Autobiography of Anthony Trollope by Anthony Trollope

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22

I went on with the hunting surveyor at Banagher for three years,
during which, at Kingstown, the watering place near Dublin, I met
Rose Heseltine, the lady who has since become my wife. The engagement
took place when I had been just one year in Ireland; but there was
still a delay of two years before we could be married. She had no
fortune, nor had I any income beyond that which came from the Post
Office; and there were still a few debts, which would have been
paid off no doubt sooner, but for that purchase of the horse. When
I had been nearly three years in Ireland we were married on the
11th of June, 1844;--and, perhaps, I ought to name that happy day
as the commencement of my better life, rather than the day on which
I first landed in Ireland.

For though during these three years I had been jolly enough, I
had not been altogether happy. The hunting, the whisky punch, the
rattling Irish life,--of which I could write a volume of stories
were this the place to tell them,--were continually driving from
my mind the still cherished determination to become a writer of
novels. When I reached Ireland I had never put pen to paper; nor
had I done so when I became engaged. And when I was married, being
then twenty-nine, I had only written the first volume of my first
work. This constant putting off of the day of work was a great
sorrow to me. I certainly had not been idle in my new berth. I had
learned my work, so that every one concerned knew that it was safe
in my hands; and I held a position altogether the reverse of that
in which I was always trembling while I remained in London. But
that did not suffice,--did not nearly suffice. I still felt that
there might be a career before me, if I could only bring myself to
begin the work. I do not think I much doubted my own intellectual
sufficiency for the writing of a readable novel. What I did doubt
was my own industry, and the chances of the market.

The vigour necessary to prosecute two professions at the same time
is not given to every one, and it was only lately that I had found
the vigour necessary for one. There must be early hours, and I
had not as yet learned to love early hours. I was still, indeed, a
young man; but hardly young enough to trust myself to find the power
to alter the habits of my life. And I had heard of the difficulties
of publishing,--a subject of which I shall have to say much should
I ever bring this memoir to a close. I had dealt already with
publishers on my mother's behalf, and knew that many a tyro who
could fill a manuscript lacked the power to put his matter before
the public;--and I knew, too, that when the matter was printed,
how little had then been done towards the winning of the battle!
I had already learned that many a book--many a good book--

"is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

But still the purpose was strong within me, and the first effort
was made after the following fashion. I was located at a little
town called Drumsna, or rather village, in the county Leitrim,
where the postmaster had come to some sorrow about his money; and
my friend John Merivale was staying with me for a day or two. As
we were taking a walk in that most uninteresting country, we turned
up through a deserted gateway, along a weedy, grass-grown avenue,
till we came to the modern ruins of a country house. It was one of
the most melancholy spots I ever visited. I will not describe it
here, because I have done so in the first chapter of my first novel.
We wandered about the place, suggesting to each other causes for
the misery we saw there, and, while I was still among the ruined
walls and decayed beams, I fabricated the plot of The Macdermots
of Ballycloran. As to the plot itself, I do not know that I ever
made one so good,--or, at any rate, one so susceptible of pathos.
I am aware that I broke down in the telling, not having yet studied
the art. Nevertheless, The Macdermots is a good novel, and worth
reading by any one who wishes to understand what Irish life was
before the potato disease, the famine, and the Encumbered Estates
Bill.

When my friend left me, I set to work and wrote the first chapter
or two. Up to this time I had continued that practice of castle-building
of which I have spoken; but now the castle I built was among the
ruins of that old house. The book, however, hung with me. It was
only now and then that I found either time or energy for a few
pages. I commenced the book in September, 1843, and had only written
a volume when I was married in June, 1844.

My marriage was like the marriage of other people, and of no
special interest to any one except my wife and me. It took place
at Rotherham, in Yorkshire, where her father was the manager of a
bank. We were not very rich, having about œ400 a year on which to
live.

Many people would say that we were two fools to encounter such
poverty together. I can only reply that since that day I have never
been without money in my pocket, and that I soon acquired the means
of paying what I owed. Nevertheless, more than twelve years had to
pass over our heads before I received any payment for any literary
work which afforded an appreciable increase to our income.

