Excursions in Victorian Bibliography. Michael Sadleir
Green), to Mr. Spalding (of Messrs. Chatto and Windus), to Mr. Herbert Virtue (of Messrs. Virtue and Co.), to Mr. Farquharson and to Mr. Leonard Huxley (of Messrs. John Murray), to Mr. Marston (of the “Publishers' Circular”), I tender my best thanks.
Gratitude must next be expressed to booksellers and owners of books whose contribution differed in kind but not in degree from that of the foregoing. Mr. Walter Spencer put his unrivalled stock of Victorian first editions wholly at my disposal, thus enabling me to examine many rare items not elsewhere discoverable. He also lent me a series of autograph letters from which certain details were obtainable. To Messrs. Bain and Messrs. Maggs I owe opportunities of seeing books necessary to my list. Mr. Hugh Walpole gave me access to his private collection, and Mr. Cecil Davis, Mr. J. A. Green, and Mr. Clement Shorter helped to a clearer understanding of the bibliography of Captain Marryat and of Mrs. Gaskell.
Further, I should like to set down my appreciation of the facilities afforded to me by the authorities of the British Museum and of the Bodleian Library. Their willingness to shorten in my favour the tedious process of extracting scattered volumes from their stores and vaults saved much fatigue and hours of valuable time.
To my mother, to my wife, and to one of my publishers I owe thanks for friendly collaboration at points where two heads and four hands had more than twice the value of half their number. Lastly, and perhaps mostly, I am indebted, for secretarial assistance and for help in the labour of research, to Miss Martha Smith, whose accuracy and devotion have halved my personal toil.
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
1815–1882
ANTHONY TROLLOPE[3]
Trollope's novels, like those of Jane Austen, are of the very essence of fiction. Whatever they may lack in verbal subtlety, in passion, in tragedy or in comedy of idea, they never lack that spiritual skeleton without which no structure of a story-teller's imagining can survive. Palaces more delicate, more romantic, more brilliant and more terrible than those of Trollope have been erected and have stood to win the admiration of posterity; but their splendour and their beauty are due more to the solid material that upholds their walls and roofs than to the skill and fancy of their decoration. Other palaces, because they lacked such invisible but vital solidity, have drawn for an hour the fickle favour of the crowd and then toppled into dust. It is easy, in fiction, to create a nine days' wonder, but hard indeed to win the esteem of ninety years.
3. For his consent to the reprinting of this Essay I am grateful to the Editor of the “Nineteenth Century and After.”
Trollope has achieved that victory. Oblivion can now never be his, for he has lived his bad times and survived. As must any artist worth the name, he suffered eclipse—temporary, indeed, but so severe as at one time to threaten permanence. He was scorned as dowdy and parochial by the brilliant metropolitans of a succeeding generation. Only in the hearts of quiet folk and among readers uninstructed in the genius of their own time were his books remembered and cherished.
Until, slowly and slowly, opinion has begun to change. Quality has outstayed vogue, and the latter comes smirking back to the smiles of a lover yesterday despised. Indeed, Trollope is in a fair way to become once again the fashion. For a while he will be honoured by the enthusiasm of the intellectuals. Then, when they have turned their volatile benevolence to some other quarter, he will settle firmly in the respect of the critical. And that will at once be fame and his deserts.
Any summary analysis of Trollope's individual novels is wellnigh impossible, in view not only of the bulk of his work but also of its scope and richness of content. His quality is more intangible and at the same time more concentrated than that of the other writers treated in this book. “Of all the needs a book has, the chief need is that it be readable,” wrote Trollope himself. And again: “The primary object of a novelist is to please.” Readability has, in these latter days, become a term of condescension. But that is the fault of a superior age, and for the ten who use the word contemptuously there are ten thousand who, did they care to do so, would give it an older and a more honourable meaning. To them, as always to the large public of novel-readers, fiction, when it is not costume-romance, mystery-story, or topical propaganda, is a revelation of their own lives. It is this demand for an expression of emotions in which the normal reader can share that Trollope so amazingly satisfies. No précis of plot, no indication of social setting, of character types, nor of period, can in his case convey the essence of any particular novel.
Nevertheless his stories fall into certain specific categories, some of which form actual series of tales with characters reappearing from volume to volume, while others, although severally independent and self-contained, may be classified as belonging to one type of fiction or to another.
The best known group of novels is that dealing with the society of the city of Barchester and of the surrounding neighbourhood. The Chronicles of Barsetshire, as they have been called, are six in number:
The Warden (1855),
Barchester Towers (1857),
Doctor Thorne (1858),
Framley Parsonage (1861),
The Small House at Allington (1864), and
The Last Chronicle of Barset (1867).
Although these famous stories undoubtedly contain much of Trollope's best work, they do not contain the whole of it. It is a mistake to suppose that they rank altogether higher than his other books, and one of the most disastrous results of the disfavour into which his novels fell after their author's death is that a wealth of really first-rate material, just because it is included in books of which the late eighties chose to forget the titles, lies hidden to-day and withdrawn from the enjoyment of modern readers.
Cases of such unmerited neglect are encountered immediately and among the novels of Trollope's second continuous and interconnected series. The “political” stories, like those of Barsetshire, are six in number:
Can You Forgive Her? (1864),
Phineas Finn (1869),
The Eustace Diamonds (1873),
Phineas Redux (1874),
The Prime Minister (1876), and
The Duke's Children (1880).
It is truly remarkable to what an extent these admirable tales have fallen into oblivion. Not only do they introduce many of Trollope's most masterly characters, but they present, vividly and with knowledge, the minds and manners of the political aristocracy, the social hangers-on, the Tadpoles and Tapers of the day. Speaking generally, the social setting of the political novels is different from that of The Chronicles of Barsetshire. Indeed, it could hardly be otherwise, seeing that the whole series takes its tone from the personalities of Plantagenet Palliser and his wife Lady Glencora, who, as the stories progress and by natural course of inheritance, become the Duke and Duchess of Omnium and the greatest of English nobility. Trollope's method is not slavishly to serialize the life story of any individual character or pair of characters. All the political novels have their own clearly defined plot. They are, however, all tinged with the compelling personalities of Lady Glencora and her husband, into which Trollope threw all that he had of art and enthusiasm.
Can You Forgive Her? is a long novel, concerned primarily with the troubles of a motherless girl who breaks an engagement with an oppressively upright man in order to return to a youthful love affair with a dissipated and unscrupulous cousin. Mr. Grey, the honourable man, gets in the end the wife he wants; but Trollope does not hesitate to show fairly the preference of a high-spirited girl for an adventurous rascal, and there will be many who, when the book is finished, will regret—a little ashamedly—that virtue has ultimately triumphed. In the life story of Lady Glencora Can You Forgive Her? is important, for it pictures her newly married and literally on the verge of running away from her shy,