Autobiography of Anthony Trollope - Anthony Trollope

has thoroughly justified itself in the subsequent pursuits of my

life. I did write two articles, the first mainly on Julius Caesar,

and the second on Augustus, which appeared in the Dublin University

Magazine. They were the result of very much labour, but there came

from them no pecuniary product. I had been very modest when I sent

them to the editor, as I had been when I called on John Forster,

not venturing to suggest the subject of money. After a while I did

call upon the proprietor of the magazine in Dublin, and was told

by him that such articles were generally written to oblige friends,

and that articles written to oblige friends were not usually paid

for. The Dean of Ely, as the author of the work in question now

is, was my friend; but I think I was wronged, as I certainly had

no intention of obliging him by my criticism. Afterwards, when I

returned to Ireland, I wrote other articles for the same magazine,

one of which, intended to be very savage in its denunciation, was

on an official blue-book just then brought out, preparatory to the

introduction of competitive examinations for the Civil Service. For

that and some other article, I now forget what, I was paid. Up to

the end of 1857 I had received (pounds)55 for the hard work of ten years.

It was while I was engaged on Barchester Towers that I adopted a

system of writing which, for some years afterwards, I found to be

very serviceable to me. My time was greatly occupied in travelling,

and the nature of my travelling was now changed. I could not

any longer do it on horseback. Railroads afforded me my means of

conveyance, and I found that I passed in railway-carriages very

many hours of my existence. Like others, I used to read,--though

Carlyle has since told me that a man when travelling should not

read, but "sit still and label his thoughts." But if I intended

to make a profitable business out of my writing, and, at the same

time, to do my best for the Post Office, I must turn these hours

to more account than I could do even by reading. I made for myself

therefore a little tablet, and found after a few days' exercise

that I could write as quickly in a railway-carriage as I could at

my desk. I worked with a pencil, and what I wrote my wife copied

afterwards. In this way was composed the greater part of Barchester

Towers and of the novel which succeeded it, and much also of others

subsequent to them. My only objection to the practice came from

the appearance of literary ostentation, to which I felt myself to

be subject when going to work before four or five fellow-passengers.

But I got used to it, as I had done to the amazement of the west

country farmers' wives when asking them after their letters.

In the writing of Barchester Towers I took great delight. The bishop

and Mrs. Proudie were very real to me, as were also the troubles

of the archdeacon and the loves of Mr. Slope. When it was done,

Mr. W. Longman required that it should be subjected to his reader;

and he returned the MS. to me, with a most laborious and voluminous

criticism,--coming from whom I never knew. This was accompanied

by an offer to print the novel on the half-profit system, with a

payment of (pounds)100 in advance out of my half-profits,--on condition

that I would comply with the suggestions made by his critic. One

of these suggestions required that I should cut the novel down to

two volumes. In my reply, I went through the criticisms, rejecting

one and accepting another, almost alternately, but declaring at

last that no consideration should induce me to cut out a third of

my work. I am at a loss to know how such a task could have been

performed. I could burn the MS., no doubt, and write another book

on the same story; but how two words out of six are to be withdrawn

from a written novel, I cannot conceive. I believe such tasks have

been attempted--perhaps performed; but I refused to make even the

attempt. Mr. Longman was too gracious to insist on his critic's

terms; and the book was published, certainly none the worse, and

I do not think much the better, for the care that had been taken

with it.

The work succeeded just as The Warden had succeeded. It achieved

no great reputation, but it was one of the novels which novel

readers were called upon to read. Perhaps I may be assuming upon

myself more than I have a right to do in saying now that Barchester

Towers has become one of those novels which do not die quite at once,

which live and are read for perhaps a quarter of a century; but if

that be so, its life has been so far prolonged by the vitality of

some of its younger brothers. Barchester Towers would hardly be

so well known as it is had there been no Framley Parsonage and no

Last Chronicle of Barset.

I received my (pounds)100, in advance, with profound delight. It was a

positive and most welcome increase to my income, and might probably

be regarded as a first real step on the road to substantial success.