Immediately after our marriage, I left the west of Ireland and the
hunting surveyor, and joined another in the south. It was a better
district, and I was enabled to live at Clonmel, a town of some
importance, instead of at Banagher, which is little more than a
village. I had not felt myself to be comfortable in my old residence
as a married man. On my arrival there as a bachelor I had been
received most kindly, but when I brought my English wife I fancied
that there was a feeling that I had behaved badly to Ireland
generally. When a young man has been received hospitably in an
Irish circle, I will not say that it is expected of him that he
should marry some young lady in that society;--but it certainly is
expected of him that he shall not marry any young lady out of it.
I had given offence, and I was made to feel it.

There has taken place a great change in Ireland since the days in
which I lived at Banagher, and a change so much for the better,
that I have sometimes wondered at the obduracy with which people
have spoken of the permanent ill condition of the country. Wages
are now nearly double what they were then. The Post Office, at any
rate, is paying almost double for its rural labour,--9s. a week
when it used to pay 5s., and 12s. a week when it used to pay 7s.
Banks have sprung up in almost every village. Rents are paid with
more than English punctuality. And the religious enmity between
the classes, though it is not yet dead, is dying out. Soon after I
reached Banagher in 1841, I dined one evening with a Roman Catholic.
I was informed next day by a Protestant gentleman who had been
very hospitable to me that I must choose my party. I could not sit
both at Protestant and Catholic tables. Such a caution would now
be impossible in any part of Ireland. Home-rule, no doubt, is a
nuisance,--and especially a nuisance because the professors of the
doctrine do not at all believe it themselves. There are probably
no other twenty men in England or Ireland who would be so utterly
dumfounded and prostrated were Home-rule to have its way as the
twenty Irish members who profess to support it in the House of
Commons. But it is not to be expected that nuisances such as these
should be abolished at a blow. Home-rule is, at any rate, better
and more easily managed than the rebellion at the close of the
last century; it is better than the treachery of the Union; less
troublesome than O'Connell's monster meetings; less dangerous than
Smith O'Brien and the battle of the cabbage-garden at Ballingary,
and very much less bloody than Fenianism. The descent from O'Connell
to Mr. Butt has been the natural declension of a political disease,
which we had no right to hope would be cured by any one remedy.

When I had been married a year my first novel was finished. In
July, 1845, I took it with me to the north of England, and intrusted
the MS. to my mother to do with it the best she could among the
publishers in London. No one had read it but my wife; nor, as far
as I am aware, has any other friend of mine ever read a word of
my writing before it was printed. She, I think, has so read almost
everything, to my very great advantage in matters of taste. I am sure
I have never asked a friend to read a line; nor have I ever read a
word of my own writing aloud,--even to her. With one exception,--which
shall be mentioned as I come to it,--I have never consulted a friend
as to a plot, or spoken to any one of the work I have been doing.
My first manuscript I gave up to my mother, agreeing with her that
it would be as well that she should not look at it before she gave
it to a publisher. I knew that she did not give me credit for the
sort of cleverness necessary for such work. I could see in the
faces and hear in the voices of those of my friends who were around
me at the house in Cumberland,--my mother, my sister, my brother-in-law,
and, I think, my brother,--that they had not expected me to come
out as one of the family authors. There were three or four in the
field before me, and it seemed to be almost absurd that another
should wish to add himself to the number. My father had written
much,--those long ecclesiastical descriptions,--quite unsuccessfully.
My mother had become one of the popular authors of the day. My
brother had commenced, and had been fairly well paid for his work.
My sister, Mrs. Tilley, had also written a novel, which was at the
time in manuscript--which was published afterwards without her name,
and was called Chollerton. I could perceive that this attempt of
mine was felt to be an unfortunate aggravation of the disease.

My mother, however, did the best she could for me, and soon reported
that Mr. Newby, of Mortimer Street, was to publish the book. It
was to be printed at his expense, and he was to give me half the
profits. Half the profits! Many a young author expects much from such
an undertaking. I can, with truth, declare that I expected nothing.
And I got nothing. Nor did I expect fame, or even acknowledgment.
I was sure that the book would fail, and it did fail most absolutely.
I never heard of a person reading it in those days. If there was
any notice taken of it by any critic of the day, I did not see it.
I never asked any questions about it, or wrote a single letter on
the subject to the publisher. I have Mr. Newby's agreement with me,
in duplicate, and one or two preliminary notes; but beyond that I
did not have a word from Mr. Newby. I am sure that he did not wrong
me in that he paid me nothing. It is probable that he did not sell
fifty copies of the work;--but of what he did sell he gave me no
account.

