Though I do not wish in these pages to go back to the origin of all the Trollopes, I must say a few words of my mother — partly because filial duty will not allow me to be silent as to a parent who made for herself a considerable name in the literature of her day, and partly because there were circumstances in her career well worthy1 of notice. She was the daughter of the Rev2. William Milton, vicar of Heckfield, who, as well as my father, had been a fellow of New College. She was nearly thirty when, in 1809, she married my father. Six or seven years ago a bundle of love-letters from her to him fell into my hand in a very singular way, having been found in the house of a stranger, who, with much courtesy, sent them to me. They were then about sixty years old, and had been written some before and some after her marriage, over the space of perhaps a year. In no novel of Richardson’s or Miss Burney’s have I seen a correspondence at the same time so sweet, so graceful3, and so well expressed. But the marvel4 of these letters was in the strange difference they bore to the love-letters of the present day. They are, all of them, on square paper, folded and sealed, and addressed to my father on circuit; but the language in each, though it almost borders on the romantic, is beautifully chosen, and fit, without change of a syllable6, for the most critical eye. What girl now studies the words with which she shall address her lover, or seeks to charm him with grace of diction? She dearly likes a little slang, and revels7 in the luxury of entire familiarity with a new and strange being. There is something in that, too, pleasant to our thoughts, but I fear that this phase of life does not conduce to a taste for poetry among our girls. Though my mother was a writer of prose, and revelled8 in satire9, the poetic10 feeling clung to her to the last.
In the first ten years of her married life she became the mother of six children, four of whom died of consumption at different ages. My elder sister married, and had children, of whom one still lives; but she was one of the four who followed each other at intervals11 during my mother’s lifetime. Then my brother Tom and I were left to her — with the destiny before us three of writing more books than were probably ever before produced by a single family. 2 My married sister added to the number by one little anonymous13 high church story, called Chollerton.
2 The family of Estienne, the great French printers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, of whom there were at least nine or ten, did more perhaps for the production of literature than any other family. But they, though they edited, and not unfrequently translated the works which they published, were not authors in the ordinary sense.
From the date of their marriage up to 1827, when my mother went to America, my father’s affairs had always been going down in the world. She had loved society, affecting a somewhat liberal role and professing14 an emotional dislike to tyrants15, which sprung from the wrongs of would-be regicides and the poverty of patriot16 exiles. An Italian marquis who had escaped with only a second shirt from the clutches of some archduke whom he had wished to exterminate17, or a French proletaire with distant ideas of sacrificing himself to the cause of liberty, were always welcome to the modest hospitality of her house. In after years, when marquises of another caste had been gracious to her, she became a strong Tory, and thought that archduchesses were sweet. But with her politics were always an affair of the heart — as, indeed, were all her convictions. Of reasoning from causes, I think that she knew nothing. Her heart was in every way so perfect, her desire to do good to all around her so thorough, and her power of self-sacrifice so complete, that she generally got herself right in spite of her want of logic18; but it must be acknowledged that she was emotional. I can remember now her books, and can see her at her pursuits. The poets she loved best were Dante and Spenser. But she raved19 also of him of whom all such ladies were raving20 then, and rejoiced in the popularity and wept over the persecution21 of Lord Byron. She was among those who seized with avidity on the novels, as they came out, of the then unknown Scott, and who could still talk of the triumphs of Miss Edgeworth. With the literature of the day she was familiar, and with the poets of the past. Of other reading I do not think she had mastered much. Her life, I take it, though latterly clouded by many troubles, was easy, luxurious22, and idle, till my father’s affairs and her own aspirations24 sent her to America. She had dear friends among literary people, of whom I remember Mathias, Henry Milman, and Miss Landon; but till long after middle life she never herself wrote a line for publication.
