12 - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope by Anthony Trollope

Delve into the captivating life and mind of Anthony Trollope, an iconic figure in literature, through his own words. His autobiography is a rollercoaster of emotions, from side-splitting humor to poignant honesty. Discover the fascinating insights he provides on his unique approach to writing, viewing it more as a labor than a form of art. Trollopes die-hard fans will be thrilled by his candid evaluation of his own work and his recognition of his novels flaws and accomplishments. This autobiography extends beyond just his literary life, providing an intimate look at his years juggling his passion for writing with a full-time job at the post office.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:02):
Chapter eleven of the Autobiography of Anthony Trollop. This Librivack's
recording is in the public domain. Autobiography of Anthony Trollop,
The Claverings, The pall Mall Gazette, Nina Balatka and Linda Tressel.
The Claverings, which came out in eighteen sixty six. In
eighteen sixty seven, was the last novel which I wrote

(00:24):
for the Cornhill, and it was for this that I
received the highest rate of pay that was ever accorded
to me. It was the same length as Brimley Parsonage,
and the price was twenty eight hundred, Whether much or little,
it was offered by the proprietor of the magazine, and
was paid in a single check. In The Claverings, I
did not follow the habit which have now become very
common to me of introducing personages whose names are already

(00:47):
known to the readers of novels, and whose characters were
familiar to myself, if I remember rightly, no one appears
here who had appeared before, or who has been allowed
to appear, since I consider the story as a whole
to be good, though I am not aware that the
public has ever corroborated that verdict. The chief character is
that of a young woman who has married manifestly for

(01:09):
money and rank, so manifestly that she does not herself pretend,
even while she is making the marriage, that she has
any other reason. The man is oldsreputable and a worn
out debauchy. Then comes the punishment natural to the offense.
When she is free, the man whom she had loved
and who had loved her is engaged to another woman.

(01:30):
He vacillates and is weak, in which weakness is the
fault of the book, as he plays the part of
the hero. But she is strong, strong in her purpose,
strong in her desires, and strong in her consciousness that
the punishment which comes upon her has been deserved. But
the chief merit of the Claverings is in the genuine
fun of some of the scenes. Humor has not been

(01:52):
my forte, but I am inclined to think that the
characters of Captain Boodle, Archie Clavering, and Sophie Gordeloup are humorous.
Count Pateroff, the brother of Sophie, is also good and
disposes of the young hero's interference in a somewhat masterly manner.
In the Claverings, too. There is a wife whose husband
is a brute to her, who loses an only child

(02:13):
his heir, and who is rebuked by her lord because
the boy dies. Her sorrow is I think, pathetic. From
beginning to end, the story is well told, but I
doubt now whether anyone reads the claverings. When I remember
how many novels I have written, I have no right
to expect that above a few of them shall endure
even to the second year beyond publication. This story closed

(02:34):
my connection with the Cornhill Magazine, but not with its owner,
mister George Smith, who subsequently brought out a further novel
of mine in a separate form, and who about this
time established the pall Mall Gazette, to which paper I
was for some years a contributor. It was in eighteen
sixty five that the pall Mall Gazette has commenced, the
name having been taken from a fictitious periodical which was

(02:56):
the offspring of Thackeray's Brain. It was set on foot
by the unassisted energy and resources of George Smith, who
had succeeded by means of his magazine and his publishing connection,
in getting around him a society of literary men who
sufficed as far as literary ability went to float the
paper at one under favorable auspices. His two strongest staffs

(03:18):
probably were Jacob Omnium, whom I regard as the most
forcible newspaper writer of my days, and Fitzjames Stephen, the
most conscientious and industrious. To them, the pall Mall Gazette
owed very much of its early success and to the
untiring energy and general ability of its proprietor. Among its
other contributors were George Lewes Hannay, who I think came

(03:40):
up from Edinburgh for employment on its columns, Lord Houghton,
Lord Strangford, Charles Merivale Greenwood, the present editor, Greg myself,
and very many others, So many others that I have
met at a pall Mall dinner, a crowd of guests
who could have filled the House of Commons more respectively
than I had seen it filled even on important occasions.
There are many who now remember, and no doubt when

