which I wrote for the Cornhill; and it was for this that I received
the highest rate of pay that was ever accorded to me. It was the
same length as Framley Parsonage, and the price was (pounds)2800. Whether
much or little, it was offered by the proprietor of the magazine,
and was paid in a single cheque.
In The Claverings I did not follow the habit which had now become
very common to me, of introducing personages whose names are already
known to the readers of novels, and whose characters were familiar
to myself. If I remember rightly, no one appears here who had
appeared before or who has been allowed to appear since. I consider
the story as a whole to be good, though I am not aware that the
public has ever corroborated that verdict. The chief character
is that of a young woman who has married manifestly for money and
rank,--so manifestly that she does not herself pretend, even while
she is making the marriage, that she has any other reason. The
man is old, disreputable, and a wornout debauchee. Then comes the
punishment natural to the offence. When she is free, the man whom
she had loved, and who had loved her, is engaged to another woman.
He vacillates and is weak,--in which weakness is the fault of the
book, as he plays the part of hero. But she is strong--strong in
her purpose, strong in her desires, and strong in her consciousness
that the punishment which comes upon her has been deserved.
But the chief merit of The Clarverings is in the genuine fun of
some of the scenes. Humour has not been my forte, but I am inclined
to think that the characters of Captain Boodle, Archie Clavering,
and Sophie Gordeloup are humorous. Count Pateroff, the brother of
Sophie, is also good, and disposes of the young hero's interference
in a somewhat masterly manner. In The Claverings, too, there is a
wife whose husband is a brute to her, who loses an only child--his
heir--and who is rebuked by her lord because the boy dies. Her
sorrow is, I think, pathetic. From beginning to end the story is
well told. But I doubt now whether any one reads The Claverings.
When I remember how many novels I have written, I have no right
to expect that above a few of them shall endure even to the second
year beyond publication. This story closed my connection with the
Cornhill Magazine;--but not with its owner, Mr. George Smith, who
subsequently brought out a further novel of mine in a separate
form, and who about this time established the Pall Mall Gazette,
to which paper I was for some years a contributor.
It was in 1865 that the Pall Mall Gazette was commenced, the
name having been taken from a fictitious periodical, which was the
offspring of Thackeray's brain. It was set on foot by the unassisted
energy and resources of George Smith, who had succeeded by means
of his magazine and his publishing connection in getting around him
a society of literary men who sufficed, as far as literary ability
went, to float the paper at one under favourable auspices. His two
strongest staffs probably were "Jacob Omnium," whom I regard as the
most forcible newspaper writer of my days, and Fitz-James Stephen,
the most conscientious and industrious. To them the Pall Mall
Gazette owed very much of its early success,--and to the untiring
energy and general ability of its proprietor. Among its other
contributors were George Lewes, Hannay,--who, I think, came up
from Edinburgh for employment on its columns,--Lord Houghton, Lord
Strangford, Charles Merivale, Greenwood the present editor, Greg,
myself, and very many others;--so many others, that I have met
at a Pall Mall dinner a crowd of guests who would have filled the
House of Commons more respectably than I have seen it filled even
on important occasions. There are many who now remember--and no
doubt when this is published there will be left some to remember--the
great stroke of business which was done by the revelations of a
visitor to one of the casual wards in London. A person had to be
selected who would undergo the misery of a night among the usual
occupants of a casual ward in a London poorhouse, and who should at
fell upon Mr. Greenwood's brother, who certainly possessed the
courage and the powers of endurance. The description, which was
very well given, was, I think, chiefly written by the brother of
the Casual himself. It had a great effect, which was increased by
secrecy as to the person who encountered all the horrors of that
night. I was more than once assured that Lard Houghton was the man.
I heard it asserted also that I myself had been the hero. At last
the unknown one could no longer endure that his honours should be
hidden, and revealed the truth,--in opposition, I fear, to promises
to the contrary, and instigated by a conviction that if known he
could turn his honours to account. In the meantime, however, that
record of a night passed in a workhouse had done more to establish
the sale of the journal than all the legal lore of Stephen, or the
polemical power of Higgins, or the critical acumen of Lewes.
