Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope
could hardly have been refused to me,--and prepared to change our
residence towards the end of 1859. At the time I was writing Castle
Richmond, the novel which I had sold to Messrs. Chapman & Hall
for (pounds)600. But there arose at this time a certain literary project
which probably had a great effect upon my career. Whilst travelling
on postal service abroad or riding over the rural districts
in England, or arranging the mails in Ireland,--and such for the
last eighteen years had now been my life,--I had no opportunity
of becoming acquainted with the literary life in London. It was
probably some feeling of this which had made me anxious to move
my penates back to England. But even in Ireland, where I was still
living in October, 1859, I had heard of the Cornhill Magazine, which
was to come out on the 1st of January, 1860, under the editorship
of Thackeray.
I had at this time written from time to time certain short stories,
which had been published in different periodicals, and which in due
time were republished under the name of Tales of All Countries. On
the 23d of October, 1859, I wrote to Thackeray, whom I had, I think,
never then seen, offering to send him for the magazine certain of
these stories. In reply to this I received two letters,--one from
Messrs. Smith & Elder, the proprietors of the Cornhill, dated 26th
of October, and the other from the editor, written two days later.
That from Mr. Thackeray was as follows:--
"36 ONSLOW SQUARE, S. W.
October 28th.
"MY DEAR MR. TROLLOPE,--Smith & Elder have sent you their proposals;
and the business part done, let me come to the pleasure, and say
how very glad indeed I shall be to have you as a co-operator in
our new magazine. And looking over the annexed programme, you will
see whether you can't help us in many other ways besides tale-telling.
Whatever a man knows about life and its doings, that let us hear
about. You must have tossed a good deal about the world, and have
countless sketches in your memory and your portfolio. Please
to think if you can furbish up any of these besides a novel. When
events occur, and you have a good lively tale, bear us in mind. One
of our chief objects in this magazine is the getting out of novel
spinning, and back into the world. Don't understand me to disparage
our craft, especially YOUR wares. I often say I am like the
pastrycook, and don't care for tarts, but prefer bread and cheese;
but the public love the tarts (luckily for us), and we must bake and
sell them. There was quite an excitement in my family one evening
when Paterfamilias (who goes to sleep on a novel almost always
when he tries it after dinner) came up-stairs into the drawing-room
wide awake and calling for the second volume of The Three Clerks.
I hope the Cornhill Magazine will have as pleasant a story. And
the Chapmans, if they are the honest men I take them to be, I've no
doubt have told you with what sincere liking your works have been
read by yours very faithfully,
"W. M. THACKERAY."
This was very pleasant, and so was the letter from Smith & Elder
offering me (pounds)1000 for the copyright of a three-volume novel, to
come out in the new magazine,--on condition that the first portion
of it should be in their hands by December 12th. There was much in
all this that astonished me;--in the first place the price, which
was more than double what I had yet received, and nearly double
that which I was about to receive from Messrs. Chapman & Hall.
Then there was the suddenness of the call. It was already the end
of October, and a portion of the work was required to be in the
printer's hands within six weeks. Castle Richmond was indeed half
written, but that was sold to Chapman. And it had already been
a principle with me in my art, that no part of a novel should
be published till the entire story was completed. I knew, from
what I read from month to month, that this hurried publication of
incompleted work was frequently, I might perhaps say always, adopted
by the leading novelists of the day. That such has been the case,
is proved by the fact that Dickens, Thackeray, and Mrs. Gaskell
died with unfinished novels, of which portions had been already
published. I had not yet entered upon the system of publishing
novels in parts, and therefore had never been tempted. But I was
aware that an artist should keep in his hand the power of fitting
the beginning of his work to the end. No doubt it is his first
duty to fit the end to the beginning, and he will endeavour to do
so. But he should still keep in his hands the power of remedying
any defect in this respect.
