from man's desire to do the best he can for himself and those
about him, and civilisation and Christianity itself have been made
possible by such progress. Though we do not all of us argue this
matter out within our breasts, we do all feel it; and we know that
the more a man earns the more useful he is to his fellow-men. The
most useful lawyers, as a rule, have been those who have made the
greatest incomes,--and it is the same with the doctors. It would
be the same in the Church if they who have the choosing of bishops
always chose the best man. And it has in truth been so too in art
and authorship. Did Titian or Rubens disregard their pecuniary
rewards? As far as we know, Shakespeare worked always for money,
giving the best of his intellect to support his trade as an actor.
In our own century what literary names stand higher than those of
Byron, Tennyson, Scott, Dickens, Macaulay, and Carlyle? And I think
I may say that none of those great men neglected the pecuniary result
of their labours. Now and then a man may arise among us who in any
calling, whether it be in law, in physic, in religious teaching,
in art, or literature, may in his professional enthusiasm utterly
disregard money. All will honour his enthusiasm, and if he be
wifeless and childless, his disregard of the great object of men's
work will be blameless. But it is a mistake to suppose that a man
is a better man because he despises money. Few do so, and those few
in doing so suffer a defeat. Who does not desire to be hospitable
to his friends, generous to the poor, liberal to all, munificent
to his children, and to be himself free from the casking fear which
poverty creates? The subject will not stand an argument;--and yet
authors are told that they should disregard payment for their work,
and be content to devote their unbought brains to the welfare of
the public. Brains that are unbought will never serve the public
much. Take away from English authors their copyrights, and you
would very soon take away from England her authors.
I say this here, because it is my purpose as I go on to state what
to me has been the result of my profession in the ordinary way in
which professions are regarded, so that by my example may be seen
what prospect there is that a man devoting himself to literature
with industry, perseverance, certain necessary aptitudes, and fair
average talents, may succeed in gaining a livelihood, as another man
does in another profession. The result with me has been comfortable
but not splendid, as I think was to have been expected from the
combination of such gifts.
I have certainly always had also before my eyes the charms of
reputation. Over and above the money view of the question, I wished
from the beginning to be something more than a clerk in the Post
Office. To be known as somebody,--to be Anthony Trollope if it be
no more,--is to me much. The feeling is a very general one, and
I think beneficent. It is that which has been called the "last
infirmity of noble mind." The infirmity is so human that the man who
lacks it is either above or below humanity. I own to the infirmity.
But I confess that my first object in taking to literature as a
profession was that which is common to the barrister when he goes
to the Bar, and to the baker when he sets up his oven. I wished to
make an income on which I and those belonging to me might live in
comfort.
If indeed a man writes his books badly, or paints his pictures
badly, because he can make his money faster in that fashion than
by doing them well, and at the same time proclaims them to be the
best he can do,--if in fact he sells shoddy for broadcloth,--he
is dishonest, as is any other fraudulent dealer. So may be the
barrister who takes money that he does not earn, or the clergyman
who is content to live on a sinecure. No doubt the artist or the
author may have a difficulty which will not occur to the seller of
cloth, in settling within himself what is good work and what is
bad,--when labour enough has been given, and when the task has been
scamped. It is a danger as to which he is bound to be severe with
himself--in which he should feel that his conscience should be set
fairly in the balance against the natural bias of his interest. If
he do not do so, sooner or later his dishonesty will be discovered,
and will be estimated accordingly. But in this he is to be governed
only by the plain rules of honesty which should govern us all.
Having said so much, I shall not scruple as I go on to attribute
to the pecuniary result of my labours all the importance which I
felt them to have at the time.
Barchester Towers, for which I had received (pounds)100 in advance, sold
well enough to bring me further payments--moderate payments--from
the publishers. From that day up to this very time in which I am
writing, that book and The Warden together have given me almost
every year some small income. I get the accounts very regularly,
and I find that I have received (pounds)727 11S. 3d. for the two. It is
more than I got for the three or four works that came afterwards,
but the payments have been spread over twenty years.
When I went to Mr. Longman with my next novel, The Three Clerks,
in my hand, I could not induce him to understand that a lump sum
down was more pleasant than a deferred annuity. I wished him to
buy it from me at a price which he might think to be a fair value,
and I argued with him that as soon as an author has put himself into
a position which insures a sufficient sale of his works to give a
profit, the publisher is not entitled to expect the half of such
proceeds. While there is a pecuniary risk, the whole of which must
be borne by the publisher, such division is fair enough; but such
a demand on the part of the publisher is monstrous as soon as the
article produced is known to be a marketable commodity. I thought
that I had now reached that point, but Mr. Longman did not agree with
me. And he endeavoured to convince me that I might lose more than
I gained, even though I should get more money by going elsewhere.
"It is for you," said he, "to think whether our names on your
title-page are not worth more to you than the increased payment."
This seemed to me to savour of that high-flown doctrine of the
contempt of money which I have never admired. I did think much
of Messrs. Longman's name, but I liked it best at the bottom of a
cheque.
I was also scared from the august columns of Paternoster Row by
a remark made to myself by one of the firm, which seemed to imply
that they did not much care for works of fiction. Speaking of a
fertile writer of tales who was not then dead, he declared that ----
(naming the author in question) had spawned upon them (the publishers)
three novels a year! Such language is perhaps justifiable in regard
to a man who shows so much of the fecundity of the herring; but I
did not know how fruitful might be my own muse, and I thought that
I had better go elsewhere.
I had then written The Three Clerks, which, when I could not sell
it to Messrs. Longman, I took in the first instance to Messrs.
Hurst & Blackett, who had become successors to Mr. Colburn. I had
made an appointment with one of the firm, which, however, that
gentleman was unable to keep. I was on my way from Ireland to Italy,