[_23 Sep. '09_]
I am reminded of Anthony Trollope and a recent article on him, in the
_Times_, which was somewhat below the high level of the _Times_ literary
criticism. Said the _Times_: "Anthony Trollope died in the December of
1882, and in the following year a fatal, perhaps an irreparable, blow to
his reputation was struck by the publication of his autobiography." The
conceit of a blow which in addition to being fatal is perhaps also
irreparable is diverting. But that is not my point. What the _Times_
objects to in the Autobiography is the revelation of the clock-work
methods by which Trollope wrote his novels. It appears that this horrid
secret ought to have been for ever concealed. "Fatal admission!" exclaims
the _Times_. Fatal fiddlesticks! Trollope said much more than the _Times_
quotes. He confessed that he wrote with a watch in front of him, and
obliged himself to produce 250 words every quarter of an hour. And what
then? How can the confession affect his reputation? His reputation rests
on the value of his novels, and not in the least on the manner in which he
chose to write them. And his reputation is secure. Moreover, there is no
reason why great literature should not be produced to time, with a watch
on the desk. Persons who chatter about the necessity of awaiting
inspirational hypersthenia don't know what the business of being an artist
is. They have only read about it sentimentally. The whole argument is
preposterous, and withal extraordinarily Victorian. And even assuming that
the truth _would_ deal a fatal blow, etc., is that a reason for hiding it?
Another strange sentence is this: "The wonder is, not that Trollope's
novels are 'readable,' but that, _being readable, they are yet_ so closely
packed with that true realism without which any picture of life is
lifeless." (My italics.) I ask myself what quality, in the opinion of the
_Times_ writer, chiefly makes for readableness.