Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

occasionally break down in my spelling, I could write a letter. If

I had a thing to say, I could so say it in written words that the

readers should know what I meant,--a power which is by no means

at the command of all those who come out from these competitive

examinations with triumph. Early in life, at the age of fifteen,

I had commenced the dangerous habit of keeping a journal, and this

I maintained for ten years. The volumes remained in my possession

unregarded--never looked at--till 1870, when I examined them, and,

with many blushes, destroyed them. They convicted me of folly,

ignorance, indiscretion, idleness, extravagance, and conceit. But

they had habituated me to the rapid use of pen and ink, and taught

me how to express myself with faculty.

I will mention here another habit which had grown upon me from

still earlier years,--which I myself often regarded with dismay

when I thought of the hours devoted to it, but which, I suppose,

must have tended to make me what I have been. As a boy, even as a

child, I was thrown much upon myself. I have explained, when speaking

of my school-days, how it came to pass that other boys would not

play with me. I was therefore alone, and had to form my plays

within myself. Play of some kind was necessary to me then, as it

always has been. Study was not my bent, and I could not please

myself by being all idle. Thus it came to pass that I was always

going about with some castle in the air firmly build within my

mind. Nor were these efforts in architecture spasmodic, or subject

to constant change from day to day. For weeks, for months, if

I remember rightly, from year to year, I would carry on the same

tale, binding myself down to certain laws, to certain proportions,

and proprieties, and unities. Nothing impossible was ever

introduced,--nor even anything which, from outward circumstances,

would seem to be violently improbable. I myself was of course my own

hero. Such is a necessity of castle-building. But I never became a

king, or a duke,--much less when my height and personal appearance

were fixed could I be an Antinous, or six feet high. I never was

a learned man, nor even a philosopher. But I was a very clever

person, and beautiful young women used to be fond of me. And I

strove to be kind of heart, and open of hand, and noble in thought,

despising mean things; and altogether I was a very much better

fellow than I have ever succeeded in being since. This had been

the occupation of my life for six or seven years before I went to

the Post Office, and was by no means abandoned when I commenced

my work. There can, I imagine, hardly be a more dangerous mental

practice; but I have often doubted whether, had it not been my

practice, I should ever have written a novel. I learned in this way

to maintain an interest in a fictitious story, to dwell on a work

created by my own imagination, and to live in a world altogether

outside the world of my own material life. In after years I have

done the same,--with this difference, that I have discarded the

hero of my early dreams, and have been able to lay my own identity

aside.

I must certainly acknowledge that the first seven years of my

official life were neither creditable to myself nor useful to the

public service. These seven years were passed in London, and during

this period of my life it was my duty to be present every morning

at the office punctually at 10 A.M. I think I commenced my quarrels

with the authorities there by having in my possession a watch

which was always ten minutes late. I know that I very soon achieved

a character for irregularity, and came to be regarded as a black

sheep by men around me who were not themselves, I think, very

good public servants. From time to time rumours reached me that if

I did not take care I should be dismissed; especially one rumour

in my early days, through my dearly beloved friend Mrs. Clayton

Freeling,--who, as I write this, is still living, and who, with

tears in her eyes, besought me to think of my mother. That was during

the life of Sir Francis Freeling, who died,--still in harness,--a

little more than twelve months after I joined the office. And yet

the old man showed me signs of almost affectionate kindness, writing

to me with his own hand more than once from his death-bed.

Sir Francis Freeling was followed at the Post Office by Colonel

Maberly, who certainly was not my friend. I do not know that I

deserved to find a friend in my new master, but I think that a man

with better judgment would not have formed so low an opinion of

me as he did. Years have gone by, and I can write now, and almost

feel, without anger; but I can remember well the keenness of my

anguish when I was treated as though I were unfit for any useful

work. I did struggle--not to do the work, for there was nothing

which was not easy without any struggling--but to show that I

was willing to do it. My bad character nevertheless stuck to me,

and was not to be got rid of by any efforts within my power. I do

admit that I was irregular. It was not considered to be much in

my favour that I could write letters--which was mainly the work of

our office--rapidly, correctly, and to the purpose. The man who

came at ten, and who was always still at his desk at half-past four,

was preferred before me, though when at his desk he might be less

efficient. Such preference was no doubt proper; but, with a little

encouragement, I also would have been punctual. I got credit for

nothing and was reckless.

