Anthony Trollope: Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

than what is sold, and as the cost of travelling is heavy, the

writing of them is not remunerative. This tendency to stretch comes

not, I think, generally from the ambition of the writer, but from

his inability to comprise the different parts in their allotted

spaces. If you have to deal with a country, a colony, a city, a

trade, or a political opinion, it is so much easier to deal with

it in twenty than in twelve pages! I also made an engagement with

the editor of a London daily paper to supply him with a series of

articles,--which were duly written, duly published, and duly paid

for. But with all this, travelling with the object of writing is

not a good trade. If the travelling author can pay his bills, he

must be a good manager on the road.

Before starting there came upon us the terrible necessity of coming

to some resolution about our house at Waltham. It had been first

hired, and then bought, primarily because it suited my Post Office

avocations. To this reason had been added other attractions,--in the

shape of hunting, gardening, and suburban hospitalities. Altogether

the house had been a success, and the scene of much happiness. But

there arose questions as to expense. Would not a house in London

be cheaper? There could be no doubt that my income would decrease,

and was decreasing. I had thrown the Post Office, as it were,

away, and the writing of novels could not go on for ever. Some of

my friends told me already that at fifty-five I ought to give up

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