Autobiography of Anthony Trollope - Anthony Trollope

the fabrication of love-stories. The hunting, I thought, must soon

go, and I would not therefore allow that to keep me in the country.

And then, why should I live at Waltham Cross now, seeing that

I had fixed on that place in reference to the Post Office? It was

therefore determined that we would flit, and as we were to be away

for eighteen months, we determined also to sell our furniture. So

there was a packing up, with many tears, and consultations as to

what should be saved out of the things we loved.

As must take place on such an occasion, there was some heart-felt

grief. But the thing was done, and orders were given for the letting

or sale of the house. I may as well say here that it never was let

and that it remained unoccupied for two years before it was sold.

I lost by the transaction about (pounds)800. As I continually hear that

other men make money by buying and selling houses, I presume I am

not well adapted for transactions of that sort. I have never made

money by selling anything except a manuscript. In matters of

horseflesh I am so inefficient that I have generally given away

horses that I have not wanted.

When we started from Liverpool, in May, 1871, Ralph the Heir was

running through the St. Paul's. This was the novel of which Charles

Reade afterwards took the plot and made on it a play. I have always

thought it to be one of the worst novels I have written, and almost

to have justified that dictum that a novelist after fifty should

not write love-stories. It was in part a political novel; and

that part which appertains to politics, and which recounts the

electioneering experiences of the candidates at Percycross, is well

enough. Percycross and Beverley were, of course, one and the same

place. Neefit, the breeches-maker, and his daughter, are also good

in their way,--and Moggs, the daughter's lover, who was not only

lover, but also one of the candidates at Percycross as well. But

the main thread of the story,--that which tells of the doings of the

young gentlemen and young ladies,--the heroes and the heroines,--is

not good. Ralph the heir has not much life about him; while Ralph

who is not the heir, but is intended to be the real hero, has

none. The same may be said of the young ladies,--of whom one, she

who was meant to be the chief, has passed utterly out of my mind,

without leaving a trace of remembrance behind.

I also left in the hands of the editor of The Fortnightly, ready for

production on the 1st of July following, a story called The Eustace

Diamonds. In that I think that my friend's dictum was disproved.

There is not much love in it; but what there is, is good. The

character of Lucy Morris is pretty; and her love is as genuine and

as well told as that of Lucy Robarts of Lily Dale.

But The Eustace Diamonds achieved the success which it certainly

did attain, not as a love-story, but as a record of a cunning little

woman of pseudo-fashion, to whom, in her cunning, there came a

series of adventures, unpleasant enough in themselves, but pleasant

to the reader. As I wrote the book, the idea constantly presented

itself to me that Lizzie Eustace was but a second Becky Sharpe; but

in planning the character I had not thought of this, and I believe

that Lizzie would have been just as she is though Becky Sharpe had

never been described. The plot of the diamond necklace is, I think,

well arranged, though it produced itself without any forethought.

I had no idea of setting thieves after the bauble till I had got

my heroine to bed in the inn at Carlisle; nor of the disappointment

of the thieves, till Lizzie had been wakened in the morning with

the news that her door had been broken open. All these things, and

many more, Wilkie Collins would have arranged before with infinite

labour, preparing things present so that they should fit in with

things to come. I have gone on the very much easier plan of making

everything as it comes fit in with what has gone before. At any

rate, the book was a success, and did much to repair the injury

which I felt had come to my reputation in the novel-market by the

works of the last few years. I doubt whether I had written anything

so successful as The Eustace Diamonds. since The Small House at

Allington. I had written what was much better,--as, for instance,

Phineas Finn and Nina Balatka; but that is by no means the same

thing.

I also left behind, in a strong box, the manuscript of Phineas Redux,

a novel of which I have already spoken, and which I subsequently

sold to the proprietors of the Graphic newspaper. The editor of

that paper greatly disliked the title, assuring me that the public

would take Redux for the gentleman's surname,--and was dissatisfied

with me when I replied that I had no objection to them doing

so. The introduction of a Latin word, or of a word from any other

language, into the title of an English novel is undoubtedly in

bad taste; but after turning the matter much over in my own mind,

I could find no other suitable name.

