Re
a
di
ngTr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
Whe
r
ei
st
hepoi
ntofde
pa
r
t
ur
ei
nc
ons
i
de
r
i
ngTr
ol
l
ope
’
sAn Autobiography?
(Trollope interchanged the words memoir and autobiography.) What are the problems
and promises in recreating personal history? We construct and we de-construct: we
select, alter, shape, eliminate, exaggerate, interpret and frame our lives in the context of
how we wish to be perceived or how we believe we are perceived; the persona we have
created for ourselves.
Writing a memoir is about exploration and experimentation. Writing is liberation
that weaves a web with multiple rooms: the writer asks us to permit him or her the
journey. After all, are there moral implications in exaggeration and fabrication?
Trollope began keeping a journal when he was fifteen years old (1830) and
continued it for ten years. He retained the journals until 1870 and then destroyed them.
“
The
yc
onv
i
c
t
e
dmeoff
ol
l
y,
i
g
nor
a
nc
e
,
i
ndi
s
c
r
e
t
i
on,
i
dl
e
ne
s
s
,
e
xt
r
a
v
a
g
a
nc
e
,
a
nd
c
onc
e
i
t
.
” Hec
onc
e
de
dt
he
ywe
r
e“
ahe
a
r
t
s
i
c
k
,
f
r
i
e
ndl
e
s
sl
i
t
t
l
ec
ha
p’
se
xa
g
g
e
r
a
t
i
onofhi
s
woe
s
.
”
Ne
dO’
Gor
ma
ni
nhi
sr
e
c
e
ntme
moi
r
,
The Other Side of Loneliness, writes:
“
Ca
nIbec
e
r
t
a
i
nt
ha
twha
tIha
v
er
e
me
mbe
r
e
di
sa
c
c
ur
a
t
e
?Thec
hi
l
di
nmei
s
dead. I write of his resurrection. I seek cause, find effects, and call them causes.
I seek the past, find the present, and understand it as past. What seems to have
been appears to me as certain, and what appears to me as certain seems often to be
the fiction of the moment. Has time delivered history and memory from the coils
of reason, so that what I observe now is, in fact, what can only be true: memory
i
nt
hec
a
ul
dr
onofe
r
r
or
,
off
a
nt
a
s
y,
off
a
c
t
,
ofg
r
a
c
e
?
”
We read through our own lens, interpreting text through our gender and through
historical, social and cultural perspectives.
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
2
Dr
.
Wor
t
l
e
’
sSc
hool
was my initiation into Trollope, followed by The Kellys and
the O’
Ke
l
l
y
s
.These bookends on his career, front and back, are not the novels that are
usually recommended as a point of entry, or books that would necessarily entice one on
to join the fraternity of Trollopians.
TheKe
l
l
y
sandt
heO’
Ke
l
l
y
swa
sTr
ol
l
ope
’
ss
e
c
ondnov
e
l
,
oneofhi
sI
r
i
s
hs
t
or
i
e
s
,
published in 1848. He tells us in An Autobiography that the book got a real review in The
Times. But the book fell flat and did not sell.
Dr
.
Wor
t
l
e
’
sSc
hool
wa
swr
i
t
t
e
na
tt
hee
ndofTr
ol
l
ope
’
sl
i
f
e
,
ov
e
rt
hr
e
ewe
e
k
si
n
1879 when he and Rose were snowed in while staying at a rectory for a holiday in
Northamptonshire. The book was published the year before his death.
My curiosity about the man and writer, Anthony Trollope, developed because
while I could feel the characters as real people, smell the peat, feel the heat on my knees
from the hearth and hear the chatter in an Irish pub in TheKe
l
l
y
sandt
heO’
Ke
l
l
y
s
,I
c
oul
dn’
tg
e
tas
e
ns
eoft
hewr
i
t
e
r
.I
ti
snotne
c
e
s
s
a
r
y,
ofc
our
s
e
,
t
ok
nowt
hepe
r
s
ona
l
history of someone writing fiction; yet it is a tool in putting the work in context.
Why did Trollope write an autobiography?
Trollope was alone among the Victorian novelists to write an autobiography, as
heha
dbe
e
nputof
fbyt
he“
s
e
l
f
-puf
f
i
ng
”ofot
he
r
s(
s
pe
c
i
f
i
c
a
l
l
yDi
c
k
e
ns
,
Ma
c
r
e
a
dya
nd
even Thackeray), and he wanted to write his own memoir. He later wrote a biography of
Thackeray (1879), who had died in 1863.
In the first chapter Trollope writes:
“
Iwi
l
l
t
e
l
l
t
her
e
a
de
rpe
r
ha
psa
l
l
t
ha
tar
e
a
de
ri
se
nt
i
t
l
e
dt
oa
s
k
.