(04:03):
this is published there will be left some to remember
the great stroke of business which was done by the
revelations of a visitor to one of the casual wards
in London. A person had to be selected who would
undergo the misery of a knight among the usual occupants
of a casual ward in a London poorhouse, and who should,
at the same time be able to record what he
felt and saw. The choice fell upon mister Greenwood's brother,

(04:26):
who certainly possessed the courage and the powers of endurance.
The description, which was very well given, was I think
chiefly written by the brother of the casual himself. It
had a great effect which was increased by secrecy. As
to the person who encountered all the horrors of that night,
I was more than once assured that Lord Houghton was

(04:46):
the man I heard it, asserted also that I myself
had been the hero. At last, the unknown one could
no longer endure that his honor should be hidden and
revealed the truth In opposition, I feared to promises to
the contrary, and instigated by a conviction that if known,
he could turn his honors to account. In the meantime, however,
that record of a night passed in a workhouse had

(05:08):
done more to establish the sale of the journal than
all the legal lore of Stephen, or the polemical power
of Higgins, or the critical acumen of lose. My work
was various. I wrote much on the subject of the
American War, on which my feelings were at the time
very keen subscribing, if I remember right, my name to
all that I wrote. I contributed also some sets of sketches,

(05:31):
of which those concerning hunting found favor with the public.
They were republished afterwards and had a considerable sale, and
may I think still be recommended to those who are
fond of hunting, as being accurate in their description of
the different classes of people who are to be met
in the hunting field. There was also a set of
clerical sketches which was considered to be of sufficient importance

(05:53):
to bring down upon my head the critical 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

(06:13):
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

(06:37):
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 in commiserate with
a pecuniary result to myself. In doing this for the

(06:58):
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

(07:19):
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 not say what I wished to think,
but what I did think. To this, of course, he assented.

(07:41):
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 honor were baseless. This I said,
emphasizing much more strongly than was necessary the opinion which

(08:02):
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 defense or attack, a man
can hardly measure the strength of the blows he gives.
Of course, there was a fence and a breaking off
of intercourse between loving friends, and a sense of wrong received,

(08:22):
and I must own two 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 color? 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

(08:44):
punished him for his wrongdoing 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

(09:05):
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

(09:26):
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 pal mall gazette, which was very dear to me.
Could I go through a second Mary Meeting, much less
endure a season of such martyrdom. I have to acknowledge

(09:48):
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 according 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,

(10:09):
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

(10:30):
I was unsuccessful. It seemed to me that a name,
once earned, carried with it too much favor. 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 I sometimes
did write trash, which from a beginner would not have

(10:52):
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 favor. The injustice which
struck me did not consist in that which was withheld
from me, but in that which was given to me.

(11:14):
I felt that aspirants coming up below me might do
work as good as mine, and probably much better work,
and yet failed 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

(11:36):
ability as I possessed, I might succeed in doing so again.
In eighteen sixty five I began a short tale called
Nina Balatka, which in eighteen sixty six was published anonymously
in Blackwood's magazine in eighteen sixty seven. This was followed
by another of the same length called Linda Tressel. I
will speak of them together, as they are of the

(11:56):
same nature and of nearly equal merit. Mister Blackwood, who
himself read the manuscript 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
mister 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

(12:18):
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

(12:38):
detection a matter of any importance. Once or twice I
heard the story mentioned by readers who did not know
me to 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,

(12:59):
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.

(13:21):
They were both written very quickly, but with a considerable
amount of labor, and both were written immediately after visits
to the towns in which the scenes are laid, Prague
mainly and Nuremberg. Of course, I had endeavored to change
not only my manner of language, but my manner of
storytelling also, and in this pays mister Hutton. I think
that I was successful English life. In them there was none.

(13:44):
There was more of romance proper than had been usual
with me, and I made an attempt at local coloring,
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
feet and hatreds, both of Nina and of Linda. There
is much that is pathetic. Prague is Prague, and Nuremberg

(14:06):
as 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,
mister Blackwood, had I still further reduced my price, would
probably have continued the experiment. Another ten years of unpaid,

(14:30):
unflagging labor 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 and

(14:52):
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 and Mason.
Fortnman and Mason can only make themselves Fortnm and Mason

(15:14):
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

(15:37):
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

(16:00):
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 author has not said such words as these to
humble aspirants for critical advice, till they have become almost formulas.

