Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

wrath of a great dean of that period. The most ill-natured review

that was ever written upon any work of mine appeared in the

Contemporary Review with reference to these Clerical Sketches. The

critic told me that I did not understand Greek. That charge has

been made not unfrequently by those who have felt themselves strong

in that pride-producing language. It is much to read Greek with

ease, but it is not disgraceful to be unable to do so. To pretend

to read it without being able,--that is disgraceful. The critic,

however, had been driven to wrath by my saying that Deans of the

Church of England loved to revisit the glimpses of the metropolitan

moon.

I also did some critical work for the Pall Mall,--as I did also for

The Fortnightly. It was not to my taste, but was done in conformity

with strict conscientious scruples. I read what I took in hand, and

said what I believed to be true,--always giving to the matter time

altogether incommensurate with the pecuniary result to myself. In

doing this for the Pall Mall, I fell into great sorrow. A gentleman,

whose wife was dear to me as if she were my own sister; was in

some trouble as to his conduct in the public service. He had been

blamed, as he thought unjustly, and vindicated himself in a pamphlet.

This he handed to me one day, asking me to read it, and express my

opinion about it if I found that I had an opinion. I thought the

request injudicious, and I did not read the pamphlet. He met me

again, and, handing me a second pamphlet, pressed me very hard. I

promised him that I would read it, and that if I found myself able

I would express myself;--but that I must say not what I wished

to think, but what I did think. To this of course he assented. I

then went very much out of my way to study the subject,--which was

one requiring study. I found, or thought that I found, that the

conduct of the gentleman in his office had been indiscreet; but that

charges made against himself affecting his honour were baseless.

This I said, emphasising much more strongly than was necessary the

opinion which I had formed of his indiscretion,--as will so often

be the case when a man has a pen in his hand. It is like a club

or sledge-hammer,--in using which, either for defence or attack,

a man can hardly measure the strength of the blows he gives. Of

course there was offence,--and a breaking off of intercourse between

loving friends,--and a sense of wrong received, and I must own,

too, of wrong done. It certainly was not open to me to whitewash

with honesty him whom I did not find to be white; but there was no

duty incumbent on me to declare what was his colour in my eyes,--no

duty even to ascertain. But I had been ruffled by the persistency

of the gentleman's request,--which should not have been made,--and

I punished him for his wrong-doing by doing a wrong myself. I must

add, that before he died his wife succeeded in bringing us together.

In the early days of the paper, the proprietor, who at that time

acted also as chief editor, asked me to undertake a duty,--of which

the agony would indeed at no one moment have been so sharp as that

endured in the casual ward, but might have been prolonged until

human nature sank under it. He suggested to me that I should during

an entire season attend the May meetings in Exeter Hall, and give

a graphic and, if possible, amusing description of the proceedings.

I did attend one,--which lasted three hours,--and wrote a paper which

I think was called A Zulu in Search of a Religion. But when the

meeting was over I went to that spirited proprietor, and begged him

to impose upon me some task more equal to my strength. Not even on

behalf of the Pall Mall Gazette, which was very dear to me, could

I go through a second May meeting,--much less endure a season of

such martyrdom.

I have to acknowledge that I found myself unfit for work on

a newspaper. I had not taken to it early enough in life to learn

its ways and bear its trammels. I was fidgety when any work was

altered in accordance with the judgment of the editor, who, of

course, was responsible for what appeared. I wanted to select my

own subjects,--not to have them selected for me; to write when I

pleased,--and not when it suited others. As a permanent member of

the staff I was of no use, and after two or three years I dropped

out of the work.

From the commencement of my success as a writer, which I date

from the beginning of the Cornhill Magazine, I had always felt an

injustice in literary affairs which had never afflicted me or even

suggested itself to me while I was unsuccessful. It seemed to me

that a name once earned carried with it too much favour. I indeed

had never reached a height to which praise was awarded as a matter

of course; but there were others who sat on higher seats to whom

the critics brought unmeasured incense and adulation, even when

they wrote, as they sometimes did write, trash which from a beginner

would not have been thought worthy of the slightest notice. I hope

no one will think that in saying this I am actuated by jealousy

of others. Though I never reached that height, still I had so

far progressed that that which I wrote was received with too much

favour. The injustice which struck me did not consist in that which

was withheld from me, but in that which was given to me. I felt

that aspirants coming up below me might do work as good as mine,

and probably much better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated.