In 1827 she went to America, having been partly instigated25 by the social and communistic ideas of a lady whom I well remember — a certain Miss Wright — who was, I think, the first of the American female lecturers. Her chief desire, however, was to establish my brother Henry; and perhaps joined with that was the additional object of breaking up her English home without pleading broken fortunes to all the world. At Cincinnati, in the State of Ohio, she built a bazaar26, and I fancy lost all the money which may have been embarked27 in that speculation28. It could not have been much, and I think that others also must have suffered. But she looked about her, at her American cousins, and resolved to write a book about them. This book she brought back with her in 1831, and published it early in 1832. When she did this she was already fifty. When doing this she was aware that unless she could so succeed in making money, there was no money for any of the family. She had never before earned a shilling. She almost immediately received a considerable sum from the publishers — if I remember rightly, amounting to two sums of ￡400 each within a few months; and from that moment till nearly the time of her death, at any rate for more than twenty years, she was in the receipt of a considerable income from her writings. It was a late age at which to begin such a career.
The Domestic Manners of the Americans was the first of a series of books of travels, of which it was probably the best, and was certainly the best known. It will not be too much to say of it that it had a material effect upon the manners of the Americans of the day, and that that effect has been fully5 appreciated by them. No observer was certainly ever less qualified29 to judge of the prospects30 or even of the happiness of a young people. No one could have been worse adapted by nature for the task of learning whether a nation was in a way to thrive. Whatever she saw she judged, as most women do, from her own standing-point. If a thing were ugly to her eyes, it ought to be ugly to all eyes — and if ugly, it must be bad. What though people had plenty to eat and clothes to wear, if they put their feet upon the tables and did not reverence31 their betters? The Americans were to her rough, uncouth32, and vulgar — and she told them so. Those communistic and social ideas, which had been so pretty in a drawing-room, were scattered33 to the winds. Her volumes were very bitter; but they were very clever, and they saved the family from ruin.
Book followed book immediately — first two novels, and then a book on Belgium and Western Germany. She refurnished the house which I have called Orley Farm, and surrounded us again with moderate comforts. Of the mixture of joviality34 and industry which formed her character, it is almost impossible to speak with exaggeration. The industry was a thing apart, kept to herself. It was not necessary that any one who lived with her should see it. She was at her table at four in the morning, and had finished her work before the world had begun to be aroused. But the joviality was all for others. She could dance with other people’s legs, eat and drink with other people’s palates, be proud with the lustre35 of other people’s finery. Every mother can do that for her own daughters; but she could do it for any girl whose look, and voice, and manners pleased her. Even when she was at work, the laughter of those she loved was a pleasure to her. She had much, very much, to suffer. Work sometimes came hard to her, so much being required — for she was extravagant36, and liked to have money to spend; but of all people I have known she was the most joyous37, or, at any rate, the most capable of joy.
We continued this renewed life at Harrow for nearly two years, during which I was still at the school, and at the end of which I was nearly nineteen. Then there came a great catastrophe38. My father, who, when he was well, lived a sad life among his monks39 and nuns40, still kept a horse and gig. One day in March, 1834, just as it had been decided41 that I should leave the school then, instead of remaining, as had been intended, till midsummer, I was summoned very early in the morning, to drive him up to London. He had been ill, and must still have been very ill indeed when he submitted to be driven by any one. It was not till we had started that he told me that I was to put him on board the Ostend boat. This I did, driving him through the city down to the docks. It was not within his nature to be communicative, and to the last he never told me why he was going to Ostend. Something of a general flitting abroad I had heard before, but why he should have flown first, and flown so suddenly, I did not in the least know till I returned. When I got back with the gig, the house and furniture were all in the charge of the sheriff’s officers.
The gardener who had been with us in former days stopped me as I drove up the road, and with gestures, signs, and whispered words, gave me to understand that the whole affair — horse, gig, and barness — would be made prize of if I went but a few yards farther. Why they should not have been made prize of I do not know. The little piece of dishonest business which I at once took in hand and carried through successfully was of no special service to any of us. I drove the gig into the village, and sold the entire equipage to the ironmonger for ￡17, the exact sum which he claimed as being due to himself. I was much complimented by the gardener, who seemed to think that so much had been rescued out of the fire. I fancy that the ironmonger was the only gainer by my smartness.
