To carry out my scheme I have had to spread my picture over so wide
a canvas that I cannot expect that any lover of such art should
trouble himself to look at it as a whole. Who will read Can You
Forgive Her? Phineas Finn, Phineas Redux, and The Prime Minister
consecutively, in order that they may understand the characters of
the Duke of Omnium, of Plantagenet Palliser, and of Lady Glencora?
Who will ever know that they should be so read? But in the performance
of the work I had much gratification, and was enabled from time to
time to have in this way that fling at the political doings of the
day which every man likes to take, if not in one fashion then in
another. I look upon this string of characters,--carried sometimes
into other novels than those just named,--as the best work of
my life. Taking him altogether, I think that Plantagenet Palliser
stands more firmly on the ground than any other personage I have
created.
On Christmas day, 1863, we were startled by the news of Thackeray's
death. He had then for many months given up the editorship of the
Cornhill Magazine,--a position for which he was hardly fitted either
by his habits or temperament,--but was still employed in writing
for its pages. I had known him only for four years, but had grown
into much intimacy with him and his family. I regard him as one
of the most tender-hearted human beings I ever knew, who, with an
exaggerated contempt for the foibles of the world at large, would
entertain an almost equally exaggerated sympathy with the joys
and troubles of individuals around him. He had been unfortunate in
early life--unfortunate in regard to money--unfortunate with an
afflicted wife--unfortunate in having his home broken up before
his children were fit to be his companions. This threw him too much
upon clubs, and taught him to dislike general society. But it never
affected his heart, or clouded his imagination. He could still revel
in the pangs and joys of fictitious life, and could still feel--as
he did to the very last--the duty of showing to his readers the
evil consequences of evil conduct. It was perhaps his chief fault
as a writer that he could never abstain from that dash of satire
which he felt to be demanded by the weaknesses which he saw around
him. The satirist who writes nothing but satire should write but
little,--or it will seem that his satire springs rather from his
own caustic nature than from the sins of the world in which he
lives. I myself regard Esmond as the greatest novel in the English
language, basing that judgment upon the excellence of its language,
on the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth of
its delineations in regard to the tine selected, and on its great
pathos. There are also in it a few scenes so told that even Scott
has never equalled the telling. Let any one who doubts this read
the passage in which Lady Castlewood induces the Duke of Hamilton to
think that his nuptials with Beatrice will be honoured if Colonel
Esmond will give away the bride. When he went from us he left behind
living novelists with great names; but I think that they who best
understood the matter felt that the greatest master of fiction of
this age had gone.
Rachel Ray underwent a fate which no other novel of mine has
encountered. Some years before this a periodical called Good Words
had been established under the editorship of my friend Dr. Norman
Macleod, a well-known Presbyterian pastor in Glasgow. In 1863 he
asked me to write a novel for his magazine, explaining to me that
his principles did not teach him to confine his matter to religious
subjects, and paying me the compliment of saying that he would feel
himself quite safe in my hands. In reply I told him I thought he
was wrong in his choice; that though he might wish to give a novel
to the readers of Good Words, a novel from me would hardly be what
he wanted, and that I could not undertake to write either with
any specially religious tendency, or in any fashion different from
that which was usual to me. As worldly and--if any one thought me
I write for Good Words. He persisted in his request, and I came
to terms as to a story for the periodical. I wrote it and sent it
to him, and shortly afterwards received it back--a considerable
portion having been printed--with an intimation that it would not
do. A letter more full of wailing and repentance no man ever wrote.
It was, he said, all his own fault. He should have taken my advice.
He should have known better. But the story, such as it was, he
could not give to his readers in the pages of Good Words. Would I
forgive him? Any pecuniary loss to which his decision might subject
me the owner of the publication would willingly make good. There
was some loss--or rather would have been--and that money I exacted,
feeling that the fault had in truth been with the editor. There is
the tale now to speak for itself. It is not brilliant nor in any
way very excellent; but it certainly is not very wicked. There is
some dancing in one of the early chapters, described, no doubt,
with that approval of the amusement which I have always entertained;
and it was this to which my friend demurred. It is more true of
novels than perhaps of anything else, that one man's food is another
man's poison.
Miss Mackenzie was written with a desire to prove that a novel may
be produced without any love; but even in this attempt it breaks
down before the conclusion. In order that I might be strong in my
purpose, I took for my heroine a very unattractive old maid, who
was overwhelmed with money troubles; but even she was in love before
the end of the book, and made a romantic marriage with an old man.
