Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

that a name once earned carried with it too much favour. 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 they sometimes did write, trash which from a beginner

would not have 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

favour. The injustice which struck me did not consist in that which

was withheld from me, but in that which was given to me. I felt

that aspirants coming up below me might do work as good as mine,

and probably much better work, and yet fail 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 ability as I possessed, I might succeed

in doing so again. In 1865 I began a short tale called Nina Balatka,

which in 1866 was published anonymously in Blackwood's Magazine.

In 1867 this was followed by another of the same length, called

Linda Tressel. I will speak of them together, as they are of the

same nature and of nearly equal merit. Mr. Blackwood, who himself

read the MS. 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 Mr. 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

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 detection a matter of any importance. Once or twice I heard the

story mentioned by readers who did not know me to be 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, 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. They

were both written very quickly, but with a considerable amount of

labour; and both were written immediately after visits to the towns

in which the scenes are laid,--Prague, mainly, and Nuremberg. Of

course I had endeavoured to change not only my manner of language,

but my manner of story-telling also; and in this, pace Mr. Hutton,

I think that I was successful. English life in them there was none.

There was more of romance proper than had been usual with me. And

I made an attempt at local colouring, 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

fears, and hatreds, both of Nina and of Linda, there is much that

is pathetic. Prague is Prague, and Nuremberg is 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. Mr. Blackwood,

had I still further reduced my price, would probably have continued

the experiment. Another ten years of unpaid unflagging labour 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 in 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 & Mason.

Fortnum & Mason can only make themselves Fortnum & Mason 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 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 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? 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 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 councillor, 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, you say. Don't you think

that a stool in a counting-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 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,