Iwi
l
l
t
e
l
l
howhe
[Thackeray] became an author, and will say how first he worked and struggled,
and then how he worked and prospered, and became a household word in English
literature; how, in this way, he passed through that course of mingled failure and
success, which, through the literary aspirant may suffer, is probably better both
for the writ
e
ra
ndf
ort
hewr
i
t
i
ng
st
ha
nunc
l
oude
de
a
r
l
yg
l
or
y.
”
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
3
David Parker, an author and Dickens scholar in London, told me when we met
that Dickens didn't write a formal autobiography
“
be
c
a
us
ef
i
c
t
i
onwa
shi
smé
t
i
e
r
,
notf
a
c
t
;a
ndbe
c
a
us
eheha
dt
hi
ng
st
ohide.
Dickens tried to write an autobiography some time in the middle of the 1840s, but
grew too bewildered and unhappy over his account of the Marshalsea jail and
blacking warehouse episode, confided the unfinished fragment to his friend and
later biographer, John Forster, and turned back to fiction –specifically to David
Copperfield. I
nl
a
t
e
rl
i
f
eheha
dhi
sl
ov
ea
f
f
a
i
rwi
t
hEl
l
e
nTe
r
na
nt
ohi
de
.
”
David believes that Trollope was less the slave of his imagination than Dickens, and he
led a pretty blameless life.
Anthony Trollope began work on his memoir in October 1875 on a sea crossing
between New York and Liverpool. This was the final leg of a trip home from Australia
where he and Rose had visited their younger son, Frederic. It had been a long trip, as
Trollope and his wife had arrived in San Francisco and then traveled across America in a
week-long train trip to New York, before sailing for Liverpool. Trollope was sixty years
old and felt like an old man –in fact he had felt like an old man at fifty years old.
(Thackeray died at the age of 52 in 1863 and Charles Dickens, three years older then
Trollope, died at the age of 58 in 1870.) Trollope had reached the height of his career in
the mid-1860s and interest in his books was beginning to wane. His book sales were
down.
Henry James was also on board the ship, named the Bothnia, and he noted:
“
Wea
l
s
oha
dAnt
honyTr
ol
l
opeonboa
r
d,
whowr
ot
enov
e
l
si
nhi
ss
t
a
t
er
oom a
l
l
the morning (he does it literally every morning of his life, no matter were he may
be,) and played cards with Mrs. Bronson all the evening. He has a gross and
repulsive face and manner, but appears bon enfant when you talk with him. But
hei
st
hedul
l
e
s
tBr
i
t
onoft
he
ma
l
l
.
”
Af
t
e
rTr
ol
l
ope
’
sde
a
t
h,
i
nar
e
f
e
r
e
nc
et
ot
he trip, James wrote of the:
“…ma
g
ni
f
i
c
e
nte
xa
mpl
eofpl
a
i
npe
r
s
i
s
t
e
nc
et
ha
ti
twa
si
nt
hepowe
roft
he
e
mi
ne
ntnov
e
l
i
s
tt
og
i
v
e… t
hev
e
s
s
e
l
ov
e
r
c
r
owde
d,
t
hev
oya
g
ede
t
e
s
t
a
bl
e
:but
Trollope shut himself up in his cabin every morning for a purpose ...which could
only be communion with his muse. He drove his pen as steadily on the tumbling
oc
e
a
na
si
nMont
a
g
ueSqua
r
e
.
”
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
4
Trollope had completed the first thirty-three pages of the manuscript, or two
chapters, when they arrived back in Great Britain at the end of October. This was slow
for Trollope, at least in regard to his fiction, because as he tells us, he:
“
…a
l
l
ot
t
e
dmys
e
l
fs
oma
nypa
g
e
spe
rwe
e
k
.Thea
v
e
r
a
g
enumbe
rha
sbe
e
na
bout
40. It has been placed as low as 20, and has risen to 112. And as a page is an
ambiguous term, my page has been made to contain 250 words; and as words, if
not watched, will have a tendency to straggle, I have had every word counted as I
we
nt
.
”
The first two chapters cover his unhappy adolescence and for such a private
person and a man so reticent to reveal personal feelings, these must have the most
difficult chapters for him to write. As a boy he felt abandoned by his mother and father
and lonely, sad, unpopular –an outsider –a child who coveted popularity. If his
descriptions are not true to life, it is how he felt and it is the reconstruction he wants us to
use as we look back across his life. He writes:
“
Wha
tr
i
g
htha
dawr
e
t
c
he
df
a
r
me
r
’
sboy,
r
e
e
k
i
ngf
r
om t
hedung
hi
l
l
,
t
os
i
tne
xtt
o
the sons of peers, - or much worse still, next to the sons of big tradesmen who had
made their ten thousand a year. The indignities I endured are not to be
de
s
c
r
i
be
d.
”
Was his life destined to end in debt and ignominy?