When I got back to the house a scene of devastation42 was in progress, which still was not without its amusement. My mother, through her various troubles, had contrived43 to keep a certain number of pretty-pretties which were dear to her heart. They were not much, for in those days the ornamentation of houses was not lavish44 as it is now; but there was some china, and a little glass, a few books, and a very moderate supply of household silver. These things, and things like them, were being carried down surreptitiously, through a gap between the two gardens, on to the premises45 of our friend Colonel Grant. My two sisters, then sixteen and seventeen, and the Grant girls, who were just younger, were the chief marauders. To such forces I was happy to add myself for any enterprise, and between us we cheated the creditors46 to the extent of our powers, amidst the anathemas47, but good-humoured abstinence from personal violence, of the men in charge of the property. I still own a few books that were thus purloined48.
For a few days the whole family bivouacked under the Colonel’s hospitable49 roof, cared for and comforted by that dearest of all women, his wife. Then we followed my father to Belgium, and established ourselves in a large house just outside the walls of Bruges. At this time, and till my father’s death, everything was done with money earned by my mother. She now again furnished the house — this being the third that she had put in order since she came back from America two years and a half ago.
There were six of us went into this new banishment50. My brother Henry had left Cambridge and was ill. My younger sister was ill. And though as yet we hardly told each other that it was so, we began to feel that that desolating51 fiend, consumption, was among us. My father was broken-hearted as well as ill, but whenever he could sit at his table he still worked at his ecclesiastical records. My elder sister and I were in good health, but I was an idle, desolate52 hanger-on, that most hopeless of human beings, a hobbledehoy of nineteen, without any idea of a career, or a profession, or a trade. As well as I can remember I was fairly happy, for there were pretty girls at Bruges with whom I could fancy that I was in love; and I had been removed from the real misery53 of school. But as to my future life I had not even an aspiration23. Now and again there would arise a feeling that it was hard upon my mother that she should have to do so much for us, that we should be idle while she was forced to work so constantly; but we should probably have thought more of that had she not taken to work as though it were the recognised condition of life for an old lady of fifty-five.
Then, by degrees, an established sorrow was at home among us. My brother was an invalid54, and the horrid55 word, which of all words were for some years after the most dreadful to us, had been pronounced. It was no longer a delicate chest, and some temporary necessity for peculiar56 care — but consumption! The Bruges doctor had said so, and we knew that he was right. From that time forth57 my mother’s most visible occupation was that of nursing. There were two sick men in the house, and hers were the hands that tended them. The novels went on, of course. We had already learned to know that they would be forthcoming at stated intervals — and they always were forthcoming. The doctor’s vials and the ink-bottle held equal places in my mother’s rooms. I have written many novels under many circumstances; but I doubt much whether I could write one when my whole heart was by the bedside of a dying son. Her power of dividing herself into two parts, and keeping her intellect by itself clear from the troubles of the world, and fit for the duty it had to do, I never saw equalled. I do not think that the writing of a novel is the most difficult task which a man may be called upon to do; but it is a task that may be supposed to demand a spirit fairly at ease. The work of doing it with a troubled spirit killed Sir Walter Scott. My mother went through it unscathed in strength, though she performed all the work of day-nurse and night-nurse to a sick household — for there were soon three of them dying.
At this time there came from some quarter an offer to me of a commission in an Austrian cavalry58 regiment59; and so it was apparently60 my destiny to be a soldier. But I must first learn German and French, of which languages I knew almost nothing. For this a year was allowed me, and in order that it might be accomplished61 without expense, I undertook the duties of a classical usher62 to a school then kept by William Drury at Brussels. Mr. Drury had been one of the masters at Harrow when I went there at seven years old, and is now, after an interval12 of fifty-three years, even yet officiating as clergyman at that place. 3 To Brussels I went, and my heart still sinks within me as I reflect that any one should have intrusted to me the tuition of thirty boys. I can only hope that those boys went there to learn French, and that their parents were not particular as to their classical acquirements. I remember that on two occasions I was sent to take the school out for a walk; but that after the second attempt Mrs. Drury declared that the boys’ clothes would not stand any further experiments of that kind. I cannot call to mind any learning by me of other languages; but as I only remained in that position for six weeks, perhaps the return lessons had not been as yet commenced. At the end of the six weeks a letter reached me, offering me a clerkship in the General Post Office, and I accepted it. Among my mother’s dearest friends she reckoned Mrs. Freeling, the wife of Clayton Freeling, whose father, Sir Francis Freeling, then ruled the Post Office. She had heard of my desolate position, and had begged from her father-in-law the offer of a berth63 in his own office.
