Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

lived with the characters he was creating. He had always a story

to tell until quite late in life; and he shows us that this was

so, not by the interest which be had in his own plots,--for I doubt

whether his plots did occupy much of his mind,--but by convincing

us that his characters were alive to himself. With Becky Sharpe,

with Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and with Esmond, with

Warrington, Pendennis, and the Major, with Colonel Newcombe, and

with Barry Lynon, he must have lived in perpetual intercourse.

Therefore he has made these personages real to us.

Among all our novelists his style is the purest, as to my ear it is

also the most harmonious. Sometimes it is disfigured by a slight

touch of affectation, by little conceits which smell of the oil;--but

the language is always lucid. The reader, without labour, knows what

he means, and knows all that he means. As well as I can remember,

he deals with no episodes. I think that any critic, examining

his work minutely, would find that every scene, and every part of

every scene, adds something to the clearness with which the story

is told. Among all his stories there is not one which does not

leave on the mind a feeling of distress that women should ever

be immodest or men dishonest,--and of joy that women should be so

devoted and men so honest. How we hate the idle selfishness of

Pendennis, the worldliness of Beatrix, the craft of Becky Sharpe!--how

we love the honesty of Colonel Newcombe, the nobility of Esmond,

and the devoted affection of Mrs. Pendennis! The hatred of evil

and love of good can hardly have come upon so many readers without

doing much good.

Late in Thackeray's life,--he never was an old man, but towards the

end of his career,--he failed in his power of charming, because he

allowed his mind to become idle. In the plots which he conceived,

and in the language which he used; I do not know that there is any

perceptible change; but in The Virginians and in Philip the reader

is introduced to no character with which he makes a close and undying

acquaintance. And this, I have no doubt, is so because Thackeray

himself had no such intimacy. His mind had come to be weary of

that fictitious life which is always demanding the labour of new

creation, and he troubled himself with his two Virginians and his

Philip only when he was seated at his desk.

At the present moment George Eliot is the first of English novelists,

and I am disposed to place her second of those of my time. She

is best known to the literary world as a writer of prose fiction,

and not improbably whatever of permanent fame she may acquire will

come from her novels. But the nature of her intellect is very far

removed indeed from that which is common to the tellers of stories.

Her imagination is no doubt strong, but it acts in analysing rather

than in creating. Everything that comes before her is pulled

to pieces so that the inside of it shall be seen, and be seen if

possible by her readers as clearly as by herself. This searching

analysis is carried so far that, in studying her latter writings,

one feels oneself to be in company with some philosopher rather

than with a novelist. I doubt whether any young person can read

with pleasure either Felix Holt, Middlemarch, or Daniel Deronda.

I know that they are very difficult to many that are not young.

Her personifications of character have been singularly terse and

graphic, and from them has come her great hold on the public,--though

by no means the greatest effect which she has produced. The lessons

which she teaches remain, though it is not for the sake of the

lessons that her pages are read. Seth Bede, Adam Bede, Maggie and

Tom Tulliver, old Silas Marner, and, much above all, Tito, in Romola,

are characters which, when once known, can never be forgotten. I

cannot say quite so much for any of those in her later works, because

in them the philosopher so greatly overtops the portrait-painter,

that, in the dissection of the mind, the outward signs seem to

have been forgotten. In her, as yet, there is no symptom whatever

of that weariness of mind which, when felt by the reader, induces

him to declare that the author has written himself out. It is not

from decadence that we do not have another Mrs. Poyser, but because

the author soars to things which seem to her to be higher than Mrs.

Poyser.

It is, I think, the defect of George Eliot that she struggles too

hard to do work that shall be excellent. She lacks ease. Latterly

the signs of this have been conspicuous in her style, which has always

been and is singularly correct, but which has become occasionally

obscure from her too great desire to be pungent. It is impossible

not to feel the struggle, and that feeling begets a flavour

of affectation. In Daniel Deronda, of which at this moment only a

portion has been published, there are sentences which I have found

myself compelled to read three times before I have been able to

take home to myself all that the writer has intended. Perhaps I

may be permitted here to say, that this gifted woman was among my

dearest and most intimate friends. As I am speaking here of novelists,

I will not attempt to speak of George Eliot's merit as a poet.

There can be no doubt that the most popular novelist of my

time--probably the most popular English novelist of any time--has

been Charles Dickens. He has now been dead nearly six years, and the

sale of his books goes on as it did during his life. The certainty

with which his novels are found in every house--the familiarity of

his name in all English-speaking countries--the popularity of such

characters as Mrs. Gamp, Micawber, and Pecksniff, and many others

whose names have entered into the English language and become

well-known words--the grief of the country at his death, and the

honours paid to him at his funeral,--all testify to his popularity.

Since the last book he wrote himself, I doubt whether any book

has been so popular as his biography by John Forster. There is

no withstanding such testimony as this. Such evidence of popular

appreciation should go for very much, almost for everything,

in criticism on the work of a novelist. The primary object of a

novelist is to please; and this man's novels have been found more

pleasant than those of any other writer. It might of course be

objected to this, that though the books have pleased they have been

injurious, that their tendency has been immoral and their teaching

vicious; but it is almost needless to say that no such charge has

ever been made against Dickens. His teaching has ever been good.

From all which, there arises to the critic a question whether, with

such evidence against him as to the excellence of this writer, he

should not subordinate his own opinion to the collected opinion of

the world of readers. To me it almost seems that I must be wrong

to place Dickens after Thackeray and George Eliot, knowing as I do

that so great a majority put him above those authors.

My own peculiar idiosyncrasy in the matter forbids me to do so. I

do acknowledge that Mrs. Gamp, Micawber, Pecksniff, and others have

become household words in every house, as though they were human

beings; but to my judgment they are not human beings, nor are any

of the characters human which Dickens has portrayed. It has been

the peculiarity and the marvel of this man's power, that he has