Trollope did not begin working on the autobiography again until January 2, and
completed it a few months later in April 1876. When he finished the manuscript he wrote
a letter, dated 30 April 1876, bequeathing it to his son Henry, and then locked the letter
and manuscript in a drawer. He told Henry about the manuscript in 1878 and then did not
mention it again. Henry had the right of suppressing any page or indeed of not
publishing the work. Trollope instructed Henry to have Chapman publish it and negotiate
for a price of 1800 pounds.
Trollope wrote seven more books before his death, including: Dr
.
Wor
t
l
e
’
s
Sc
hool
,Mar
i
onFay
,
Ke
pti
nt
heDar
k
,
TheFi
x
e
dPe
r
i
od,
Mr
.
Sc
ar
b
or
ough’
sFami
l
y
,
An
Ol
dMan’
sLov
eand The Landleaguers.
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
5
Trollope died in December 1882. He had suffered a stroke after a dinner in
November and lingered for a few weeks. N. John (Jack) Hall, in a paper entitled: Seeing
Tr
ol
l
ope
’
s“AnAut
ob
i
ogr
aphy
”Thr
ought
hePr
e
s
s
,
t
heCor
r
e
s
ponde
nc
eofWi
l
l
i
am
Blackwood and Henry Merivale Trollope, tells us that Henry Trollope went to his fathe
r
’
s
brother Thomas Adolphus for advice about having the memoir published immediately
a
f
t
e
rhi
sf
a
t
he
r
’
sde
a
t
h.Thoma
sr
e
c
omme
nde
dt
ha
thepubl
i
s
hi
ta
ss
oona
spos
s
i
bl
e
,
t
ha
t
he not offer the manuscript to Chapman and instead put a notice in the Athenaeum or
other journal that it was to be published. Henry signed an agreement with Blackwood to
publish 4000 copies in two volumes for 1000 pounds.
An Autobiography was published in 1883. J. B. Priestley, in his introduction in
the Fontana paperback edition of An Autobiography published in 1962, writes that in its
original form the book was not published again until Michael Sadleir introduced it in the
Oxf
or
dWor
l
d’
sCl
a
s
s
i
c
ss
e
r
i
e
si
n1
9
2
2
.Sa
dl
e
i
rnot
e
si
nhi
sTrollope, A Commentary
(dedicated to Trollope
’
ss
on,
He
nr
yi
ng
r
a
t
e
f
ul
a
c
k
nowl
e
dg
e
me
ntofhi
spa
t
i
e
nc
ea
nd
enthusiasm and published in 1927) that
“
i
t
spos
t
humousa
ppe
a
r
a
nc
e
,
i
n1
8
8
3ha
de
xt
i
ng
ui
s
he
di
t
sa
ut
hor
’
sg
oodna
mef
or
aqua
r
t
e
rofac
e
nt
ur
y,
a
ndv
a
ni
s
he
d…a
ndbyi
t
sv
e
r
yi
nt
r
a
ns
i
g
e
nc
ea
ndassertive
bluntness may be expected to remake, more than ever it disestablished, the fame
of the man who wrote it and of the long list of wise, tender, and unpretentious
nov
e
l
st
ha
thec
r
e
a
t
e
d.
”
Jack Hall disagrees with both of these points. An Autobiography had very good
r
e
v
i
e
wsa
ndv
a
r
i
ouss
ubs
e
que
ntpr
i
nt
i
ng
sa
ndmos
tpe
opl
ea
l
r
e
a
dyk
ne
wofTr
ol
l
ope
’
s
me
t
hoda
nddi
s
c
i
pl
i
nea
r
oundwr
i
t
i
ng … s
ot
he
r
ewa
snot
hi
ngne
wi
nt
hea
ut
obi
og
r
a
phy.
What did Trollope leave out of An Autobiography that we learn from his
biographers?
Trollope tells us only what he wants us to know about his family. We learn that
hi
sf
a
t
he
r“
wa
se
v
e
rmor
ea
nxi
ousf
ort
hee
duc
a
t
i
onofhi
sc
hi
l
dr
e
n,
t
houg
hIt
hi
nknone
ever knew less about how to go about the work. Of amusement, as far as I can
r
e
me
mbe
r
,
hene
v
e
rr
e
c
og
ni
z
e
dt
hene
e
d.
” The
r
es
e
e
me
dt
obenor
e
de
e
mi
ng
characteristics about his father.
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
6
Oft
he
i
rf
a
t
he
r
,
Tr
ol
l
ope
’
sbr
ot
he
rThoma
swr
ot
ei
nhi
sa
ut
obi
og
r
a
phy,
publ
i
s
he
d
a
f
t
e
rAnt
hony’
sde
a
t
h,i
nt
hr
e
ev
ol
ume
s
,
each one 400 pages, republished in an edited
version by Herbert van Thal in 1973:
“
Hewa
s
,
i
nawor
d,
hi
g
hl
yr
e
s
pe
c
t
e
dbutnotapopul
a
rorwe
l
l
be
l
ov
e
dma
n.