(16:22):
No doubt there is cruelty in such answers. But the
man who makes them has considered the matter within himself
and has resolved that such cruelty is the best mercy.
No doubt, the chances against literary aspirants are very great.
It is so easy to aspire and to begin. A
man cannot make a watch or a shoe without a
variety of tools and many materials. He must also have

(16:46):
learned much. But any young lady can write a book
who has a sufficiency of pens and paper. It can
be done anywhere, in any clothes, which is a great thing,
at any hours, to which happy accident in literature I
owe my success, And the success, when achieved is so pleasant.
The aspirants, of course, are very many, and the experienced counselor,

(17:07):
when asked for his candid judgment as to this or
that effort, knows that among every hundred efforts there will
be ninety nine failures, Then the answer is so ready.
My dear young lady, do darn your stockings. It will
be for the best, or perhaps less tenderly to the
male aspirant. You must earn some money, Say don't you

(17:28):
think that a stool and accounting house might be better?
The advice will probably be good advice, probably no doubt,
as may be proved by the terrible majority of failures.
But who is to be sure that he is not
expelling an angel from the heaven, to which, if less
roughly treated, he would soar that he is not dooming

(17:49):
some Milton to be mute and inglorious? Who, but for
such cruel ill judgment, would become vocal to all ages?
The answer to all this seems to be ready enough.
The judgment, whether cruel or tender, should not be ill judgment.
He who consents to sit as judge should have capacity

(18:10):
if for judging. But in this matter no accuracy of
judgment is possible. It may be that the matter subjected
to the critic is so bad or so good as
to make an assured answer possible. You at any rate
cannot make this your vocation, or you, at any rate
can succeed if you will try, But cases as to

(18:30):
which such certainty can be expressed are rare. The critic
who wrote the article on the early verses of Lord Byron,
which produced the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, was justified
in his criticism by the merits of the hours of Ildness.
The lines had nevertheless been written by that Lord Byron
who became our Byron, and a little satire called the Billiad,

(18:52):
which I think nobody knows, are the following well expressed lines.
When Payne's Knight's Taste was if scheed to the town,
a few Greek verses in the text set down were
torn to pieces, mangled into hash, doomed to the flames
as execrable trash. In short, were butchered rather than dissected,

(19:12):
and several false quantities detected. Till when the smoke had
vanished from the cinders, twas just discovered that the lines
were pinders. There can be no assurance against cases such
as these, and yet we are so free with our advice,
always bidding the young aspirant to desist. There is perhaps

(19:35):
no career or life so charming as that of a
successful man of letters. Those little unthought of advantages which
I just now named, are in themselves attractive. If you
like the town, live in the town and do your
work there. If you like the country, choose the country.
It may be done on top of a mountain or
in the bottom of a pit. It is compatible with
the rolling of the sea and the motion of a railway.

(19:58):
The clergyman, the lawyer, that doctor, the member of parliament,
the clerk in a public office, the tradesman, and even
his assistant in the shop must dress in accordance with
certain fixed laws. But the author needs sacrifice to no grace,
hardly even to propriety. He is subject to no bounds
such as those which bind other men. Who else is

(20:19):
free from all shackle is to ours. The judge must
sit at ten, and the Attorney General, who is making
his twenty thousand a year, must be there with his bag.
The Prime Minister must be in his place on that
weary front bench shortly after prayers, and must sit there
either asleep or awake, even though blank or blank should
be addressing the house during all that Sunday, which he

(20:43):
maintains should be a day of rest. The active clergyman
toils like a galley slave. The actor when eight o'clock
comes is bound to his foot lights. The civil service
clerk must sit there from ten till four, unless his
office be fashionable, when twelve to six is just as
heavy on him. The author may do his work at
five in the morning, when he is fresh from his bed,

(21:04):
or at three in the morning before he goes there.
And the author wants no capital and encounters no risks.
When once he is afloat, the publisher finds all that.
And indeed, unless he be rash, finds it whether he
be afloat or not. But it is in the consideration
which he enjoys that the successful author finds his richest reward.

