Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

by Anthony Trollope

  I had fixed on that place in reference to the Post Office? It was

  therefore determined that we would flit, and as we were to be away

  for eighteen months, we determined also to sell our furniture. So

  there was a packing up, with many tears, and consultations as to

  what should be saved out of the things we loved.

  As must take place on such an occasion, there was some heart-felt

  grief. But the thing was done, and orders were given for the letting

  or sale of the house. I may as well say here that it never was let

  and that it remained unoccupied for two years before it was sold.

  I lost by the transaction about (pounds)800. As I continually hear that

  other men make money by buying and selling houses, I presume I am

  not well adapted for transactions of that sort. I have never made

  money by selling anything except a manuscript. In matters of

  horseflesh I am so inefficient that I have generally given away

  horses that I have not wanted.

  When we started from Liverpool, in May, 1871, Ralph the Heir was

  running through the St. Paul's. This was the novel of which Charles

  Reade afterwards took the plot and made on it a play. I have always

  thought it to be one of the worst novels I have written, and almost

  to have justified that dictum that a novelist after fifty should

  not write love-stories. It was in part a political novel; and

  that part which appertains to politics, and which recounts the

  electioneering experiences of the candidates at Percycross, is well

  enough. Percycross and Beverley were, of course, one and the same

  place. Neefit, the breeches-maker, and his daughter, are also good

  in their way,--and Moggs, the daughter's lover, who was not only

  lover, but also one of the candidates at Percycross as well. But

  the main thread of the story,--that which tells of the doings of the

  young gentlemen and young ladies,--the heroes and the heroines,--is

  not good. Ralph the heir has not much life about him; while Ralph

  who is not the heir, but is intended to be the real hero, has

  none. The same may be said of the young ladies,--of whom one, she

  who was meant to be the chief, has passed utterly out of my mind,

  without leaving a trace of remembrance behind.

  I also left in the hands of the editor of The Fortnightly, ready for

  production on the 1st of July following, a story called The Eustace

  Diamonds. In that I think that my friend's dictum was disproved.

  There is not much love in it; but what there is, is good. The

  character of Lucy Morris is pretty; and her love is as genuine and

  as well told as that of Lucy Robarts of Lily Dale.

  But The Eustace Diamonds achieved the success which it certainly

  did attain, not as a love-story, but as a record of a cunning little

  woman of pseudo-fashion, to whom, in her cunning, there came a

  series of adventures, unpleasant enough in themselves, but pleasant

  to the reader. As I wrote the book, the idea constantly presented

  itself to me that Lizzie Eustace was but a second Becky Sharpe; but

  in planning the character I had not thought of this, and I believe

  that Lizzie would have been just as she is though Becky Sharpe had

  never been described. The plot of the diamond necklace is, I think,

  well arranged, though it produced itself without any forethought.

  I had no idea of setting thieves after the bauble till I had got

  my heroine to bed in the inn at Carlisle; nor of the disappointment

  of the thieves, till Lizzie had been wakened in the morning with

  the news that her door had been broken open. All these things, and

  many more, Wilkie Collins would have arranged before with infinite

  labour, preparing things present so that they should fit in with

  things to come. I have gone on the very much easier plan of making

  everything as it comes fit in with what has gone before. At any

  rate, the book was a success, and did much to repair the injury

  which I felt had come to my reputation in the novel-market by the

  works of the last few years. I doubt whether I had written anything

  so successful as The Eustace Diamonds. since The Small House at

  Allington. I had written what was much better,--as, for instance,

  Phineas Finn and Nina Balatka; but that is by no means the same

  thing.

  I also left behind, in a strong box, the manuscript of Phineas Redux,

  a novel of which I have already spoken, and which I subsequently

  sold to the proprietors of the Graphic newspaper. The editor of

  that paper greatly disliked the title, assuring me that the public

  would take Redux for the gentleman's surname,--and was dissatisfied

  with me when I replied that I had no objection to them doing

  so. The introduction of a Latin word, or of a word from any other

  language, into the title of an English novel is undoubtedly in

  bad taste; but after turning the matter much over in my own mind,

  I could find no other suitable name.

  I also left behind me, in the same strong box, another novel, called

  An Eye for an Eye, which then had been some time written, and of

  which, as it has not even yet been published, I will not further

  speak. It will probably be published some day, though, looking

  forward, I can see no room for it, at any rate, for the next two

  years.

  If therefore the Great Britain, in which we sailed for Melbourne,

  had gone to the bottom, I had so provided that there would be new

  novels ready to come out under my name for some years to come. This

  consideration, however, did not keep me idle while I was at sea.