Worst of all, alas! He was not popular in his own home. No one of all the family
circle is happy in his presence. Assuredly he was as affectionate and anxiously
solicitous a father as any children ever had. I never remember him caning,
whi
ppi
ngbe
a
t
i
ngors
t
r
i
k
i
nga
nyoneofus
.…The
r
ewa
sa
l
s
oas
t
r
a
ng
es
or
tof
asceticism about him, which seemed to make enjoyment or any employment of
the hours save work, distasteful and offensive to him. Lessons for us boys were
ne
v
e
rov
e
ra
nddonewi
t
h.
.
.
”
Anthony devotes a chapter to his mother. Frances Milton had married Thomas
Trollope in 1809 when she was thirty years old. She had six children, four boys and two
girls. Four of the children died during her lifetime. When she eventually found herself
having to support a depressed husband, and wanting to establish her son Henry in a
profitable enterprise, she sailed to America in 1827 with Henry and her two daughters.
She was 47 years old; Anthony was thirteen years old and was left at home with his
father.
Mrs. Trollope spent three and a half years in America and established a
department store –an empor
i
um de
s
i
g
ne
dt
os
e
l
l
Eur
ope
a
nt
r
i
nk
e
t
st
ot
he“
na
t
i
v
e
s
”i
n
Cincinnati, Ohio. The venture was a financial disaster, and so without any resources, and
by default, she wrote a book from her travel notes entitled: The Domestic Manners of
Americans. When it was published in London in 1832, shortly after her fifty-third
birthday –catty and naughty –it became one of the most talked about books of the
season. The book went through four printings and Mrs. Trollope earned 600 pounds and
immediately sold her next book. She wrote for money, not fame.
In An Autobiography Trollope writes:
“
Wi
t
hhe
r
,
pol
i
t
i
c
swe
r
ea
l
wa
ysa
na
f
f
a
i
roft
hehe
a
r
t–as indeed, were all her
c
onv
i
c
t
i
ons
”a
nd“
Shewa
se
ndowe
d,
t
oo,
wi
t
hmuc
hc
r
e
a
t
i
v
epowe
r
,
wi
t
h
considerable humour, and a genuine feeling for romance. But she was neither
clear-sighted, nor accurate; and in her attempt to describe morals, manners, and
e
v
e
nf
a
c
t
s
,
wa
suna
bl
et
oa
v
oi
dt
hepi
t
f
a
l
l
sofe
xa
g
g
e
r
a
t
i
on.
”
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
7
In 1856 his mother was ending her literary career –she was seventy-six years old
and her last book, Fashionable Life, or Paris and London was about to be published. She
had written 41 books–the individual volumes numbering 115. Now on 8 July 1856 she
wrote to Anthony, who had published The Warden in 1855 and would publish Barchester
Towers the following year:
“
Ia
mi
nt
r
ut
hg
r
ownwoe
f
ul
l
yi
dl
e
,
a
ndwor
s
es
t
i
l
l
,
woe
f
ul
l
yl
a
z
y,
a
ndt
hi
s
symptom is both new and disagreeable to me. But the degree of activity of which
I have been wont to boast –might have been accounted in my very best days as
possible idleness when compared to what you manifest. Tom and I agree in
thinking that you exceed in this respect any individual that we have ever known or
heard of –and I am proud of being your mother –as well for this reason as for
s
undr
yot
he
r
s
.
”
Frances Trollope was a remarkable, brave and independent woman. Victoria
Glendinning recommends two recent biographies about Mrs. Trollope published by the
British authors Teresa Ransom and Pamela Neville-Sington.
Anthony tells us little about his surviving brother Thomas, who published several
book
s
,
mos
twi
t
ha
nI
t
a
l
i
a
nt
he
me
.Thoma
swa
shi
smot
he
r
’
sf
a
v
or
i
t
e
.Hes
pe
ntye
a
r
s
living with her in Florence, Italy, and escorting her around the Continent. The salons at
the Villa Trollope were frequently visited by well-known writers. Thomas was part of
the circle that included George Eliot, Charles Dickens and other writers and artists. After
his first wife died he married Fanny Ternan, the sister of Ellen Ternan, Cha
r
l
e
sDi
c
k
e
ns
’
mistress. Fanny Ternan published a biography of her mother-in-law, Frances Trollope.
Ant
hony’
swi
f
e
,
Ros
eHe
s
e
l
t
i
ne
,
i
samys
t
e
r
y.Het
e
l
l
sust
ha
theme
the
ri
n
Ireland on holiday when he had lived there for one year and they were married two years
later on June 11, 1844.
In An Autobiography he writes:“Perhaps I ought to name that happy day as the
c
omme
nc
e
me
ntofmybe
t
t
e
rl
i
f
e
,
r
a
t
he
rt
ha
nt
heda
yonwhi
c
hIf
i
r
s
tl
a
nde
di
nI
r
e
l
a
nd.