(21:25):
He is, if not of equal rank, yet of equal
standing with the highest, and if he be open to
the amenities of society, may choose his own circles. He
without money can enter doors which are closed against almost
all but him and the wealthy. I have often heard
it said that in this country the man of letters
is not recognized. I believe the meaning of this to

(21:46):
be that men of letters are not often invited to
be knights and baronets. I do not think that they
wish it, and if they had it, they would as
a body lose much more than they would gain. I
do not at all desire to have letters put after
mine name, or to be called Sir Anthony. But if
my friends Tom Hughes and Charles Read became Sir Thomas
and Sir Charles, I do not know how I might feel,

(22:09):
or how my wife might feel, if we were left unbedecked.
As it is the man of letters who would be
selected for titular honor, if such bestowal of honors were customary,
receives from the general respect of those around him a
much more pleasant recognition of his work. If this be so,
If it be true that the career of the successful

(22:31):
literary man be thus pleasant, it is not wonderful that
many should attempt to win the prize. But how is
a man to know whether or not he has within
him the qualities necessary for such a career. He makes
an attempt and fails, repeats his attempt, and fails again.
So many have succeeded at last, to have failed more

(22:51):
than once or twice. Who will tell him the truth
is to himself? Who has power to find out that truth?
The hard man sends him off without a scruple to
that office stool the soft man assures him that there
is much merit in his manuscript. Oh, my young aspirant,
if ever such a one should read these pages, be

(23:13):
sure that no one can tell you to do so.
It would be necessary not only to know what there
is now within you, but also to foresee what time
will produce there. This, however, I think, may be said
to you without any doubt as to the wisdom of
the council, given that if it be necessary for you
to live by your work, do not begin by trusting

(23:34):
to literature. Take the stool in the office, as recommended
to you by the hard man, and then, in such
leisure hours as may belong to you, let the praise
which has come from the lips of that soft man
induce you to persevere in your literary attempts. Should you fail,
then your failure will not be fatal. And what better
could you have done with the leisure hours had you

(23:56):
not so failed. Such double toil, you will say, is severe, yes,
But if you want this thing, you must submit to
severe toil. Some time before this I had become one
of the committee appointed for the distribution of the monies
of the Royal Literary Fund, and in that capacity I
heard and saw much of the sufferings of authors. I

(24:19):
may in a future chapter speak further of this institution,
which I regard with great affection, and in reference to
which I should be glad to record certain convictions of
my own. But I allude to it now because the
experience I have acquired in being active in its cause
forbids me to advise any young man or woman to
enter boldly on a literary career in search of bread.

(24:42):
I know how utterly I should have failed myself had
my bread not been earned elsewhere. While I was making
my efforts during ten years of work, which I commenced
with some aid from the fact that others of my
family were in the same profession, I did not earn
enough to buy me the pens ink and p paper
which I was using. And then, when with all my

(25:03):
experience in my art, I began again as from a
new springing point, I should have failed again, unless again
I could have given years to the task. Of course,
there have been many who have done better than I,
many whose powers have been infinitely greater. But then too
I have seen the failure of many who were greater.

(25:24):
The career. When success has been achieved is certainly very pleasant,
but the agonies which are endured, and the search for
that success are often terrible. And the author's poverty is
I think, harder to be born than any other poverty.
The man, whether rightly or wrongly, feels that the world
is using him with extreme injustice. The more absolutely he fails,

(25:47):
the higher it is probable he will reckon his own merits,
And the keener will be the sense of injury, in
that he whose work is of so high a nature
cannot get bred, while they whose tasks are mean are
lapped in luxury. I, with my well fitted mind, with
my clear intellect, with all my gifts, cannot earn a
poor crown a day, while that fool who simpers in

(26:10):
a little room behind a shop makes his thousands every year.
The very charity to which he too often is driven
is bitterer to him than to others. While he takes it,
he almost spurns the hand that gives it to him,
and every fiber of his heart within him is bleeding
with a sense of injury. The career, when successful is

(26:31):
pleasant enough, certainly, but when unsuccessful, it is of all
careers the most agonizing end of chapter eleven Recording by
Jessica Luise, Minneapolis, Minnesota,