I do not remember that I felt in any way disappointed or hurt. I
am quite sure that no word of complaint passed my lips. I think I
may say that after the publication I never said a word about the
book, even to my wife. The fact that I had written and published
it, and that I was writing another, did not in the least interfere
with my life, or with my determination to make the best I could of
the Post Office. In Ireland, I think that no one knew that I had
written a novel. But I went on writing. The Macdermots was published
in 1847, and The Kellys and the O'Kellys followed in 1848. I
changed my publisher, but did not change my fortune. This second
Irish story was sent into the world by Mr. Colburn, who had
long been my mother's publisher, who reigned in Great Marlborough
Street, and I believe created the business which is now carried on
by Messrs. Hurst & Blackett. He had previously been in partnership
with Mr. Bentley in New Burlington Street. I made the same agreement
as before as to half profits, and with precisely the same results.
The book was not only not read, but was never heard of,--at any
rate, in Ireland. And yet it is a good Irish story, much inferior
to The Macdermots as to plot, but superior in the mode of telling.
Again I held my tongue, and not only said nothing but felt nothing.
Any success would, I think, have carried me off my legs, but I was
altogether prepared for failure. Though I thoroughly enjoyed the
writing of these books, I did not imagine, when the time came for
publishing them, that any one would condescend to read them.

But in reference to The O'Kellys there arose a circumstance which
set my mind to work on a subject which has exercised it much ever
since. I made my first acquaintance with criticism. A dear friend
of mine to whom the book had been sent,--as have all my books,--wrote
me word to Ireland that he had been dining at some club with a man
high in authority among the gods of the Times newspaper, and that
this special god had almost promised that The O'Kellys should be
noticed in that most influential of "organs." The information moved
me very much; but it set me thinking whether the notice, should it
ever appear, would not have been more valuable, at any rate, more
honest, if it had been produced by other means;--if, for instance,
the writer of the notice had been instigated by the merits or demerits
of the book instead of by the friendship of a friend. And I made
up my mind then that, should I continue this trade of authorship,
I would have no dealings with any critic on my own behalf. I would
neither ask for nor deplore criticism, nor would I ever thank a
critic for praise, or quarrel with him, even in my own heart, for
censure. To this rule I have adhered with absolute strictness, and
this rule I would recommend to all young authors. What can be got
by touting among the critics is never worth the ignominy. The same
may, of course, be said of all things acquired by ignominious means.
But in this matter it is so easy to fall into the dirt. Facilis
descensus Averni. There seems to be but little fault in suggesting
to a friend that a few words in this or that journal would be of
service. But any praise so obtained must be an injustice to the
public, for whose instruction, and not for the sustentation of the
author, such notices are intended. And from such mild suggestion
the descent to crawling at the critic's feet, to the sending of
presents, and at last to a mutual understanding between critics
and criticised, is only too easy. Other evils follow, for the
denouncing of which this is hardly the place;--though I trust I
may find such place before my work is finished. I took no notice
of my friend's letter, but I was not the less careful in watching
The Times. At last the review came,--a real review in The Times. I
learned it by heart, and can now give, if not the words, the exact
purport. "Of The Kellys and the O'Kellys we may say what the master
said to his footman, when the man complained of the constant supply
of legs of mutton on the kitchen table. Well, John, legs of mutton
are good, substantial food;' and we may say also what John replied:
'Substantial, sir,--yes, they are substantial, but a little coarse.'"
That was the review, and even that did not sell the book!

From Mr. Colburn I did receive an account, showing that 375 copies
of the book had been printed, that 140 had been sold,--to those,
I presume, who liked substantial food though it was coarse,--and
that he had incurred a loss of œ63 19S. 1 1/2d. The truth of the
account I never for a moment doubted; nor did I doubt the wisdom
of the advice given to me in the following letter, though I never
thought of obeying it--

"GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET,
November 11, 1848.