  When making long journeys, I have always succeeded in getting

  a desk put up in my cabin, and this was done ready for me in the

  Great Britain, so that I could go to work the day after we left

  Liverpool. This I did; and before I reached Melbourne I had finished

  a story called Lady Anna. Every word of this was written at sea,

  during the two months required for our voyage, and was done day by

  day--with the intermission of one day's illness--for eight weeks,

  at the rate of 66 pages of manuscript in each week, every page of

  manuscript containing 250 words. Every word was counted. I have

  seen work come back to an author from the press with terrible

  deficiencies as to the amount supplied. Thirty-two pages have

  perhaps been wanted for a number, and the printers with all their

  art could not stretch the matter to more than twenty-eight or -nine!

  The work of filling up must be very dreadful. I have sometimes been

  ridiculed for the methodical details of my business. But by these

  contrivances I have been preserved from many troubles; and I have

  saved others with whom I have worked--editors, publishers, and

  printers--from much trouble also.

  A month or two after my return home, Lady Anna appeared in The

  Fortnightly, following The Eustace Diamonds. In it a young girl,

  who is really a lady of high rank and great wealth, though in her

  youth she enjoyed none of the privileges of wealth or rank, marries

  a tailor who had been good to her, and whom she had loved when she

  was poor and neglected. A fine young noble lover is provided for

&
nbsp; her, and all the charms of sweet living with nice people are thrown

  in her way, in order that she may be made to give up the tailor.

  And the charms are very powerful with her. But the feeling that

  she is bound by her troth to the man who had always been true to

  her overcomes everything,--and she marries the tailor. It was my

  wish of course to justify her in doing so, and to carry my readers

  along with me in my sympathy with her. But everybody found fault

  with me for marrying her to the tailor. What would they have said

  if I had allowed her to jilt the tailor and marry the good-looking

  young lord? How much louder, then, would have been the censure!

  The book was read, and I was satisfied. If I had not told my story

  well, there would have been no feeling in favour of the young lord.

  The horror which was expressed to me at the evil thing I had done,

  in giving the girl to the tailor, was the strongest testimony I

  could receive of the merits of the story.

  I went to Australia chiefly in order that I might see my son among

  his sheep. I did see him among his sheep, and remained with him for

  four or five very happy weeks. He was not making money, nor has he

  made money since. I grieve to say that several thousands of pounds

  which I had squeezed out of the pockets of perhaps too liberal

  publishers have been lost on the venture. But I rejoice to say

  that this has been in no way due to any fault of his. I never knew

  a man work with more persistent honesty at his trade than he has

  done.

  I had, however, the further intentions of writing a book about the

  entire group of Australasian Colonies; and in order that I might

  be enabled to do that with sufficient information, I visited them

  all. Making my headquarters at Melbourne, I went to Queensland, New

  South Wales, Tasmania, then to the very little known territory of

  Western Australia, and then, last of all, to New Zealand. I was

  absent in all eighteen months, and think that I did succeed in

  learning much of the political, social, and material condition of

  these countries. I wrote my book as I was travelling and brought

  it back with me to England all but completed in December, 1872.

  It was a better book than that which I had written eleven years

  before on the American States, but not so good as that on the West

  Indies in 1859. As regards the information given, there was much

  more to be said about Australia than the West Indies. Very much

  more is said,--and very much more may be learned from the latter

  than from the former book. I am sure that any one who will take

  the trouble to read the book on Australia, will learn much from

  it. But the West Indian volume was readable. I am not sure that

  either of the other works are, in the proper sense of that word.

  When I go back to them I find that the pages drag with me;--and if

  so with me, how must it be with others who have none of that love

  which a father feels even for his ill-favoured offspring. Of all

  the needs a book has the chief need is that it be readable.

  Feeling that these volumes on Australia were dull and long, I was

  surprised to find that they had an extensive sale. There were, I

  think, 2000 copies circulated of the first expensive edition; and

  then the book was divided into four little volumes, which were

  published separately, and which again had a considerable circulation.

  That some facts were stated inaccurately, I do not doubt; that many

  opinions were crude, I am quite sure; that I had failed to understand

  much which I attempted to explain, is possible. But with all these

  faults the book was a thoroughly honest book, and was the result of

  unflagging labour for a period of fifteen months. I spared myself

  no trouble in inquiry, no trouble in seeing, and no trouble in

  listening. I thoroughly imbued my mind with the subject, and wrote

  with the simple intention of giving trustworthy information on

  the state of the Colonies. Though there be inaccuracies,--those

  inaccuracies to which work quickly done must always be subject,--I

  think I did give much valuable information.

