altogether incommensurate with the pecuniary result to myself. In
doing this for the Pall Mall, I fell into great sorrow. A gentleman,
whose wife was dear to me as if she were my own sister; was in
some trouble as to his conduct in the public service. He had been
blamed, as he thought unjustly, and vindicated himself in a pamphlet.
This he handed to me one day, asking me to read it, and express my
opinion about it if I found that I had an opinion. I thought the
request injudicious, and I did not read the pamphlet. He met me
again, and, handing me a second pamphlet, pressed me very hard. I
promised him that I would read it, and that if I found myself able
I would express myself;--but that I must say not what I wished
to think, but what I did think. To this of course he assented. I
then went very much out of my way to study the subject,--which was
one requiring study. I found, or thought that I found, that the
conduct of the gentleman in his office had been indiscreet; but that
charges made against himself affecting his honour were baseless.
This I said, emphasising much more strongly than was necessary the
opinion which I had formed of his indiscretion,--as will so often
be the case when a man has a pen in his hand. It is like a club
or sledge-hammer,--in using which, either for defence or attack,
a man can hardly measure the strength of the blows he gives. Of
course there was offence,--and a breaking off of intercourse between
loving friends,--and a sense of wrong received, and I must own,
too, of wrong done. It certainly was not open to me to whitewash
with honesty him whom I did not find to be white; but there was no
duty incumbent on me to declare what was his colour in my eyes,--no
duty even to ascertain. But I had been ruffled by the persistency
of the gentleman's request,--which should not have been made,--and
I punished him for his wrong-doing by doing a wrong myself. I must
add, that before he died his wife succeeded in bringing us together.
In the early days of the paper, the proprietor, who at that time
acted also as chief editor, asked me to undertake a duty,--of which
the agony would indeed at no one moment have been so sharp as that
endured in the casual ward, but might have been prolonged until
human nature sank under it. He suggested to me that I should during
an entire season attend the May meetings in Exeter Hall, and give
a graphic and, if possible, amusing description of the proceedings.
I did attend one,--which lasted three hours,--and wrote a paper which
I think was called A Zulu in Search of a Religion. But when the
meeting was over I went to that spirited proprietor, and begged him
to impose upon me some task more equal to my strength. Not even on
behalf of the Pall Mall Gazette, which was very dear to me, could
I go through a second May meeting,--much less endure a season of
such martyrdom.
I have to acknowledge that I found myself unfit for work on
a newspaper. I had not taken to it early enough in life to learn
its ways and bear its trammels. I was fidgety when any work was
altered in accordance with the judgment of the editor, who, of
course, was responsible for what appeared. I wanted to select my
own subjects,--not to have them selected for me; to write when I
pleased,--and not when it suited others. As a permanent member of
the staff I was of no use, and after two or three years I dropped
out of the work.
From the commencement of my success as a writer, which I date
from the beginning of the Cornhill Magazine, I had always felt an
injustice in literary affairs which had never afflicted me or even
suggested itself to me while I was unsuccessful. It seemed to me
that a name once earned carried with it too much favour. I indeed
had never reached a height to which praise was awarded as a matter
of course; but there were others who sat on higher seats to whom
the critics brought unmeasured incense and adulation, even when
they wrote, as they sometimes did write, trash which from a beginner
would not have been thought worthy of the slightest notice. I hope
no one will think that in saying this I am actuated by jealousy
of others. Though I never reached that height, still I had so
far progressed that that which I wrote was received with too much
favour. The injustice which struck me did not consist in that which
was withheld from me, but in that which was given to me. I felt
that aspirants coming up below me might do work as good as mine,
and probably much better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated.
In order to test this, I determined to be such an aspirant myself,
and to begin a course of novels anonymously, in order that I might
see whether I could obtain a second identity,--whether as I had made
one mark by such literary ability as I possessed, I might succeed
in doing so again. In 1865 I began a short tale called Nina Balatka,
which in 1866 was published anonymously in Blackwood's Magazine.
In 1867 this was followed by another of the same length, called
Linda Tressel. I will speak of them together, as they are of the
same nature and of nearly equal merit. Mr. Blackwood, who himself
read the MS. of Nina Balatka, expressed an opinion that it would
not from its style be discovered to have been written by me;--but
it was discovered by Mr. Hutton of the Spectator, who found the
repeated use of some special phrase which had rested upon his ear
too frequently when reading for the purpose of criticism other
works of mine. He declared in his paper that Nina Balatka was by
me, showing I think more sagacity than good nature. I ought not,
however, to complain of him, as of all the critics of my work he
has been the most observant, and generally the most eulogistic.
Nina Balatka never rose sufficiently high in reputation to make
its detection a matter of any importance. Once or twice I heard the
story mentioned by readers who did not know me to be the author,
and always with praise; but it had no real success. The same may
be said of Linda Tressel. Blackwood, who of course knew the author,
was willing to publish them, trusting that works by an experienced
writer would make their way, even without the writer's name, and he
was willing to pay me for them, perhaps half what they would have
fetched with my name. But he did not find the speculation answer,
and declined a third attempt, though a third such tale was written
for him.
Nevertheless I am sure that the two stories are good. Perhaps the
first is somewhat the better, as being the less lachrymose. They
were both written very quickly, but with a considerable amount of
labour; and both were written immediately after visits to the towns
in which the scenes are laid,--Prague, mainly, and Nuremberg. Of
course I had endeavoured to change not only my manner of language,
but my manner of story-telling also; and in this, pace Mr. Hutton,
I think that I was successful. English life in them there was none.
There was more of romance proper than had been usual with me. And
I made an attempt at local colouring, at descriptions of scenes
and places, which has not been usual with me. In all this I am
confident that I was in a measure successful. In the loves, and
fears, and hatreds, both of Nina and of Linda, there is much that
is pathetic. Prague is Prague, and Nuremberg is Nuremberg. I know