I also left behind me, in the same strong box, another novel, called

An Eye for an Eye, which then had been some time written, and of

which, as it has not even yet been published, I will not further

speak. It will probably be published some day, though, looking

forward, I can see no room for it, at any rate, for the next two

years.

If therefore the Great Britain, in which we sailed for Melbourne,

had gone to the bottom, I had so provided that there would be new

novels ready to come out under my name for some years to come. This

consideration, however, did not keep me idle while I was at sea.

When making long journeys, I have always succeeded in getting

a desk put up in my cabin, and this was done ready for me in the

Great Britain, so that I could go to work the day after we left

Liverpool. This I did; and before I reached Melbourne I had finished

a story called Lady Anna. Every word of this was written at sea,

during the two months required for our voyage, and was done day by

day--with the intermission of one day's illness--for eight weeks,

at the rate of 66 pages of manuscript in each week, every page of

manuscript containing 250 words. Every word was counted. I have

seen work come back to an author from the press with terrible

deficiencies as to the amount supplied. Thirty-two pages have

perhaps been wanted for a number, and the printers with all their

art could not stretch the matter to more than twenty-eight or -nine!

The work of filling up must be very dreadful. I have sometimes been

ridiculed for the methodical details of my business. But by these

contrivances I have been preserved from many troubles; and I have

saved others with whom I have worked--editors, publishers, and

printers--from much trouble also.

A month or two after my return home, Lady Anna appeared in The

Fortnightly, following The Eustace Diamonds. In it a young girl,

who is really a lady of high rank and great wealth, though in her

youth she enjoyed none of the privileges of wealth or rank, marries

a tailor who had been good to her, and whom she had loved when she

was poor and neglected. A fine young noble lover is provided for

her, and all the charms of sweet living with nice people are thrown

in her way, in order that she may be made to give up the tailor.

And the charms are very powerful with her. But the feeling that

she is bound by her troth to the man who had always been true to

her overcomes everything,--and she marries the tailor. It was my

wish of course to justify her in doing so, and to carry my readers

along with me in my sympathy with her. But everybody found fault

with me for marrying her to the tailor. What would they have said

if I had allowed her to jilt the tailor and marry the good-looking

young lord? How much louder, then, would have been the censure!

The book was read, and I was satisfied. If I had not told my story

well, there would have been no feeling in favour of the young lord.

The horror which was expressed to me at the evil thing I had done,

in giving the girl to the tailor, was the strongest testimony I

could receive of the merits of the story.

I went to Australia chiefly in order that I might see my son among

his sheep. I did see him among his sheep, and remained with him for

four or five very happy weeks. He was not making money, nor has he

made money since. I grieve to say that several thousands of pounds

which I had squeezed out of the pockets of perhaps too liberal

publishers have been lost on the venture. But I rejoice to say

that this has been in no way due to any fault of his. I never knew

a man work with more persistent honesty at his trade than he has

done.

I had, however, the further intentions of writing a book about the

entire group of Australasian Colonies; and in order that I might

be enabled to do that with sufficient information, I visited them

all. Making my headquarters at Melbourne, I went to Queensland, New

South Wales, Tasmania, then to the very little known territory of

Western Australia, and then, last of all, to New Zealand. I was

absent in all eighteen months, and think that I did succeed in

learning much of the political, social, and material condition of

these countries. I wrote my book as I was travelling and brought

it back with me to England all but completed in December, 1872.

It was a better book than that which I had written eleven years

before on the American States, but not so good as that on the West

Indies in 1859. As regards the information given, there was much

more to be said about Australia than the West Indies. Very much

more is said,--and very much more may be learned from the latter

than from the former book. I am sure that any one who will take

the trouble to read the book on Australia, will learn much from

it. But the West Indian volume was readable. I am not sure that

either of the other works are, in the proper sense of that word.

When I go back to them I find that the pages drag with me;--and if

so with me, how must it be with others who have none of that love

which a father feels even for his ill-favoured offspring. Of all

the needs a book has the chief need is that it be readable.

Feeling that these volumes on Australia were dull and long, I was

surprised to find that they had an extensive sale. There were, I

think, 2000 copies circulated of the first expensive edition; and