I am well aware that there are many who think that an author in his

authorship should not regard money,--nor a painter, or sculptor, or

composer in his art. I do not know that this unnatural sacrifice

is supposed to extend itself further. A barrister, a clergyman, a

doctor, an engineer, and even actors and architects, may without

disgrace follow the bent of human nature, and endeavour to fill

their bellies and clothe their backs, and also those of their wives

and children, as comfortably as they can by the exercise of their

abilities and their crafts. They may be as rationally realistic,

as may the butchers and the bakers; but the artist and the author

forget the high glories of their calling if they condescend to make

a money return a first object. They who preach this doctrine will

be much offended by my theory, and by this book of mine, if my theory

and my book come beneath their notice. They require the practice

of a so-called virtue which is contrary to nature, and which, in

my eyes, would be no virtue if it were practised. They are like

clergymen who preach sermons against the love of money, but who

know that the love of money is so distinctive a characteristic

of humanity that such sermons are mere platitudes called for by

customary but unintelligent piety. All material progress has come

from man's desire to do the best he can for himself and those

about him, and civilisation and Christianity itself have been made

possible by such progress. Though we do not all of us argue this

matter out within our breasts, we do all feel it; and we know that

the more a man earns the more useful he is to his fellow-men. The

most useful lawyers, as a rule, have been those who have made the

greatest incomes,--and it is the same with the doctors. It would

be the same in the Church if they who have the choosing of bishops

always chose the best man. And it has in truth been so too in art

and authorship. Did Titian or Rubens disregard their pecuniary

rewards? As far as we know, Shakespeare worked always for money,

giving the best of his intellect to support his trade as an actor.

In our own century what literary names stand higher than those of

Byron, Tennyson, Scott, Dickens, Macaulay, and Carlyle? And I think

I may say that none of those great men neglected the pecuniary result

of their labours. Now and then a man may arise among us who in any

calling, whether it be in law, in physic, in religious teaching,

in art, or literature, may in his professional enthusiasm utterly

disregard money. All will honour his enthusiasm, and if he be

wifeless and childless, his disregard of the great object of men's

work will be blameless. But it is a mistake to suppose that a man

is a better man because he despises money. Few do so, and those few

in doing so suffer a defeat. Who does not desire to be hospitable

to his friends, generous to the poor, liberal to all, munificent

to his children, and to be himself free from the casking fear which

poverty creates? The subject will not stand an argument;--and yet

authors are told that they should disregard payment for their work,

and be content to devote their unbought brains to the welfare of

the public. Brains that are unbought will never serve the public

much. Take away from English authors their copyrights, and you

would very soon take away from England her authors.

I say this here, because it is my purpose as I go on to state what

to me has been the result of my profession in the ordinary way in

which professions are regarded, so that by my example may be seen

what prospect there is that a man devoting himself to literature

with industry, perseverance, certain necessary aptitudes, and fair

average talents, may succeed in gaining a livelihood, as another man

does in another profession. The result with me has been comfortable

but not splendid, as I think was to have been expected from the

combination of such gifts.

I have certainly always had also before my eyes the charms of

reputation. Over and above the money view of the question, I wished

from the beginning to be something more than a clerk in the Post

Office. To be known as somebody,--to be Anthony Trollope if it be

no more,--is to me much. The feeling is a very general one, and

I think beneficent. It is that which has been called the "last

infirmity of noble mind." The infirmity is so human that the man who

lacks it is either above or below humanity. I own to the infirmity.

But I confess that my first object in taking to literature as a

profession was that which is common to the barrister when he goes

to the Bar, and to the baker when he sets up his oven. I wished to

make an income on which I and those belonging to me might live in

comfort.

If indeed a man writes his books badly, or paints his pictures

badly, because he can make his money faster in that fashion than

by doing them well, and at the same time proclaims them to be the

best he can do,--if in fact he sells shoddy for broadcloth,--he

is dishonest, as is any other fraudulent dealer. So may be the

barrister who takes money that he does not earn, or the clergyman

who is content to live on a sinecure. No doubt the artist or the

author may have a difficulty which will not occur to the seller of

cloth, in settling within himself what is good work and what is

bad,--when labour enough has been given, and when the task has been