Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope
was nothing in it to touch the heart like the abasement of Lady
Mason when confessing her guilt to her old lover, or any approach
in delicacy of delineation to the character of Mr. Crawley.
Phineas Finn, the first part of the story, was completed in
May, 1867. In June and July I wrote Linda Tressel for Blackwood's
Magazine, of which I have already spoken. In September and October
I wrote a short novel, called The Golden Lion of Granpere, which
was intended also for Blackwood,--with a view of being published
anonymously; but Mr. Blackwood did not find the arrangement to be
profitable, and the story remained on my hands, unread and unthought
of, for a few years. It appeared subsequently in Good Words. It
was written on the model of Nina Balatka and Linda Tressel, but
is very inferior to either of them. In November of the same year,
1867, I began a very long novel, which I called He Knew He Was
Right, and which was brought out by Mr. Virtue, the proprietor of
the St. Paul's Magazine, in sixpenny numbers, every week. I do not
know that in any literary effort I ever fell more completely short
of my own intention than in this story. It was my purpose to create
sympathy for the unfortunate man who, while endeavouring to do
his duty to all around him, should be led constantly astray by his
unwillingness to submit his own judgment to the opinion of others.
The man is made to be unfortunate enough, and the evil which he
does is apparent. So far I did not fail, but the sympathy has not
been created yet. I look upon the story as being nearly altogether
bad. It is in part redeemed by certain scenes in the house and
vicinity of an old maid in Exeter. But a novel which in its main
parts is bad cannot, in truth, be redeemed by the vitality of
subordinate characters.
This work was finished while I was at Washington in the spring of
1868, and on the day after I finished it, I commenced The Vicar of
Bullhampton, a novel which I wrote for Messrs. Bradbury & Evans.
This I completed in November, 1868, and at once began Sir Harry
Hotspur of Humblethwaite, a story which I was still writing at the
close of the year. I look upon these two years, 1867 and 1868, of
which I have given a somewhat confused account in this and the two
preceding chapters, as the busiest in my life. I had indeed left
the Post Office, but though I had left it I had been employed by
it during a considerable portion of the time. I had established the
St. Paul's Magazine, in reference to which I had read an enormous
amount of manuscript, and for which, independently of my novels, I
had written articles almost monthly. I had stood for Beverley and
had made many speeches. I had also written five novels, and had
hunted three times a week during each of the winters. And how happy
I was with it all! I had suffered at Beverley, but I had suffered
as a part of the work which I was desirous of doing, and I had gained
my experience. I had suffered at Washington with that wretched
American Postmaster, and with the mosquitoes, not having been able
to escape from that capital till July; but all that had added to
the activity of my life. I had often groaned over those manuscripts;
but I had read them, considering it--perhaps foolishly--to be a
part of my duty as editor. And though in the quick production of my
novels I had always ringing in my ears that terrible condemnation
and scorn produced by the great man in Paternoster Row, I
was nevertheless proud of having done so much. I always had a pen
in my hand. Whether crossing the seas, or fighting with American
officials, or tramping about the streets of Beverley, I could do a
little, and generally more than a little. I had long since convinced
myself that in such work as mine the great secret consisted
in acknowledging myself to be bound to rules of labour similar to
those which an artisan or a mechanic is forced to obey. A shoemaker
when he has finished one pair of shoes does not sit down and
contemplate his work in idle satisfaction. "There is my pair of
shoes finished at last! What a pair of shoes it is!" The shoemaker
who so indulged himself would be without wages half his time. It
is the same with a professional writer of books. An author may of
course want time to study a new subject. He will at any rate assure
himself that there is some such good reason why he should pause.
He does pause, and will be idle for a month or two while he tells
himself how beautiful is that last pair of shoes which he has
finished! Having thought much of all this, and having made up my
mind that I could be really happy only when I was at work, I had
now quite accustomed myself to begin a second pair as soon as the
first was out of my hands.