"MY DEAR SIR,--I am sorry to say that absence from town and other
circumstances have prevented me from earlier inquiring into the
results of the sale of The Kellys and the O'Kellys, with which the
greatest efforts have been used, but in vain. The sale has been,
I regret to say, so small that the loss upon the publication is
very considerable; and it appears clear to me that, although in
consequence of the great number of novels that are published, the
sale of each, with some few exceptions, must be small, yet it is
evident that readers do not like novels on Irish subjects as well
as on others. Thus, you will perceive, it is impossible for me to
give any encouragement to you to proceed in novel-writing.

"As, however, I understand you have nearly finished the novel La Vendee,
perhaps you will favour me with a sight of it when convenient.--I
remain, etc., etc.,

"H. COLBURN."

This, though not strictly logical, was a rational letter, telling
a plain truth plainly. I did not like the assurance that "the
greatest efforts had been used," thinking that any efforts which
might be made for the popularity of a book ought to have come from
the author;--but I took in good part Mr. Colburn's assurance that
he could not encourage me in the career I had commenced. I would
have bet twenty to one against my own success. But by continuing
I could lose only pen and paper; and if the one chance in twenty
did turn up in my favour, then how much might I win!

CHAPTER V

MY FIRST SUCCESS

1849-1855

I had at once gone to work on a third novel, and had nearly
completed it, when I was informed of the absolute failure of the
former. I find, however, that the agreement for its publication was
not made till 1850, by which time I imagine that Mr. Colburn must
have forgotten the disastrous result of The O'Kellys, as he thereby
agrees to give me œ20 down for my "new historical novel, to be
called La Vendee." He agreed also to pay me œ30 more when he had
sold 350 copies, and œ50 more should he sell 450 within six months. I
got my œ20, and then heard no more of œa Vendee, not even receiving
any account. Perhaps the historical title had appeared more alluring
to him than an Irish subject; though it was not long afterwards that
I received a warning from the very same house of business against
historical novels,--as I will tell at length when the proper time
comes.

I have no doubt that the result of the sale of this story was
no better than that of the two that had gone before. I asked no
questions, however, and to this day have received no information.
The story is certainly inferior to those which had gone before;--chiefly
because I knew accurately the life of the people in Ireland, and
knew, in truth, nothing of life in the La Vendee country, and also
because the facts of the present time came more within the limits
of my powers of story-telling than those of past years. But I read
the book the other day, and am not ashamed of it. The conception
as to the feeling of the people is, I think, true; the characters
are distinct, and the tale is not dull. As far as I can remember,
this morsel of criticism is the only one that was ever written on
the book.

I had, however, received œ20. Alas! alas! years were to roll by
before I should earn by my pen another shilling. And, indeed, I
was well aware that I had not earned that; but that the money had
been "talked out of" the worthy publisher by the earnestness of
my brother, who made the bargain for me. I have known very much
of publishers and have been surprised by much in their mode of
business,--by the apparent lavishness and by the apparent hardness
to authors in the same men,--but by nothing so much as by the ease
with which they can occasionally be persuaded to throw away small
sums of money. If you will only make the payment future instead of
present, you may generally twist a few pounds in your own or your
client's favour. "You might as well promise her œ20. This day six
months will do very well." The publisher, though he knows that the
money will never come back to him, thinks it worth his while to
rid himself of your importunity at so cheap a price.