”
“
Myma
r
r
i
a
g
ewa
sl
i
k
et
hema
r
r
i
a
g
eofot
he
rpe
opl
e, of no special interest to any one
e
xc
e
ptmywi
f
ea
ndme
.…Wewe
r
enotv
e
r
yr
i
c
h…ma
nype
opl
ewoul
ds
a
yt
ha
twewe
r
e
t
wof
ool
st
oe
nc
ount
e
rs
uc
hpov
e
r
t
yt
og
e
t
he
r
.
”
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
8
Whe
nTr
ol
l
ope
’
smot
he
rme
tRos
es
hes
e
e
msnott
oha
v
ebe
e
nda
z
z
l
e
d,
buts
he
liked her a
ndc
a
l
l
e
dhe
r“
a
ne
xc
e
l
l
e
ntl
i
t
t
l
ewi
f
e
.
”I
nhe
rt
ur
n,
Ros
ewa
sc
ha
r
me
dbyhe
r
mother-in-l
a
w.Shewa
sa
ma
z
e
dbyFr
a
nc
e
s
’i
ndus
t
r
y,
l
ov
e
dt
ohe
a
rhe
rt
a
l
k
,
a
ndwa
s
impressed by the energy with which she organized picnics and excursions.
We know that Ros
er
e
a
dTr
ol
l
ope
’
swor
k
,
t
ha
ts
hev
e
t
t
e
dde
s
c
r
i
pt
i
onsofwome
n’
s
clothing in his writing, and that she was probably adored, as wives are adored and
protected. She kept diaries of their travels and she prepared a chronology of life events
for the autobiography.
Since underhand financial dealings play a role in so many Trollope novels it is
wor
t
hnot
i
ngt
ha
tRos
eHe
s
e
l
t
i
ne
’
sf
a
t
he
r
,
aba
nkma
na
g
e
ri
nEng
l
a
nd,
wa
she
a
v
i
l
y
involved in an embezzlement scandal at the end of his career and forced to move to the
Continent –a
sTr
ol
l
ope
’
sownf
a
t
he
rha
dbe
e
nf
or
c
e
dt
ot
heCont
i
ne
ntt
hr
oug
h
bankruptcy. However, Anthony and Rose had not had much to do with her family, and
there is no indication through letters or other information that it bothered Trollope.
Rose Trollope outlived Anthony by 35 years and died in 1917. Victoria
Gl
e
ndi
nni
ngt
e
l
l
st
ha
t“
muc
hoft
hema
t
e
r
i
a
l
pr
os
pe
r
i
t
yofwhi
c
hAnt
honywa
ss
opr
oud
di
e
dwi
t
hhi
m …s
hewa
snoti
ndi
g
e
nt
,
buts
hewa
snotr
i
c
h… i
n1
8
8
9
,
a
g
e
ds
i
xt
y-nine,
she submitted to Bl
a
c
k
wood’
sas
t
or
yc
a
l
l
e
d‘
TheLe
g
e
ndofHol
m Royde
.
’I
twa
s
r
e
j
e
c
t
e
d.
”
Kate Field is the American woman he describes in An Autobiography:
“
The
r
ei
sawoma
n,
ofwhom nott
os
pe
a
k
,
i
nawor
kpur
por
t
i
ngt
obeame
moi
rof
my own life would be to omit all allusion to one of the chief pleasures which has
graced my later years. In the last fifteen years she has been, out of my own
family, my most chosen friend. She is a ray of light to me, from which I can
always strike a spark by thinking of her. I do not know that I should please her or
dog
oodt
oa
nyonebyna
mi
nghe
r
.
”
In the first edition of An Autobiography Henry left out the word American and
Jack Hall tells us that there was a British woman (or perhaps women) who took credit for
being this special friend.
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
9
Miss Field was the daughter of a couple who had been in the theater. She was a
journalist, well-known in the Boston literary world, slim and attractive. Sought by many,
she never married and became an active feminist. Trollope met her in Florence at Villa
Trollope when she was twenty-two years old in 1860. Trollope was forty-five.
Gl
e
ndi
nni
ngt
e
l
l
sust
ha
ts
hec
ol
l
e
c
t
e
dphot
og
r
a
phsof“
l
i
t
e
r
a
r
yl
i
ons
”a
nds
he“
c
ol
l
e
c
t
e
d
l
i
t
e
r
a
r
yl
i
ons
”bot
hma
l
ea
ndf
e
ma
l
e
.
I
tha
sbe
e
nr
e
por
t
e
dt
ha
tTrollope kept a photograph
of her in his bedroom. According to Jack Hall, while Trollope was charmed by Miss
Fi
e
l
di
twa
sapl
a
t
oni
cr
e
l
a
t
i
ons
hi
p.Mi
c
ha
e
l
Sa
dl
e
i
r
’
sTrollope, A Commentary includes
anumbe
rofAnt
hony’
sl
e
t
t
e
r
st
oKa
t
eFi
e
l
d.
