Autobiography of Anthony Trollope - Anthony Trollope

by Essex men generally that I have ridden hard. The cause of my

delight in the amusement I have never been able to analyse to my

own satisfaction. In the first place, even now, I know very little

about hunting,--though I know very much of the accessories of the

field. I am too blind to see hounds turning, and cannot therefore

tell whether the fox has gone this way or that. Indeed all the

notice I take of hounds is not to ride over them. My eyes are so

constituted that I can never see the nature of a fence. I either

follow some one, or ride at it with the full conviction that I

may be going into a horse-pond or a gravel-pit. I have jumped into

both one and the other. I am very heavy, and have never ridden

expensive horses. I am also now old for such work, being so stiff

that I cannot get on to my horse without the aid of a block or a

bank. But I ride still after the same fashion, with a boy's energy,

determined to get ahead if it may possibly be done, hating the

roads, despising young men who ride them, and with a feeling that

life can not, with all her riches, have given me anything better

than when I have gone through a long run to the finish, keeping a

place, not of glory, but of credit, among my juniors.

CHAPTER X "THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON," "CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?" "RACHEL RAY," AND THE "FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW"

During the early months of 1862 Orley Farm was still being brought

out in numbers, and at the same time Brown, Jones and Robinson was

appearing in the Cornhill Magazine. In September, 1862, the Small

House at Allington began its career in the same periodical. The

work on North America had also come out in 1862. In August, 1863,

the first number of Can You Forgive Her? was published as a separate

serial, and was continued through 1864. In 1863 a short novel was

produced in the ordinary volume form, called Rachel Ray. In addition

to these I published during the time two volumes of stories called

The Tales of all Countries. In the early spring of 1865 Miss Mackenzie

was issued in the same form as Rachel Ray; and in May of the same

year The Belton Estate was commenced with the commencement of the

Fortnightly Review, of which periodical I will say a few words in

this chapter.

I quite admit that I crowded my wares into the market too

quickly,--because the reading world could not want such a quantity

of matter from the hands of one author in so short a space of

time. I had not been quite so fertile as the unfortunate gentleman

who disgusted the publisher in Paternoster Row,--in the story of

whose productiveness I have always thought there was a touch of

romance,--but I had probably done enough to make both publishers

and readers think that I was coming too often beneath their notice.

Of publishers, however, I must speak collectively, as my sins

were, I think, chiefly due to the encouragement which I received

from them individually. What I wrote for the Cornhill Magazine, I

always wrote at the instigation of Mr. Smith. My other works were

published by Messrs. Chapman & Hall, in compliance with contracts

made by me with them, and always made with their good-will. Could

I have been two separate persons at one and the same time, of whom

one might have been devoted to Cornhill and the other to the interests

of the firm in Piccadilly, it might have been very well;--but as

I preserved my identity in both places, I myself became aware that

my name was too frequent on titlepages.

Critics, if they ever trouble themselves with these pages, will, of

course, say that in what I have now said I have ignored altogether

the one great evil of rapid production,--namely, that of inferior

work. And of course if the work was inferior because of the too

great rapidity of production, the critics would be right. Giving

to the subject the best of my critical abilities, and judging of

my own work as nearly as possible as I would that of another, I

believe that the work which has been done quickest has been done

the best. I have composed better stories--that is, have created

better plots--than those of The Small House at Allington and Can

You Forgive Her? and I have portrayed two or three better characters

than are to be found in the pages of either of them; but taking

these books all through, I do not think that I have ever done better

work. Nor would these have been improved by any effort in the art

of story telling, had each of these been the isolated labour of a

couple of years. How short is the time devoted to the manipulation

of a plot can be known only to those who have written plays and

novels; I may say also, how very little time the brain is able

to devote to such wearing work. There are usually some hours of

agonising doubt, almost of despair,--so at least it has been with

me,--or perhaps some days. And then, with nothing settled in my

brain as to the final development of events, with no capability

of settling anything, but with a most distinct conception of some

character or characters, I have rushed at the work as a rider rushes

at a fence which he does not see. Sometimes I have encountered

what, in hunting language, we call a cropper. I had such a fall in

two novels of mine, of which I have already spoken--The Bertrams

and Castle Richmond. I shall have to speak of other such troubles.

