at the deanery is also real. The archdeacon in his victory is very
real. There is a true savour of English country life all through
the book. It was with many misgivings that I killed my old friend
Mrs. Proudie. I could not, I think, have done it, but for a resolution
taken and declared under circumstances of great momentary pressure.
It was thus that it came about. I was sitting one morning at work
upon the novel at the end of the long drawing-room of the Athenaeum
Club,--as was then my wont when I had slept the previous night in
London. As I was there, two clergymen, each with a magazine in his
hand, seated themselves, one on one side of the fire and one on
the other, close to me. They soon began to abuse what they were
reading, and each was reading some part of some novel of mine. The
gravamen of their complaint lay in the fact that I reintroduced
the same characters so often! "Here," said one, "is that archdeacon
whom we have had in every novel he has ever written." "And here,"
said the other, "is the old duke whom he has talked about till
everybody is tired of him. If I could not invent new characters, I
would not write novels at all." Then one of them fell foul of Mrs.
Proudie. It was impossible for me not to hear their words, and
almost impossible to hear them and be quiet. I got up, and standing
between them, I acknowledged myself to be the culprit. "As to Mrs.
Proudie," I said, "I will go home and kill her before the week is
over." And so I did. The two gentlemen were utterly confounded,
and one of them begged me to forget his frivolous observations.
I have sometimes regretted the deed, so great was my delight in
writing about Mrs. Proudie, so thorough was my knowledge of all the
shades of her character. It was not only that she was a tyrant,
a bully, a would-be priestess, a very vulgar woman, and one who
would send headlong to the nethermost pit all who disagreed with
her; but that at the same time she was conscientious, by no means
a hypocrite, really believing in the brimstone which she threatened,
and anxious to save the souls around her from its horrors. And as
her tyranny increased so did the bitterness of the moments of her
repentance increase, in that she knew herself to be a tyrant,--till
that bitterness killed her. Since her time others have grown up
equally dear to me,--Lady Glencora and her husband, for instance;
but I have never dissevered myself from Mrs. Proudie, and still
live much in company with her ghost.
I have in a previous chapter said how I wrote Can You Forgive Her?
after the plot of a play which had been rejected,--which play had
been called The Noble Jilt. Some year or two after the completion
of The Last Chronicle, I was asked by the manager of a theatre to
prepare a piece for his stage, and I did so, taking the plot of
this novel. I called the comedy Did He Steal It? But my friend the
manager did not approve of my attempt. My mind at this time was
less attentive to such a matter than when dear old George Bartley
nearly crushed me by his criticism,--so that I forget the reason
given. I have little doubt but that the manager was right. That
he intended to express a true opinion, and would have been glad to
have taken the piece had he thought it suitable, I am quite sure.
I have sometimes wished to see during my lifetime a combined
republication of those tales which are occupied with the fictitious
county of Barsetshire. These would be The Warden, Barchester
Towers, Doctor Thorne, Framley Parsonage, and The Last Chronicle
of Barset. But I have hitherto failed. The copyrights are in the
hands of four different persons, including myself, and with one of
the four I have not been able to prevail to act in concert with the
others. [Footnote: Since this was written I have made arrangements
for doing as I have wished, and the first volume of the series will
now very shortly be published.]
In 1867 I made up my mind to take a step in life which was not
unattended with peril, which many would call rash, and which, when
taken, I should be sure at some period to regret. This step was
the resignation of my place in the Post Office. I have described
how it was that I contrived to combine the performance of its duties
with my other avocations in life. I got up always very early; but
even this did not suffice. I worked always on Sundays,--as to which
no scruple of religion made me unhappy,--and not unfrequently I
was driven to work at night. In the winter when hunting was going
on, I had to keep myself very much on the alert. And during the
London season, when I was generally two or three days of the week
in town, I found the official work to be a burden. I had determined
some years previously, after due consideration with my wife, to
abandon the Post Office when I had put by an income equal to the
pension to which I should be entitled if I remained in the department
till I was sixty. That I had now done, and I sighed for liberty.
The exact time chosen, the autumn of 1867, was selected because I
was then about to undertake other literary work in editing a new
magazine,--of which I shall speak very shortly. But in addition to
these reasons there was another, which was, I think, at last the
actuating cause. When Sir Rowland Hill left the Post Office, and
my brother-in-law, Mr. Tilley, became Secretary in his place, I
applied for the vacant office of Under-Secretary. Had I obtained
this I should have given up my hunting, have given up much of my
literary work,--at any rate would have edited no magazine,--and
would have returned to the habit of my youth in going daily to the
General Post Office. There was very much against such a change in
life. The increase of salary would not have amounted to above (pounds)400
a year, and I should have lost much more than that in literary
remuneration. I should have felt bitterly the slavery of attendance
at an office, from which I had then been exempt for five-and-twenty
years. I should, too, have greatly missed the sport which I loved.
But I was attached to the department, had imbued myself with a
thorough love of letters,--I mean the letters which are carried by
the post,--and was anxious for their welfare as though they were
all my own. In short, I wished to continue the connection. I did
not wish, moreover, that any younger officer should again pass over
my head. I believed that I bad been a valuable public servant,
and I will own to a feeling existing at that time that I had not
altogether been well treated. I was probably wrong in this. I had
been allowed to hunt,--and to do as I pleased, and to say what
I liked, and had in that way received my reward. I applied for
the office, but Mr. Scudamore was appointed to it. He no doubt
was possessed of gifts which I did not possess. He understood
the manipulation of money and the use of figures, and was a great
accountant. I think that I might have been more useful in regard
to the labours and wages of the immense body of men employed by
the Post Office. However, Mr. Scudamore was appointed; and I made
up my mind that I would fall back upon my old intention, and leave
the department. I think I allowed two years to pass before I took
the step; and the day on which I sent the letter was to me most
melancholy.
The rule of the service in regard to pensions is very just. A man