"Servetur ad imum
Qualis ab incepto processerit,"
should be kept in view as to every character and every string of
action. Your Achilles should all through, from beginning to end,
be "impatient, fiery, ruthless, keen." Your Achilles, such as he
is, will probably keep up his character. But your Davus also should
be always Davus, and that is more difficult. The rustic driving his
pigs to market cannot always make them travel by the exact path
which he has intended for them. When some young lady at the end
of a story cannot be made quite perfect in her conduct, that vivid
description of angelic purity with which you laid the first lines
of her portrait should be slightly toned down. I had felt that the
rushing mode of publication to which the system of serial stories
had given rise, and by which small parts as they were written were
sent hot to the press, was injurious to the work done. If I now
complied with the proposition made to me, I must act against my
own principle. But such a principle becomes a tyrant if it cannot
be superseded on a just occasion. If the reason be "tanti," the
principle should for the occasion be put in abeyance. I sat as
judge, and decreed that the present reason was "tanti." On this my
first attempt at a serial story, I thought it fit to break my own
rule. I can say, however, that I have never broken it since.
But what astonished me most was the fact that at so late a day
this new Cornhill Magazine should be in want of a novel. Perhaps
some of my future readers will he able to remember the great
expectations which were raised as to this periodical. Thackeray's
was a good name with which to conjure. The proprietors, Messrs.
Smith & Elder, were most liberal in their manner of initiating the
work, and were able to make an expectant world of readers believe
that something was to be given them for a shilling very much in
excess of anything they had ever received for that or double the
money. Whether these hopes were or were not fulfilled it is not for
me to say, as, for the first few years of the magazine's existence,
I wrote for it more than any other one person. But such was certainly
the prospect;--and how had it come to pass that, with such promises
made, the editor and the proprietors were, at the end of October,
without anything fixed as to what must be regarded as the chief
dish in the banquet to be provided?
I fear that the answer to this question must be found in the habits
of procrastination which had at that time grown upon the editor.
He had, I imagine, undertaken the work himself, and had postponed
its commencement till there was left to him no time for commencing.
There was still, it may be said, as much time for him as for me.
I think there was,--for though he had his magazine to look after,
I had the Post Office. But he thought, when unable to trust his
own energy, that he might rely upon that of a new recruit. He was
but four years my senior in life but he was at the top of the tree,
while I was still at the bottom.
Having made up my mind to break my principle, I started at once from
Dublin to London. I arrived there on the morning of Thursday, 3d
of November, and left it on the evening of Friday. In the meantime
I had made my agreement with Messrs. Smith & Elder, and had arranged
my plot. But when in London, I first went to Edward Chapman, at 193
Piccadilly. If the novel I was then writing for him would suit
the Cornhill, might I consider my arrangement with him to be at an
end? Yes; I might. But if that story would not suit the Cornhill,
was I to consider my arrangement with him as still standing,--that
agreement requiring that my MS. should be in his hands in the
following March? As to that, I might do as I pleased. In our dealings
together Mr. Edward Chapman always acceded to every suggestion made
to him. He never refused a book, and never haggled at a price. Then
I hurried into the City, and had my first interview with Mr. George
Smith. When he heard that Castle Richmond was an Irish story, he
begged that I would endeavour to frame some other for his magazine.
He was sure that an Irish story would not do for a commencement;--and
he suggested the Church, as though it were my peculiar subject. I
told him that Castle Richmond would have to "come out" while any
other novel that I might write for him would be running through the
magazine;--but to that he expressed himself altogether indifferent.
He wanted an English tale, on English life, with a clerical flavour.
On these orders I went to work, and framed what I suppose I must
call the plot of Framley Parsonage.
On my journey back to Ireland, in the railway carriage, I wrote the
first few pages of that story. I had got into my head an idea of
what I meant to write,--a morsel of the biography of an English
clergyman who should not be a bad man, but one led into temptation
by his own youth and by the unclerical accidents of the life of
those around him. The love of his sister for the young lord was
an adjunct necessary, because there must be love in a novel. And
then by placing Framley Parsonage near Barchester, I was able to
fall back upon my old friends Mrs. Proudie and the archdeacon. Out
of these slight elements I fabricated a hodge-podge in which the
real plot consisted at last simply of a girl refusing to marry the
man she loved till the man's friends agreed to accept her lovingly.
Nothing could be less efficient or artistic. But the characters
were so well handled, that the work from the first to the last
was popular,--and was received as it went on with still increasing
favour by both editor and proprietor of the magazine. The story was