But while I was writing La Vendee I made a literary attempt in
another direction. In 1847 and 1848 there had come upon Ireland
the desolation and destruction, first of the famine, and then of
the pestilence which succeeded the famine. It was my duty at that
time to be travelling constantly in those parts of Ireland in which
the misery and troubles thence arising were, perhaps, at their
worst. The western parts of Cork, Kerry, and Clare were pre-eminently
unfortunate. The efforts,--I may say, the successful efforts,--made
by the Government to stay the hands of death will still be in the
remembrance of many:--how Sir Robert Peel was instigated to repeal the
Corn Laws; and how, subsequently, Lord John Russell took measures
for employing the people, and supplying the country with Indian
corn. The expediency of these latter measures was questioned by
many. The people themselves wished, of course, to be fed without
working; and the gentry, who were mainly responsible for the rates,
were disposed to think that the management of affairs was taken
too much out of their own hands. My mind at the time was busy with
the matter, and, thinking that the Government was right, I was
inclined to defend them as far as my small powers went. S. G. O.
(Lord Sydney Godolphin Osborne) was at that time denouncing the
Irish scheme of the Administration in the Times, using very strong
language,--as those who remember his style will know. I fancied
then,--as I still think,--that I understood the country much better
than he did; and I was anxious to show that the steps taken for
mitigating the terrible evil of the times were the best which the
Minister of the day could have adopted. In 1848 I was in London,
and, full of my purpose, I presented myself to Mr. John Forster,--who
has since been an intimate and valued friend,--but who was at that
time the editor of the Examiner. I think that that portion of the
literary world which understands the fabrication of newspapers
will admit that neither before his time, nor since, has there been
a more capable editor of a weekly newspaper. As a literary man, he
was not without his faults. That which the cabman is reported to
have said of him before the magistrate is quite true. He was always
"an arbitrary cove." As a critic, he belonged to the school of
Bentley and Gifford,--who would always bray in a literary mortar
all critics who disagreed from them, as though such disagreement
were a personal offence requiring personal castigation. But that
very eagerness made him a good editor. Into whatever he did he put
his very heart and soul. During his time the Examiner was almost
all that a Liberal weekly paper should be. So to John Forster I
went, and was shown into that room in Lincoln's Inn Fields in which,
some three or four years earlier, Dickens had given that reading of
which there is an illustration with portraits in the second volume
of his life.

At this time I knew no literary men. A few I had met when living
with my mother, but that had been now so long ago that all such
acquaintance had died out. I knew who they were as far as a man
could get such knowledge from the papers of the day, and felt myself
as in part belonging to the guild, through my mother, and in some
degree by my own unsuccessful efforts. But it was not probable that
any one would admit my claim;--nor on this occasion did I make any
claim. I stated my name and official position, and the fact that
opportunities had been given me of seeing the poorhouses in Ireland,
and of making myself acquainted with the circumstances of the
time. Would a series of letters on the subject be accepted by the
Examiner? The great man, who loomed very large to me, was pleased
to say that if the letters should recommend themselves by their
style and matter, if they were not too long, and if,--every reader
will know how on such occasions an editor will guard himself,--if
this and if that, they should be favourably entertained. They were
favourably entertained,--if printing and publication be favourable
entertainment. But I heard no more of them. The world in Ireland
did not declare that the Government had at last been adequately
defended, nor did the treasurer of the Examiner send me a cheque
in return.

Whether there ought to have been a cheque I do not even yet know.
A man who writes a single letter to a newspaper, of course, is not
paid for it,--nor for any number of letters on some point personal
to himself. I have since written sets of letters to newspapers, and
have been paid for them; but then I have bargained for a price. On
this occasion I had hopes; but they never ran high, and I was not
much disappointed. I have no copy now of those letters, and could
not refer to them without much trouble; nor do I remember what I
said. But I know that I did my best in writing them.

When my historical novel failed, as completely as had its predecessors,
the two Irish novels, I began to ask myself whether, after all,
that was my proper line. I had never thought of questioning the
justice of the verdict expressed against me. The idea that I was
the unfortunate owner of unappreciated genius never troubled me. I
did not look at the books after they were published, feeling sure
that they had been, as it were, damned with good reason. But still
I was clear in my mind that I would not lay down my pen. Then and
therefore I determined to change my hand, and to attempt a play.
I did attempt the play, and in 1850 I wrote a comedy, partly in
blank verse, and partly in prose, called The Noble Jilt. The plot
I afterwards used in a novel called Can You Forgive Her? I believe
that I did give the best of my intellect to the play, and I must
own that when it was completed it pleased me much. I copied it,
and re-copied it, touching it here and touching it there, and then
sent it to my very old friend, George Bartley, the actor, who had
when I was in London been stage-manager of one of the great theatres,
and who would, I thought, for my own sake and for my mother's, give
me the full benefit of his professional experience.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22