  I came home across America from San Francisco to New York, visiting

  Utah and Brigham Young on the way. I did not achieve great intimacy

  with the great polygamist of the Salt Lake City. I called upon

  him, sending to him my card, apologising for doing so without an

  introduction, and excusing myself by saying that I did not like

  to pass through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had

  heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not asking me to

  enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told him

  that I was not a miner, he asked me whether I earned my bread. I

  told him I did. "I guess you're a miner," said he. I again assured

  him that I was not. "Then how do you earn your bread?" I told him

  I did so by writing books. "I'm sure you're a miner," said he. Then

  he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the

  door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive

  that he would have heard my name.

  I got home in December, 1872, and in spite of any resolution made

  to the contrary, my mind was full of hunting as I came back. No

  real resolutions had in truth been made, for out of a stud of four

  horses I kept three, two of which were absolutely idle through the

  two summers and winter of my absence. Immediately on my arrival

  I bought another, and settled myself down to hunting from London

  three days a week. At first I went back to Essex, my old country,

  but finding that to be inconvenient, I took my horses to Leighton

  Buzzard, and became one of that numerous herd of sportsmen who rode

  with the "Baron" and Mr. Selby Lowndes. In those days Baron Meyer

  was alive, and the riding with his hounds was very good. I did not

  care so much for Mr. Lowndes. During the winters of 1873, 1874, and

  1875, I had my horses back in Essex, and went on with my hunting,

  always trying to resolve that I would give it up. But still I

  bought fresh horses, and, as I did not give it up, I hunted more

  than ever. Three times a week the cab has been at my door in London

  very punctually, and not unfrequently before seven in the morning.

  In order to secure this attendance, the man has always been invited

  to have his breakfast in the hall. I have gone to the Great Eastern

  Railway,--ah! so often with the fear that frost would make all my

  exertions useless, and so often too with that result! And then,

  from one station or another station, have travelled on wheels at

  least a dozen miles. After the day's sport, the same toil has been

  necessary to bring me home to dinner at eight. This has been work

  for a young man and a rich man, but I have done it as an old man

  and comparatively a poor man. Now at last, in April, 1876, I do

  think that my resolution has been taken. I am giving away my old

  horses, and anybody is welcome to my saddles and horse-furniture.

  "Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntes;

  Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ladum;

  Tendunt extorquere poemata."


  "Our years keep taking toll as they move on;

  My feasts, my frolics, are already gone,

  And now, it seems, my verses must go too."

  This Is Conington's translation, but it seems to me to be a little

  flat.

  "Years as they roll cut all our pleasures short;

  Our pleasant mirth, our loves, our wine, our sport,

  And then they stretch their power, and crush at last

  Even the power of singing of the past."

  I think that I may say with truth that I rode hard to my end.

  "Vixi puellis nuper idoneus,

  Et militavi non sine gloria;

  Nunc arma defunctumque bello

  Barbiton hic paries habebit."

  "I've lived about the covert side,

  I've ridden straight, and ridden fast;

  Now breeches, boots, and scarlet pride

  Are but mementoes of the past."

  CHAPTER XX "THE WAY WE LIVE NOW" AND "THE PRIME MINISTER"--CONCLUSION

  In what I have said at the end of the last chapter about my hunting,

  I have been carried a little in advance of the date at which I

  had arrived. We returned from Australia in the winter of 1872, and

  early in 1873 I took a house in Montagu Square,--in which I hope

  to live and hope to die. Our first work in settling there was to

  place upon new shelves the books which I had collected round myself

  at Waltham. And this work, which was in itself great, entailed

  also the labour of a new catalogue. As all who use libraries know,

  a catalogue is nothing unless it show the spot on which every

  book is to be found,--information which every volume also ought to

  give as to itself. Only those who have done it know how great is

  the labour of moving and arranging a few thousand volumes. At the

  present moment I own about 5000 volumes, and they are dearer to

  me even than the horses which are going, or than the wine in the

  cellar, which is very apt to go, and upon which I also pride myself.

  When this was done, and the new furniture had got into its place,

  and my little book-room was settled sufficiently for work, I

  began a novel, to the writing of which I was instigated by what I

  conceived to be the commercial profligacy of the age. Whether the

  world does or does not become more wicked as years go on, is a

  question which probably has disturbed the minds of thinkers since

  the world began to think. That men have become less cruel, less