About his two sons, and he was an adoring and supportive father, we also learn
little. His son Fredric failed as a sheep rancher in Australia –his father had provided
generous support and financial assistance. He became a civil servant and remained in
Australia. He
nr
yt
r
a
i
ne
da
sal
a
wye
r
,
t
hr
oug
hhi
sf
a
t
he
r
’
se
f
f
or
t
sa
ndf
i
na
nc
i
a
l
ba
c
k
i
ng
,
tried publishing and then decided to become a writer. As Trollope predicted, he did
write, but without success. Mistakes in the original edition of An Autobiography are
credit
e
dt
oHe
nr
y’
ss
l
oppyc
opyi
ngf
r
om t
heor
i
g
i
na
l
a
ndJ
a
c
kHa
l
l
not
e
sma
nyoft
he
mistakes in his paper.
Trollope tells us, straight away in An Autobiography that he is framing his life and
wor
kwi
t
hi
nt
hepa
r
a
me
t
e
r
sof“
wha
tt
her
e
a
de
ri
se
nt
i
t
l
e
dt
oa
s
k
.
”Hei
sdi
da
c
t
i
ci
n
out
l
i
ni
nghi
swr
i
t
i
ngme
t
hod(
a
ndJ
.
B.
Pr
i
e
s
t
l
y,
1
9
6
2wr
i
t
e
s
:“
Asf
oryoungwr
i
t
e
r
sa
nd
literary aspirants, if I were condemned, which God forbid, to take them through one of
those courses on Creative Writing, they would find An Autobiography on the reading
l
i
s
t
.
”
)
;ne
i
t
he
ra
pol
og
e
t
i
c
,
norhe
s
i
t
a
nti
nde
s
c
r
i
bi
nghi
sc
a
r
e
e
ra
sac
i
v
i
l
s
e
r
v
a
nti
nt
he
post office; and places his family, their influence, within the framework of his own career
–t
he“
pa
l
a
c
eofma
t
c
hs
t
i
c
k
s
”t
ha
ti
twa
s
,
a
tt
imes.
Ant
hony’
sj
our
na
l
’
sha
d”
ha
bi
t
ua
t
e
dmet
ot
her
a
pi
dus
eofpe
na
ndi
nk
,
a
nd
t
a
ug
htmehowt
oe
xpr
e
s
smys
e
l
fwi
t
hf
a
c
i
l
i
t
y.
”Byt
het
i
mehewa
sni
ne
t
e
e
nheha
dr
e
a
d
Milton, Shakespeare, Scott and Byron and thought Pride and Prejudice was the best
novel in the English language, until a second reading of Ivanhoe and then the publication
ofTha
c
k
e
r
a
y’
sEsmond. He saw himself as a novelist by default.
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
10
Anthony wrote that his mother:
“
di
dnotg
i
v
ehi
mc
r
e
di
tf
ort
hes
or
tofc
l
e
v
e
r
ne
s
sne
c
e
s
s
a
r
yf
orsuch work. I
could see in the faces and hear in the voices of those of my friends who were
around me at the house in Cumberland –my mother, my sister, my brother-inlaw, and I think, my brother –they did not expect me to come out as one of the
family authors. There were three or four in the field before me, and it seemed to
be almost absurd that another should wish to add himself to the number. ... My
mother had become a popular author of the day. My brother had commenced, and
had been fairly, well paid for his work, his sister had a novel in manuscript and I
could perceive that that this attempt of mine was felt to be an unfortunate
a
g
g
r
a
v
a
t
i
onoft
hedi
s
e
a
s
e
.
”
Defining his method of writing, Frederic Harrison, the British jurist and historian
who knew Trollope, recalls a conversation between Trollope and George Eliot at a small
dinner party in her house.
"Why!" said Anthony, "I sit down every morning at 5.30 with my watch on my
desk, and for three hours I regularly produce 250 words every quarter of an hour."
George Eliot positively quivered with horror at the thought –she who could write
only when she felt in the vein, who wrote, re-wrote, and destroyed her manuscript
two or three times, and as often as not sat at her table without writing at all.
"There are days and days together," she groaned out, "when I cannot write a line."
"Yes!" said Trollope, "with imaginative work like yours that is quite natural; but
with my mechanical stuff it's a sheer matter of industry. It's not the head that does
it –i
t
’
st
hec
obbl
e
r
'
swa
xont
hes
e
a
ta
ndt
hes
t
i
c
k
i
ngt
omyc
ha
i
r
!
