man should find delight in so coarse a pursuit?

  Always bearing in mind my own connection with The Fortnightly, I

  regarded this almost as a rising of a child against the father. I

  felt at any rate bound to answer Mr. Freeman in the same columns,

  and I obtained Mr. Morley's permission to do so. I wrote my defence

  of fox-hunting, and there it is. In regard to the charge of cruelty,

  Mr. Freeman seems to assert that nothing unpleasant should be

  done to any of God's creatures except f or a useful purpose. The

  protection of a lady's shoulders from the cold is a useful purpose;

  and therefore a dozen fur-bearing animals may be snared in the

  snow and left to starve to death in the wires, in order that the

  lady may have the tippet,--though a tippet of wool would serve

  the purpose as well as a tippet of fur. But the congregation and

>   healthful amusement of one or two hundred persons, on whose behalf

  a single fox may or may not be killed, is not a useful purpose. I

  think that Mr. Freeman has failed to perceive that amusement is as

  needful and almost as necessary as food and raiment. The absurdity

  of the further charge as to the general brutality of the pursuit,

  and its consequent unfitness for an educated man, is to be attributed

  to Mr. Freeman's ignorance of what is really done and said in the

  hunting-field,--perhaps to his misunderstanding of Cicero's words.

  There was a rejoinder to my answer, and I asked for space for

  further remarks. I could have it, the editor said, if I much wished

  it; but he preferred that the subject should be closed. Of course

  I was silent. His sympathies were all with Mr. Freeman,--and

  against the foxes, who, but for fox-hunting, would cease to exist

  in England. And I felt that The Fortnighty was hardly the place for

  the defence of the sport. Afterwards Mr. Freeman kindly suggested

  to me that he would be glad to publish my article in a little book

  to be put out by him condemnatory of fox-hunting generally. He was

  to have the last word and the first word, and that power of picking

  to pieces which he is known to use in so masterly a manner, without

  any reply from me! This I was obliged to decline. If he would give

  me the last word, as be would have the first, then, I told him, I

  should be proud to join him in the book. This offer did not however

  meet his views.

  It had been decided by the Board of Management, somewhat in opposition

  to my own ideas on the subject, that the Fortnightly Review should

  always contain a novel. It was of course natural that I should write

  the first novel, and I wrote The Belton Estate. It is similar in

  its attributes to Rachel Ray and to Miss Mackenzie. It is readable,

  and contains scenes which are true to life; but it has no peculiar

  merits, and will add nothing to my reputation as a novelist. I have

  not looked at it since it was published; and now turning back to

  it in my memory, I seem to remember almost less of it than of any

  book that I have written.

  CHAPTER XI "THE CLAVERINGS," THE "PALL MALL GAZETTE," "NINA BALATKA," AND "LINDA TRESSEL"

  The Claverings, which came out in 1866 and 1867, was the last novel