As it was, the conduct of some of us was very bad. There was a

comfortable sitting-room up-stairs, devoted to the use of some one

of our number who in turn was required to remain in the place all

night. Hither one or two of us would adjourn after lunch, and

play ecarte for an hour or two. I do not know whether such ways

are possible now in our public offices. And here we used to have

suppers and card-parties at night--great symposiums, with much

smoking of tobacco; for in our part of the building there lived a

whole bevy of clerks. These were gentlemen whose duty it then was

to make up and receive the foreign mails. I do not remember that

they worked later or earlier than the other sorting-clerks; but

there was supposed to be something special in foreign letters,

which required that the men who handled them should have minds

undistracted by the outer world. Their salaries, too, were higher

than those of their more homely brethren; and they paid nothing

for their lodgings. Consequently there was a somewhat fast set in

those apartments, given to cards and to tobacco, who drank spirits

and water in preference to tea. I was not one of them, but was a

good deal with them.

I do not know that I should interest my readers by saying much of

my Post Office experiences in those days. I was always on the eve

of being dismissed, and yet was always striving to show how good a

public servant I could become, if only a chance were given me. But

the chance went the wrong way. On one occasion, in the performance

of my duty, I had to put a private letter containing bank-notes on

the secretary's table,--which letter I had duly opened, as it was

not marked private. The letter was seen by the Colonel, but had

not been moved by him when he left the room. On his return it was

gone. In the meantime I had returned to the room, again in the

performance of some duty. When the letter was missed I was sent

for, and there I found the Colonel much moved about his letter, and

a certain chief clerk, who, with a long face, was making suggestions

as to the probable fate of the money. "The letter has been taken,"

said the Colonel, turning to me angrily, "and, by G----! there has

been nobody in the room but you and I." As he spoke, he thundered

his fist down upon the table. "Then," said I, "by G----! you have

taken it." And I also thundered my fist down;--but, accidentally,

not upon the table. There was there a standing movable desk, at

which, I presume, it was the Colonel's habit to write, and on this

movable desk was a large bottle full of ink. My fist unfortunately

came on the desk, and the ink at once flew up, covering the Colonel's

face and shirt-front. Then it was a sight to see that senior clerk,

as he seized a quite of blotting-paper, and rushed to the aid of his

superior officer, striving to mop up the ink; and a sight also to

see the Colonel, in his agony, hit right out through the blotting-paper

at that senior clerk's unoffending stomach. At that moment there

came in the Colonel's private secretary, with the letter and the

money, and I was desired to go back to my own room. This was an

incident not much in my favour, though I do not know that it did

me special harm.

I was always in trouble. A young woman down in the country had

taken it into her head that she would like to marry me,--and a very

foolish young woman she must have been to entertain such a wish.

I need not tell that part of the story more at length, otherwise

than by protesting that no young man in such a position was ever

much less to blame than I had been in this. The invitation had

come from her, and I had lacked the pluck to give it a decided

negative; but I had left the house within half an hour, going away

without my dinner, and had never returned to it. Then there was a

correspondence,--if that can be called a correspondence in which

all the letters came from one side. At last the mother appeared at

the Post Office. My hair almost stands on my head now as I remember

the figure of the woman walking into the big room in which I sat

with six or seven other clerks, having a large basket on her arm and

an immense bonnet on her head. The messenger had vainly endeavoured

to persuade her to remain in the ante-room. She followed the man

in, and walking up the centre of the room, addressed me in a loud

voice: "Anthony Trollope, when are you going to marry my daughter?"

We have all had our worst moments, and that was one of my worst. I

lived through it, however, and did not marry the young lady. These

little incidents were all against me in the office.

And then a certain other phase of my private life crept into official

view, and did me a damage. As I shall explain just now, I rarely

at this time had any money wherewith to pay my bills. In this state

of things a certain tailor had taken from me an acceptance for, I

think, (pounds)12, which found its way into the hands of a money-lender.

With that man, who lived in a little street near Mecklenburgh Square,

I formed a most heart-rending but a most intimate acquaintance.

In cash I once received from him (pounds)4. For that and for the original

amount of the tailor's bill, which grew monstrously under repeated

renewals, I paid ultimately something over (pounds)200. That is so common

a story as to be hardly worth the telling; but the peculiarity of

this man was that he became so attached to me as to visit me every

day at my office. For a long period he found it to be worth his

while to walk up those stone steps daily, and come and stand behind