But these failures have not arisen from over-hurried work. When my

work has been quicker done,--and it has sometimes been done very

quickly--the rapidity has been achieved by hot pressure, not in

the conception, but in the telling of the story. Instead of writing

eight pages a day, I have written sixteen; instead of working five

days a week, I have worked seven. I have trebled my usual average,

and have done so in circumstances which have enabled me to give

up all my thoughts for the time to the book I have been writing.

This has generally been done at some quiet spot among the

mountains,--where there has been no society, no hunting, no whist,

no ordinary household duties. And I am sure that the work so done

has had in it the best truth and the highest spirit that I have

been able to produce. At such times I have been able to imbue myself

thoroughly with the characters I have had in hand. I have wandered

alone among the rocks and woods, crying at their grief, laughing at

their absurdities, and thoroughly enjoying their joy. I have been

impregnated with my own creations till it has been my only excitement

to sit with the pen in my hand, and drive my team before me at as

quick a pace as I could make them travel.

The critics will again say that all this may be very well as to

the rough work of the author's own brain, but it will be very far

from well in reference to the style in which that work has been

given to the public. After all, the vehicle which a writer uses for

conveying his thoughts to the public should not be less important

to him than the thoughts themselves. An author can hardly hope to

be popular unless he can use popular language. That is quite true;

but then comes the question of achieving a popular--in other words,

I may say, a good and lucid style. How may an author best acquire

a mode of writing which shall be agreeable and easily intelligible

to the reader? He must be correct, because without correctness he

can be neither agreeable nor intelligible. Readers will expect him

to obey those rules which they, consciously or unconsciously, have

been taught to regard as binding on language; and unless he does

obey them, he will disgust. Without much labour, no writer will

achieve such a style. He has very much to learn; and, when he has

learned that much, he has to acquire the habit of using what he has

learned with ease. But all this must be learned and acquired,--not

while he is writing that which shall please, but long before. His

language must come from him as music comes from the rapid touch of

the great performer's fingers; as words come from the mouth of the

indignant orator; as letters fly from the fingers of the trained

compositor; as the syllables tinkled out by little bells form

themselves to the ear of the telegraphist. A man who thinks much of

his words as he writes them will generally leave behind him work

that smells of oil. I speak here, of course, of prose; for in poetry

we know what care is necessary, and we form our taste accordingly.

Rapid writing will no doubt give rise to inaccuracy,--chiefly because

the ear, quick and true as may be its operation, will occasionally

break down under pressure, and, before a sentence be closed, will

forget the nature of the composition with which it was commenced.

A singular nominative will be disgraced by a plural verb, because

other pluralities have intervened and have tempted the ear into

plural tendencies. Tautologies will occur, because the ear, in

demanding fresh emphasis, has forgotten that the desired force has

been already expressed. I need not multiply these causes of error,

which must have been stumbling-blocks indeed when men wrote in the

long sentences of Gibbon, but which Macaulay, with his multiplicity

of divisions, has done so much to enable us to avoid. A rapid writer

will hardly avoid these errors altogether. Speaking of myself, I

am ready to declare that, with much training, I have been unable to

avoid them. But the writer for the press is rarely called upon--a

writer of books should never be called upon--to send his manuscript

hot from his hand to the printer. It has been my practice to read

everything four times at least--thrice in manuscript and once in

print. Very much of my work I have read twice in print. In spite

of this I know that inaccuracies have crept through,--not single

spies, but in battalions. From this I gather that the supervision

has been insufficient, not that the work itself has been done too

fast. I am quite sure that those passages which have been written

with the greatest stress of labour, and consequently with the

greatest haste, have been the most effective and by no means the

most inaccurate.

The Small House at Allington redeemed my reputation with the spirited

proprietor of the Cornhill, which must, I should think, have been

damaged by Brown, Jones, and Robinson. In it appeared Lily Dale,

one of the characters which readers of my novels have liked the