There is in this story an attack upon charitable bazaars, made
with a violence which will, I think, convince any reader that such
attempts at raising money were at the time very odious to me. I beg
to say that since that I have had no occasion to alter my opinion.
Miss Mackenzie was published in the early spring of 1865.
At the same time I was engaged with others in establishing a
periodical Review, in which some of us trusted much, and from which
we expected great things. There was, however, in truth so little
combination of idea among us, that we were not justified in our
trust or in our expectations. And yet we were honest in our purpose,
and have, I think, done some good by our honesty. The matter on which
we were all agreed was freedom of speech, combined with personal
responsibility. We would be neither conservative nor liberal, neither
religious nor free-thinking, neither popular nor exclusive;--but
we would let any man who had a thing to say, and knew how to say
it, speak freely. But he should always speak with the responsibility
of his name attached. In the very beginning I militated against this
impossible negation of principles,--and did so most irrationally,
seeing that I had agreed to the n
egation of principles,--by declaring
that nothing should appear denying or questioning the divinity of
Christ. It was a most preposterous claim to make for such a publication
as we proposed, and it at once drove from us one or two who had
proposed to join us. But we went on, and our company--limited--was
formed. We subscribed, I think, (pounds)1250 each. I at least subscribed
that amount, and--having agreed to bring out our publication every
fortnight, after the manner of the well-known French publication,--we
called it The Fortnightly. We secured the services of G. H. Lewes
as our editor. We agreed to manage our finances by a Board, which
was to meet once a fortnight, and of which I was the Chairman.
And we determined that the payments for our literature should be
made on a liberal and strictly ready-money system. We carried out
our principles till our money was all gone, and then we sold the
copyright to Messrs. Chapman & Hall for a trifle. But before we
parted with our property we found that a fortnightly issue was not
popular with the trade through whose hands the work must reach the
public; and, as our periodical had not become sufficiently popular
itself to bear down such opposition, we succumbed, and brought
it out once a month. Still it was The Fortnightly, and still it
is The Fortnightly. Of all the serial publications of the day, it
probably is the most serious, the most earnest, the least devoted
to amusement, the least flippant, the least jocose,--and yet it
has the face to show itself month after month to the world, with
so absurd a misnomer! It is, as all who know the laws of modern
literature are aware, a very serious thing to change the name of
a periodical. By doing so you begin an altogether new enterprise.
Therefore should the name be well chosen;--whereas this was very
ill chosen, a fault for which I alone was responsible.
That theory of eclecticism was altogether impracticable. It was as
though a gentleman should go into the House of Commons determined
to support no party, but to serve his country by individual utterances.
Such gentlemen have gone into the House of Commons, but they have
not served their country much. Of course the project broke down.
Liberalism, freethinking, and open inquiry will never object to appear
in company with their opposites, because they have the conceit to
think that they can quell those opposites; but the opposites will
not appear in conjunction with liberalism, free-thinking, and open
inquiry. As a natural consequence, our new publication became an
organ of liberalism, free-thinking, and open inquiry. The result
has been good; and though there is much in the now established
principles of The Fortnightly with which I do not myself agree, I
may safely say that the publication has assured an individuality,
and asserted for itself a position in our periodical literature,
which is well understood and highly respected.
As to myself and my own hopes in the matter,--I was craving after
some increase in literary honesty, which I think is still desirable but
which is hardly to be attained by the means which then recommended
themselves to me. In one of the early numbers I wrote a paper
advocating the signature of the authors to periodical writing,
admitting that the system should not be extended to journalistic
articles on political subjects. I think that I made the best of
my case; but further consideration has caused me to doubt whether
the reasons which induced me to make an exception in favour of
political writing do not extend themselves also to writing on other
subjects. Much of the literary criticism which we now have is very
bad indeed;--. so bad as to be open to the charge both of dishonesty
and incapacity. Books are criticised without being read,--are
criticised by favour,--and are trusted by editors to the criticism
of the incompetent. If the names of the critics were demanded,
editors would be more careful. But I fear the effect would be that
we should get but little criticism, and that the public would put
but little trust in that little. An ordinary reader would not care
to have his books recommended to him by Jones; but the recommendation
of the great unknown comes to him with all the weight of the Times,
the Spectator, or the Saturday.