3 He died two years after these words were written.
I hurried back from Brussels to Bruges on my way to London, and found that the number of invalids64 had been increased. My younger sister, Emily, who, when I had left the house, was trembling on the balance — who had been pronounced to be delicate, but with that false-tongued hope which knows the truth, but will lie lest the heart should faint, had been called delicate, but only delicate — was now ill. Of course she was doomed65. I knew it of both of them, though I had never heard the word spoken, or had spoken it to any one. And my father was very ill — ill to dying, though I did not know it. And my mother had decreed to send my elder sister away to England, thinking that the vicinity of so much sickness might be injurious to her. All this happened late in the autumn of 1834, in the spring of which year we had come to Bruges; and then my mother was left alone in a big house outside the town, with two Belgian women-servants, to nurse these dying patients — the patients being her husband and children — and to write novels for the sustenance66 of the family! It was about this period of her career that her best novels were written.
To my own initiation67 at the Post Office I will return in the next chapter. Just before Christmas my brother died, and was buried at Bruges. In the following February my father died, and was buried alongside of him — and with him died that tedious task of his, which I can only hope may have solaced68 many of his latter hours. I sometimes look back, meditating69 for hours together, on his adverse70 fate. He was a man, finely educated, of great parts, with immense capacity for work, physically71 strong very much beyond the average of men, addicted72 to no vices73, carried off by no pleasures, affectionate by nature, most anxious for the welfare of his children, born to fair fortunes — who, when he started in the world, may be said to have had everything at his feet. But everything went wrong with him. The touch of his hand seemed to create failure. He embarked in one hopeless enterprise after another, spending on each all the money he could at the time command. But the worse curse to him of all was a temper so irritable74 that even those whom he loved the best could not endure it. We were all estranged75 from him, and yet I believe that he would have given his heart’s blood for any of us. His life as I knew it was one long tragedy.
After his death my mother moved to England, and took and furnished a small house at Hadley, near Barnet. I was then a clerk in the London Post Office, and I remember well how gay she made the place with little dinners, little dances, and little picnics, while she herself was at work every morning long before others had left their beds. But she did not stay at Hadley much above a year. She went up to London, where she again took and furnished a house, from which my remaining sister was married and carried away into Cumberland. My mother soon followed her, and on this occasion did more than take a house. She bought a bit of land — a field of three acres near the town — and built a residence for herself. This, I think, was in 1841, and she had thus established and re-established herself six times in ten years. But in Cumberland she found the climate too severe, and in 1844 she moved herself to Florence, where she remained till her death in 1863. She continued writing up to 1856, when she was seventy-six years old — and had at that time produced 114 volumes, of which the first was not written till she was fifty. Her career offers great encouragement to those who have not begun early in life, but are still ambitious to do something before they depart hence.
She was an unselfish, affectionate, and most industrious76 woman, with great capacity for enjoyment77 and high physical gifts. She was endowed too, with much creative power, with considerable humour, and a genuine feeling for romance. But she was neither clear-sighted nor accurate; and in her attempts to describe morals, manners, and even facts, was unable to avoid the pitfalls78 of exaggeration.
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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persecution
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luxurious
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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anathemas
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| n.（天主教的）革出教门( anathema的名词复数 )；诅咒；令人极其讨厌的事；被基督教诅咒的人或事 | |
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purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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desolating
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| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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63
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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73
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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