Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

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

scamped. It is a danger as to which he is bound to be severe with

himself--in which he should feel that his conscience should be set

fairly in the balance against the natural bias of his interest. If

he do not do so, sooner or later his dishonesty will be discovered,

and will be estimated accordingly. But in this he is to be governed

only by the plain rules of honesty which should govern us all.

Having said so much, I shall not scruple as I go on to attribute

to the pecuniary result of my labours all the importance which I

felt them to have at the time.

Barchester Towers, for which I had received (pounds)100 in advance, sold

well enough to bring me further payments--moderate payments--from

the publishers. From that day up to this very time in which I am

writing, that book and The Warden together have given me almost

every year some small income. I get the accounts very regularly,

and I find that I have received (pounds)727 11S. 3d. for the two. It is

more than I got for the three or four works that came afterwards,

but the payments have been spread over twenty years.

When I went to Mr. Longman with my next novel, The Three Clerks,

in my hand, I could not induce him to understand that a lump sum

down was more pleasant than a deferred annuity. I wished him to

buy it from me at a price which he might think to be a fair value,

and I argued with him that as soon as an author has put himself into

a position which insures a sufficient sale of his works to give a

profit, the publisher is not entitled to expect the half of such

proceeds. While there is a pecuniary risk, the whole of which must

be borne by the publisher, such division is fair enough; but such

a demand on the part of the publisher is monstrous as soon as the

article produced is known to be a marketable commodity. I thought

that I had now reached that point, but Mr. Longman did not agree with

me. And he endeavoured to convince me that I might lose more than

I gained, even though I should get more money by going elsewhere.

"It is for you," said he, "to think whether our names on your

title-page are not worth more to you than the increased payment."

This seemed to me to savour of that high-flown doctrine of the

contempt of money which I have never admired. I did think much

of Messrs. Longman's name, but I liked it best at the bottom of a

cheque.

I was also scared from the august columns of Paternoster Row by

a remark made to myself by one of the firm, which seemed to imply

that they did not much care for works of fiction. Speaking of a

fertile writer of tales who was not then dead, he declared that ----

(naming the author in question) had spawned upon them (the publishers)

three novels a year! Such language is perhaps justifiable in regard

to a man who shows so much of the fecundity of the herring; but I

did not know how fruitful might be my own muse, and I thought that

I had better go elsewhere.

I had then written The Three Clerks, which, when I could not sell

it to Messrs. Longman, I took in the first instance to Messrs.

Hurst & Blackett, who had become successors to Mr. Colburn. I had

made an appointment with one of the firm, which, however, that

gentleman was unable to keep. I was on my way from Ireland to Italy,

and had but one day in London in which to dispose of my manuscript.

I sat for an hour in Great Marlborough Street, expecting the return

of the peccant publisher who had broken his tryst, and I was about

to depart with my bundle under my arm when the foreman of the

house came to me. He seemed to think it a pity that I should go,

and wished me to leave my work with him. This, however, I would not

do, unless he would undertake to buy it then and there. Perhaps he

lacked authority. Perhaps his judgment was against such purchase.

But while we debated the matter, he gave me some advice. "I hope

it's not historical, Mr. Trollope?" he said. "Whatever you do,

don't be historical; your historical novel is not worth a damn."

Thence I took The Three Clerks to Mr. Bentley; and on the same

afternoon succeeded in selling it to him for (pounds)250. His son still

possesses it, and the firm has, I believe, done very well with the

purchase. It was certainly the best novel I had as yet written.

The plot is not so good as that of the Macdermots; nor are there

any characters in the book equal to those of Mrs. Proudie and the

Warden; but the work has a more continued interest, and contains

the first well-described love-scene that I ever wrote. The passage

in which Kate Woodward, thinking that she will die, tries to take

leave of the lad she loves, still brings tears to my eyes when I

read it. I had not the heart to kill her. I never could do that.

And I do not doubt but that they are living happily together to

this day.

The lawyer Chaffanbrass made his first appearance in this novel,

and I do not think that I have cause to be ashamed of him. But this

novel now is chiefly noticeable to me from the fact that in it I

introduced a character under the name of Sir Gregory Hardlines, by

which I intended to lean very heavily on that much loathed scheme

of competitive examination, of which at that time Sir Charles

Trevelyan was the great apostle. Sir Gregory Hardlines was intended