In order to test this, I determined to be such an aspirant myself,

and to begin a course of novels anonymously, in order that I might

see whether I could obtain a second identity,--whether as I had made

one mark by such literary ability as I possessed, I might succeed

in doing so again. In 1865 I began a short tale called Nina Balatka,

which in 1866 was published anonymously in Blackwood's Magazine.

In 1867 this was followed by another of the same length, called

Linda Tressel. I will speak of them together, as they are of the

same nature and of nearly equal merit. Mr. Blackwood, who himself

read the MS. of Nina Balatka, expressed an opinion that it would

not from its style be discovered to have been written by me;--but

it was discovered by Mr. Hutton of the Spectator, who found the

repeated use of some special phrase which had rested upon his ear

too frequently when reading for the purpose of criticism other

works of mine. He declared in his paper that Nina Balatka was by

me, showing I think more sagacity than good nature. I ought not,

however, to complain of him, as of all the critics of my work he

has been the most observant, and generally the most eulogistic.

Nina Balatka never rose sufficiently high in reputation to make

its detection a matter of any importance. Once or twice I heard the

story mentioned by readers who did not know me to be the author,

and always with praise; but it had no real success. The same may

be said of Linda Tressel. Blackwood, who of course knew the author,

was willing to publish them, trusting that works by an experienced

writer would make their way, even without the writer's name, and he

was willing to pay me for them, perhaps half what they would have

fetched with my name. But he did not find the speculation answer,

and declined a third attempt, though a third such tale was written

for him.

Nevertheless I am sure that the two stories are good. Perhaps the

first is somewhat the better, as being the less lachrymose. They

were both written very quickly, but with a considerable amount of

labour; and both were written immediately after visits to the towns

in which the scenes are laid,--Prague, mainly, and Nuremberg. Of

course I had endeavoured to change not only my manner of language,

but my manner of story-telling also; and in this, pace Mr. Hutton,

I think that I was successful. English life in them there was none.

There was more of romance proper than had been usual with me. And

I made an attempt at local colouring, at descriptions of scenes

and places, which has not been usual with me. In all this I am

confident that I was in a measure successful. In the loves, and

fears, and hatreds, both of Nina and of Linda, there is much that

is pathetic. Prague is Prague, and Nuremberg is Nuremberg. I know

that the stories are good, but they missed the object with which

they had been written. Of course there is not in this any evidence

that I might not have succeeded a second time as I succeeded before,

had I gone on with the same dogged perseverance. Mr. Blackwood,

had I still further reduced my price, would probably have continued

the experiment. Another ten years of unpaid unflagging labour might

have built up a second reputation. But this at any rate did seem

clear to me, that with all the increased advantages which practice

in my art must have given me, I could not induce English readers

to read what I gave to them, unless I gave it with my name.

I do not wish to have it supposed from this that I quarrel with public

judgment in affairs of literature. It is a matter of course that

in all things the public should trust to established reputation. It

is as natural that a novel reader wanting novels should send to a

library for those by George Eliot or Wilkie Collins, as that a lady

when she wants a pie for a picnic should go to Fortnum & Mason.

Fortnum & Mason can only make themselves Fortnum & Mason by dint of

time and good pies combined. If Titian were to send us a portrait

from the other world, as certain dead poets send their poetry by

means of a medium, it would be some time before the art critic of

the Times would discover its value. We may sneer at the want of

judgment thus displayed, but such slowness of judgment is human and

has always existed. I say all this here because my thoughts on the

matter have forced upon me the conviction that very much consideration

is due to the bitter feelings of disappointed authors.

We who have succeeded are so apt to tell new aspirants not to

aspire, because the thing to be done may probably be beyond their

reach. "My dear young lady, had you not better stay at home and darn

your stockings?" "As, sir, you have asked for my candid opinion,

I can only counsel you to try some other work of life which may be

better suited to your abilities." What old-established successful