”
Gr
a
ha
m Gr
e
e
ne
’
swr
i
t
i
ngme
t
hodwa
si
nf
l
ue
nc
e
dbyTr
ol
l
ope
.It
a
l
k
e
dwi
t
h
Nor
ma
nShe
r
r
y,
Gr
e
e
ne
’
sbi
og
r
a
phe
r
,
a
ndhet
ol
dmet
ha
tGr
e
e
newhe
nt
r
a
v
e
l
i
ngi
n
Africa and in Mexico, measured his reading of Trollope because he always wanted to
have a Trollope on hand.
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
11
Greene in The End of the Affair writes:
“
Iwa
st
r
yi
ngt
owr
i
t
eabookt
ha
ts
i
mpl
ywoul
dnotc
ome
.Idi
dmyda
i
l
yf
i
v
e
hundred words, but the characters never began to live. So much in writing
depends ont
hes
upe
r
f
i
c
i
a
l
i
t
yofone
’
sda
ys
.Onema
ybepr
e
oc
c
upi
e
dwi
t
h
shopping and income tax returns and chance conversations, but the stream of the
unconscious continues to flow undisturbed, solving problems, planning ahead:
one sits down sterile and dispirited at the desk, and suddenly the words come as
through from the air: the situations that seemed blocked in a hopeless impasse
move forward: the work had been done while one slept or shopped or talked with
f
r
i
e
nds
.
…”
Anyone writing, with even the notion of publishing, knows that understanding
how to navigate the rough waters of publishing is essential –publishers are our eye on the
world. Trollope gives advice about how to negotiate the price for a manuscript and
unde
r
s
t
a
nd,
i
nhi
swor
ds
,
t
he“
c
ha
nc
e
soft
hema
r
k
e
t
.
”
At the height of his career, with his prodigious energy he was working at the post
office, playing whist in the afternoon, reading, hunting weekly, up at five each morning
writing, globetrotting, and entertaining at his clubs –he was also a literary agent. No
wonder we learn that he could fall asleep standing against a wall at the Garrick.
Self-pr
omot
i
onwa
ss
ome
t
hi
ngt
ha
tTr
ol
l
opea
bhor
r
e
d,
“
s
e
l
f
-puf
f
i
ng
”hec
a
l
l
e
di
t
.
He gives us his insights into the role of critics and literary criticism, and he tells us of an
author who delivered a leather bound copy of manuscript that has just received a good
review to the reviewer –a moral slip, according to Trollope.
While he read what he had written the day before during the first half-hour of the
mor
ni
nga
ndma
nus
c
r
i
pt
st
hr
e
et
i
me
sbe
f
or
et
he
ywe
r
epubl
i
s
he
dhede
t
e
s
t
e
d“
pol
i
s
hi
ng
”
be
c
a
us
ewi
t
ht
oomuc
hofi
t“
youc
oul
ds
me
l
l
t
heoi
l
.
”Ma
nypa
g
e
si
nhi
sma
nus
c
r
i
pt
sa
r
e
written without corrections.
He was passionate about hunting, though not particularly good at it. It was
amusement for him. His vision was poor; he was a large awkward man and certainly did
not cut a handsome figure mounted on a horse. He acknowledges that he may have
included too many hunting scenes in his work and continued riding until the end of his
life.
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
12
He loved club life –particularly at the Garrick. We can imagine sitting next to
Mr. Trollope at the long table –his voice and his laughter rising above that of the others
in the room and his large frame and rumpled, ill-fitting clothing attracting attention. How
anxious he was when his son Henry was proposed for membership, and how joyful, and
relieved he was, when Henry was accepted by the Admissions Committee.
Why is An Autobiography helpful to us as readers of Trollope?
An Autobiography i
sabl
ue
pr
i
nt
,
pr
ov
i
di
ngt
hea
r
c
hi
t
e
c
t
ur
eofTr
ol
l
ope
’
sl
i
f
e
,
outside of his mind and imagination. All of the volumes and volumes written about
Trollope are charted against this framework. Imagine if Trollope had not left us An
Autobiography –howwoul
dbi
og
r
a
phe
r
sha
v
ef
r
a
me
dhi
sl
i
f
e
?Hi
sbr
ot
he
r
’
s
autobiography paints a different canvas and was partially written because he felt that
ma
nyoft
hi
sbr
ot
he
r
’
sde
s
c
r
i
pt
i
onsofhi
smot
he
ra
ndt
he
i
rf
a
mi
l
ywe
r
enota
c
c
ur
a
t
e.
The question that has always circled Trollope is, was he a civil servant, who just
happened to write and publish novels that beguile, amuse and reflect on popular culture,
politics, the clergy, morals and manners? Or was he a true artist and writer? As C. P.
Snowwr
i
t
e
si
nhi
si
l
l
us
t
r
a
t
e
dbi
og
r
a
phy,Tr
ol
l
ope
’
s“
c
r
i
t
i
c
s
,
i
nhi
sownt
i
mea
nds
i
nc
e
,
have never been comfortable with Trollope, and have tended to take refuge in a kind of
pa
t
r
oni
z
i
ngune
a
s
e
.