CHAPTER XVIII "THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON"--"SIR HARRY HOTSPUR"--"AN EDITOR'S TALES"--"CAESAR"
In 1869 I was called on to decide, in council with my two boys and
their mother, what should be their destination in life. In June of
that year the elder, who was then twenty-three, was called to the
Bar; and as he had gone through the regular courses of lecturing
tuition and study, it might be supposed that his course was already
decided. But, just as he was called, there seemed to be an opening
for him in another direction; and this, joined to the terrible
uncertainty of the Bar, the terror of which was not in his case
lessened by any peculiar forensic aptitudes, induced us to sacrifice
dignity in quest of success. Mr. Frederic Chapman, who was then
the sole representative of the publishing house known as Messrs.
Chapman & Hall, wanted a partner, and my son Henry went into the
firm. He remained there three years and a half; but he did not like
it, nor do I think he made a very good publisher. At any rate he
left the business with perhaps more pecuniary success than might
have been expected from the short period of his labours, and has
since taken himself to literature as a profession. Whether he will
work at it so hard as his father, and write as many books, may be
doubted.
My second son, Frederic, had very early in life gone to Australia,
having resolved on a colonial career when he found that boys who did
not grow so fast as he did got above him at school. This departure
was a great pang to his mother and me; but it was permitted on the
understanding that he was to come back when he was twenty-one, and
then decide whether he would remain in England or return to the
Colonies. In the winter of 1868 he did come to England, and had a
season's hunting in the old country; but there was no doubt in his
own mind as to his settling in Australia. His purpose was fixed,
and in the spring of 1869 he made his second journey out. As I
have since that date made two journeys to see him,--of one of which
at any rate I shall have to speak, as I wrote a long book on the
Australasian Colonies,--I will have an opportunity of saying a word
or two further on of him and his doings.
The Vicar of Bullhampton was written in 1868 for publication in Once
a Week, a periodical then belonging to Messrs. Bradbury & Evans.
It was not to come out till 1869, and I, as was my wont had made
my terms long previously to the proposed date. I had made my terms
and written my story and sent it to the publisher long before it
was wanted; and so far my mind was at rest. The date fixed was the
first of July, which date had been named in accordance with the
exigencies of the editor of the periodical. An author who writes
for these publications is bound to suit himself to these exigencies,
and can generally do so without personal loss or inconvenience, if
he will only take time by the forelock. With all the pages that I
have written for magazines I have never been a day late, nor have
I ever caused inconvenience by sending less or more matter than I
had stipulated to supply. But I have sometimes found myself compelled
to suffer by the irregularity of others. I have endeavoured to
console myself by reflecting that such must ever be the fate of
virtue. The industrious must feed the idle. The honest and simple
will always be the prey of the cunning and fraudulent. The punctual,
who keep none waiting for them, are doomed to wait perpetually for
the unpunctual. But these earthly sufferers know that they are making
their way heavenwards,--and their oppressors their way elsewards.
If the former reflection does not suffice for consolation, the
deficiency is made up by the second. I was terribly aggrieved on
the matter of the publication of my new Vicar, and had to think
very much of the ultimate rewards of punctuality and its opposite.
About the end of March, 1869, I got a dolorous letter from the
editor. All the Once a Week people were in a terrible trouble. They
had bought the right of translating one of Victor Hugo's modern
novels, L'Homme Qui Rit; they bad fixed a date, relying on positive
pledges from the French publishers; and now the great French author
had postponed his work from week to week and from month to month,
and it had so come to pass that the Frenchman's grinning hero would
have to appear exactly at the same time as my clergyman. Was it
not quite apparent to me, the editor asked, that Once a Week could
not hold the two? Would I allow my clergyman to make his appearance
in the Gentleman's Magazine instead?
My disgust at this proposition was, I think, chiefly due to Victor
Hugo's latter novels, which I regard as pretentious and untrue to
nature. To this perhaps was added some feeling of indignation that
I should be asked to give way to a Frenchman. The Frenchman had
broken his engagement. He had failed to have his work finished by
the stipulated time. From week to week and from month to month he
had put off the fulfilment of his duty. And because of these laches
on his part,--on the part of this sententious French Radical,--I was
to be thrown over! Virtue sometimes finds it difficult to console
herself even with the double comfort. I would not come out in the
Gentleman's Magazine, and as the Grinning Man could not be got out
of the way, by novel was published in separate numbers.
The same thing has occurred to me more than once since. "You no
doubt are regular," a publisher has said to me, "but Mr. ---- is
irregular. He has thrown me out, and I cannot be ready for you till