Though I admit so much, I am not a recreant from the doctrine I then
preached. I think that the name of the author does tend to honesty,
and that the knowledge that it will be inserted adds much to the
author's industry and care. It debars him also from illegitimate
license and dishonest assertions. A man should never be ashamed
to acknowledge that which he is not ashamed to publish. In The
Fortnightly everything has been signed, and in this way good has,
I think, been done. Signatures to articles in other periodicals
have become much more common since The Fortnightly was commenced.
After a time Mr. Lewes retired from the editorship, feeling that
the work pressed too severely on his moderate strength. Our loss
in him was very great, and there was considerable difficulty in
finding a successor. I must say that the present proprietor has
been fortunate in the choice he did make. Mr. John Morley has done
the work with admirable patience, zeal, and capacity. Of course
he has got around him a set of contributors whose modes of thought
are what we may call much advanced; he being "much advanced" himself,
would not work with other aids. The periodical has a peculiar tone
of its own; but it holds its own with ability, and though there
are many who perhaps hate it, there are none who despise it. When
the company sold it, having spent about (pounds)9000 on it, it was worth
little or nothing. Now I believe it to be a good property.
My own last personal concern with it was on a matter, of fox-hunting.
[Footnote: I have written various articles for it since, especially
two on Cicero, to which I devoted great labour.] There came out in
it an article from the pen of Mr. Freeman the historian, condemning
the amusement, which I love, on the grounds of cruelty and general
brutality. Was it possible, asked Mr. Freeman, quoting from Cicero,
that any educated man should find delight in so coarse a pursuit?
Always bearing in mind my own connection with The Fortnightly, I
regarded this almost as a rising of a child against the father. I
felt at any rate bound to answer Mr. Freeman in the same columns,
and I obtained Mr. Morley's permission to do so. I wrote my defence
of fox-hunting, and there it is. In regard to the charge of cruelty,
Mr. Freeman seems to assert that nothing unpleasant should be
done to any of God's creatures except f or a useful purpose. The
protection of a lady's shoulders from the cold is a useful purpose;
and therefore a dozen fur-bearing animals may be snared in the
snow and left to starve to death in the wires, in order that the
lady may have the tippet,--though a tippet of wool would serve
the purpose as well as a tippet of fur. But the congregation and
healthful amusement of one or two hundred persons, on whose behalf
a single fox may or may not be killed, is not a useful purpose. I
think that Mr. Freeman has failed to perceive that amusement is as
needful and almost as necessary as food and raiment. The absurdity
of the further charge as to the general brutality of the pursuit,
and its consequent unfitness for an educated man, is to be attributed
to Mr. Freeman's ignorance of what is really done and said in the
hunting-field,--perhaps to his misunderstanding of Cicero's words.
There was a rejoinder to my answer, and I asked for space for
further remarks. I could have it, the editor said, if I much wished
it; but he preferred that the subject should be closed. Of course
I was silent. His sympathies were all with Mr. Freeman,--and
against the foxes, who, but for fox-hunting, would cease to exist
in England. And I felt that The Fortnighty was hardly the place for
the defence of the sport. Afterwards Mr. Freeman kindly suggested
to me that he would be glad to publish my article in a little book
to be put out by him condemnatory of fox-hunting generally. He was
to have the last word and the first word, and that power of picking
to pieces which he is known to use in so masterly a manner, without
any reply from me! This I was obliged to decline. If he would give
me the last word, as be would have the first, then, I told him, I
should be proud to join him in the book. This offer did not however
meet his views.
It had been decided by the Board of Management, somewhat in opposition
to my own ideas on the subject, that the Fortnightly Review should
always contain a novel. It was of course natural that I should write
the first novel, and I wrote The Belton Estate. It is similar in
its attributes to Rachel Ray and to Miss Mackenzie. It is readable,
and contains scenes which are true to life; but it has no peculiar
merits, and will add nothing to my reputation as a novelist. I have
not looked at it since it was published; and now turning back to
it in my memory, I seem to remember almost less of it than of any
book that I have written.
CHAPTER XI "THE CLAVERINGS," THE "PALL MALL GAZETTE," "NINA BALATKA," AND "LINDA TRESSEL"
The Claverings, which came out in 1866 and 1867, was the last novel