”
In the essay on Trollope that Frederic Harrison published in 1896 in Early
Victorian Literature he wrote:
“
Someofouryoung
e
rf
r
i
e
ndswhor
e
a
dt
hena
mewhi
c
hhe
a
dst
hi
se
s
s
a
yma
y
incline to think that it ought to be very short indeed, nay, be limited to a single
remark; and, like the famous chapter on the snakes in Iceland, it should simply
run –that Anthony Trollope has no place at all in Victorian literature. We did not
think so in England in the fifties, the sixties, and the seventies, in the heyday of
Victorian romance.
“
Ik
ne
whi
m we
l
l
,
k
ne
whis subjects, and his stage. I have dined with him at
George Eliot's, and even met him in the hunting-field. I knew the world in which
he lived; I saw the scenes, the characters, and the life he paints, day by day in the
same clubs, in the same rooms, and under the same conditions as he saw them.
To re-read some of his best stories, as I have just done, is to me like looking
through a photographic album of my acquaintances, companions, and familiar
r
e
mi
ni
s
c
e
nc
e
sofs
omet
hi
r
t
yye
a
r
sa
g
o.
”
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
13
Tr
ol
l
ope
’
snov
els are drawn in the mind as an architect designs and then creates a
building –through a method that fits the creative into the realm of the possible. Didactic,
universal and engaging, a photograph of life, perfectly connecting the beginning to the
end. Thec
ha
r
a
c
t
e
r
sl
i
v
i
ngi
nhi
smi
nd:“
Iha
v
ewa
nde
r
e
da
l
onea
mongt
her
oc
k
sa
nd
woods, crying at their grief, laughing at their absurdities, and thoroughly enjoying their
j
oy.
”
What we learn from An Autobiography is the utter centrality of writing to him: as
livelihood, as a way out of the miseries of youth, as a way to regulate his everyday life.
The book helps us place him in context with and counterpoint to his writing
contemporaries.
And we can understand why he liked the American spirit because it is
industriousness that seems to have made him happy:
“
I
ti
snott
hepr
i
z
et
ha
tc
a
nma
k
eusha
ppy;i
ti
snote
v
e
nt
hewi
nni
ngoft
hepr
i
z
e
,
though for the one short half-hour of triumph that is pleasant enough. The
struggle, the long hot hour of the honest fight, the grinding work- when the teeth
are set, and the skin moist with sweat and rough with dust, when all is doubtful
and sometimes desperate, when a man must trust to his own manhood knowing
that those around him trust to it or not at all- that is theha
ppyt
i
meofl
i
f
e
.
”(
f
r
om
Orley Farm)
When Trollope died he had written forty-seven novels (of the forty-seven, twenty
are the traditional three volume length, nine are longer, the equivalent of four or five
volumes, and thirty-three are shorter, one or two volumes); five volumes of collected
short stories, a handful of uncollected stories; five travel books (four large travel books
and the slight Mastiffs); five biographies (including his own), four collections of sketches
(hunting types, clergymen, travelers, tradesmen); a book of social criticism (the New
Zealander) and enough essays and reviews to fill three or four more volumes.
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
14
Edward Newton, the bibliophile author and authority on book collecting in the
first half of the 20th Century, who founded The Trollope Society in Philadelphia in 1929,
wrote:
“
Wel
i
v
ei
nadi
s
t
r
a
c
t
e
dwor
l
d.Noonec
ount
r
yha
samonopol
yoft
r
oubl
e
,
t
he
r
e
is enough to go around, but in this country our troubles are largely of our own
making. We have a rather bad political system; candidates for office are selected
wi
t
hl
i
t
t
l
eornot
houg
hta
st
ot
he
i
rf
i
t
ne
s
sa
nd,
onc
ee
l
e
c
t
e
d,
‘
pl
a
ypol
i
t
i
c
s
’v
e
r
y
largely to the neglect of their duties. Sometimes this is the case of our Chief
Exe
c
ut
i
v
e… …Iha
v
es
ome
t
hi
ngt
os
ug
g
est that will take our minds off our
t
r
oubl
e
s…As
our
c
eofr
e
a
di
ng…Is
ug
g
e
s
tac
our
s
eofr
e
a
di
ngt
heg
oodol
d
Victorian novels of Anthony Trollope. Here and now I proclaim the fact that
Anthony Trollope has written a greater number of first class novels than Dickens,
orTha
c
k
e
r
a
yorGe
or
g
eEl
i
ot
.
”
Presented by Elizabeth Howard, on September 28, 2006, before
The Century Trollopians
The Century Association, New York, New York
Reading Tr
ol
l
ope
:Thr
oug
hTr
ol
l
ope
’
sLe
ns
15
References:
Atwood, M. (2004). Writing with Intent, Essays, Reviews, Personal Prose. New
York: Carroll & Graf Publishers.
Bliven, N. (1996). Review of the book The Invisible Woman: The Story of
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