My work was various. I wrote much on the subject of the American
War, on which my feelings were at the time very keen,--subscribing,
if I remember right, my name to all that I wrote. I contributed
also some sets of sketches, of which those concerning hunting found
favour with the public. They were republished afterwards, and had
a considerable sale, and may, I think, still be recommended to those
who are fond of hunting, as being accurate in their description of
the different classes of people who are to be met in the hunting-field.
There was also a set of clerical sketches, which was considered to
be of sufficient importance to bring down upon my head the critical
wrath of a great dean of that period. The most ill-natured review
that was ever written upon any work of mine appeared in the
Contemporary Review with reference to these Clerical Sketches. The
critic told me that I did not understand Greek. That charge has
been made not unfrequently by those who have felt themselves strong
in that pride-producing language. It is much to read Greek with
ease, but it is not disgraceful to be unable to do so. To pretend
to read it without being able,--that is disgraceful. The critic,
however, had been driven to wrath by my saying that Deans of the
Church of England loved to revisit the glimpses of the metropolitan
moon.
I also did some critical work for the Pall Mall,--as I did also for
The Fortnightly. It was not to my taste, but was done in conformity
with strict conscientious scruples. I read what I took in hand, and
said what I believed to be true,--always giving to the matter time
altogether incommensurate with the pecuniary result to myself. In
doing this for the Pall Mall, I fell into great sorrow. A gentleman,
whose wife was dear to me as if she were my own sister; was in
some trouble as to his conduct in the public service. He had been
bl
amed, as he thought unjustly, and vindicated himself in a pamphlet.
This he handed to me one day, asking me to read it, and express my
opinion about it if I found that I had an opinion. I thought the
request injudicious, and I did not read the pamphlet. He met me
again, and, handing me a second pamphlet, pressed me very hard. I
promised him that I would read it, and that if I found myself able
I would express myself;--but that I must say not what I wished
to think, but what I did think. To this of course he assented. I
then went very much out of my way to study the subject,--which was
one requiring study. I found, or thought that I found, that the
conduct of the gentleman in his office had been indiscreet; but that
charges made against himself affecting his honour were baseless.
This I said, emphasising much more strongly than was necessary the
opinion which I had formed of his indiscretion,--as will so often
be the case when a man has a pen in his hand. It is like a club
or sledge-hammer,--in using which, either for defence or attack,
a man can hardly measure the strength of the blows he gives. Of
course there was offence,--and a breaking off of intercourse between
loving friends,--and a sense of wrong received, and I must own,
too, of wrong done. It certainly was not open to me to whitewash
with honesty him whom I did not find to be white; but there was no
duty incumbent on me to declare what was his colour in my eyes,--no
duty even to ascertain. But I had been ruffled by the persistency
of the gentleman's request,--which should not have been made,--and
I punished him for his wrong-doing by doing a wrong myself. I must
add, that before he died his wife succeeded in bringing us together.
In the early days of the paper, the proprietor, who at that time
acted also as chief editor, asked me to undertake a duty,--of which
the agony would indeed at no one moment have been so sharp as that
endured in the casual ward, but might have been prolonged until
human nature sank under it. He suggested to me that I should during
an entire season attend the May meetings in Exeter Hall, and give
a graphic and, if possible, amusing description of the proceedings.
I did attend one,--which lasted three hours,--and wrote a paper which
I think was called A Zulu in Search of a Religion. But when the
meeting was over I went to that spirited proprietor, and begged him
to impose upon me some task more equal to my strength. Not even on
behalf of the Pall Mall Gazette, which was very dear to me, could
I go through a second May meeting,--much less endure a season of
such martyrdom.
I have to acknowledge that I found myself unfit for work on
a newspaper. I had not taken to it early enough in life to learn
its ways and bear its trammels. I was fidgety when any work was
altered in accordance with the judgment of the editor, who, of
course, was responsible for what appeared. I wanted to select my
own subjects,--not to have them selected for me; to write when I
pleased,--and not when it suited others. As a permanent member of
the staff I was of no use, and after two or three years I dropped
out of the work.
From the commencement of my success as a writer, which I date
from the beginning of the Cornhill Magazine, I had always felt an
injustice in literary affairs which had never afflicted me or even
suggested itself to me while I was unsuccessful. It seemed to me
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