No More Learning

"This is not quite the
sauce you fancy! "
"Look at those crows! " added a third to a party of the mili-
tia, who had stopped short in their horror at the sight of the man
who had lost his leg.
Pierre observed that every ball that hit, and every man that
fell, added to the general excitement. The soldiers' faces grew
more fierce and more eager, as lightnings play round a thunder-
cloud; and as though in defiance of that other storm that was
raging around them. Pierre felt that this glow was infectious.
At ten o'clock the infantry sharpshooters, placed among the
scrub in front of the battery and along the Kamenka brook,
began to give way: he could see them running and carrying the
wounded on their gunstocks. A general came up the mamelon,
exchanged a few words with the colonel in command, shot a
wrathful scowl at Pierre, and went away again, after ordering
the infantrymen to fire lying down, so as to expose a smaller
front. There was a sharp rattle of drums in the regiment below,
and the line rushed forward. Pierre's attention was caught by
the pale face of a young officer who was marching with them
backwards, holding his sword point downwards, and looking be-
hind him uneasily; in a minute they were lost to sight in the
smoke, and Pierre only heard a confusion of cries, and the steady
rattle of well-sustained firing. Then in a few minutes, the
wounded were brought out of the mêlée on stretchers.
In the redoubt, projectiles were falling like hail, and several
men were laid low; the soldiers were working with increased
energy: no one heeded Pierre. Once or twice he was told to
get out of the way; and the old commanding officer walked up
and down from one gun to another, with his brows knit. The
boy lieutenant, with flaming cheeks, was giving his orders more


## p. 15022 (#606) ##########################################

LYOF TOLSTOY
15022
incisively than ever; the gunners brought up the cartridges, loaded
and fired with passionate celerity and zeal. They no longer
walked; they sprang about as if they were moved by springs.
The thunder-cloud was close overhead. Every face seemed to
flash fire, and Pierre, now standing by the old colonel, felt as if
the explosion was at hand; then the young lieutenant came up
to the chief and saluted with his hand to the peak of his cap.
"I have the honor to inform you that there are only eight
rounds left. Must we go on? "
"Grape-shot! " cried the colonel, instead of answering him;
and at that moment the little lieutenant gave a cry, and dropped
like a bird shot on the wing.
Everything whirled and swam before Pierre's eyes. A rain
of ball was clattering on the breastwork, the men, and the guns.
Pierre, who had not thought much about it hitherto, now heard
nothing else. On the right some soldiers were running and
shouting "Hurrah! "- but backwards surely, not forwards. A ball
hit the earthwork close to where he was standing, and made
the dust fly; at the same instant a black object seemed to leap
up and bury itself in something soft. The militiamen made the
best of their way down the slope again.
"Grape-shot! " repeated the old commander. A sergeant in
much agitation ran to him, and told him in terrified undertones.
that the ammunition was all spent. He might have been a
house-steward telling his master that the wine had run short.
"Rascals! what are they about? " cried the officer; he looked
round at Pierre, his heated face streaming with perspiration, and
his eyes flashing with a fever of excitement. "Run down to
the reserve and fetch up a caisson," he added
of the soldiers.
furiously to one
"I will go," said Pierre.
The officer did not answer, but stepped aside.
fire! "
"Wait-don't
The man who had been ordered to fetch up the caisson ran
against Pierre.
"It is not your place, master! " he said; and he set off as
fast as he could go, down the slope. Pierre ran after him, tak-
ing care to avoid the spot where the boy lieutenant was lying.
Two, three balls flew over his head, and fell close to him.
"Where am I going? " he suddenly asked himself when he
was within a few feet of the ammunition stores. He stopped,


## p. 15023 (#607) ##########################################

LYOF TOLSTOY
15023
not knowing where to go. At the same instant a tremendous
shock flung him face downwards on the ground; a sheet of flame
blinded him; and a terrible shriek, ending in an explosion and
rattle all round him, completely stunned him. When he pres-
ently recovered his senses, he was lying on the ground with his
arms spread out. The caisson he had before seen had vanished;
in its place the scorched grass was strewn with green boards,
half burnt up, and with rags of clothing; one horse, shaking off
the remains of his shafts, started away at a gallop; his mate,
mortally injured, lay whinnying piteously.
Pierre, half crazy with terror, started to his feet, and ran
back to the battery, as being the only place where he could find
shelter from all these catastrophes. As he went he was surprised
to hear no more firing, and to find the work occupied by a num-
ber of new-comers whom he could not recognize. The colonel
was leaning over the breast work as though he were looking down
at something; and a soldier, struggling in the hands of some
others, was shouting for help. He had not had time to under-
stand that the commanding officer was dead, and the soldier a
prisoner, when another was killed under his eyes by a bayonet
thrust in the back. Indeed, he had scarcely set foot in the
redoubt when a man in a dark-blue uniform, with a lean brown
face, threw himself on him, sword in hand. Pierre instinctively
dodged, and seized his assailant by the neck and shoulder. It
was a French officer; but he dropped his sword and took Pierre
by the collar. They stood for a few seconds face to face, each
looking more astonished than the other at what he had just
done.
"Am I his prisoner or is he mine? " was the question in
both their minds.
The Frenchman was inclined to accept the first alternative;
for Pierre's powerful hand was tightening its clutch on his throat.
He seemed to be trying to speak, when a ball came singing
close over their heads, and Pierre almost thought it had carried
off his prisoner's—he ducked it with such amazing promptitude.
He himself did the same, and let go. The Frenchman, being no
longer curious to settle which was the other's prize, fled into the
battery; while Pierre made off down the hill, stumbling over the
dead and wounded, and fancying in his panic that they clutched
at his garments. As he got to the bottom he met a dense
mass of Russians, running as if they were flying from the foe, but


## p. 15024 (#608) ##########################################

LYOF TOLSTOY
15024
all rushing towards the battery. This was the attack of which
Yermolow took all the credit; declaring to all who would listen
to him that his good star and daring alone could have carried
it through. He pretended that he had had his pockets full of
crosses of St. George, which he had strewn all over the mamelon.
The French, who had captured the redoubt, now in their turn
fled, and the Russians pursued them with such desperate deter-
mination that it was impossible to stop them.
The prisoners were led away from the spot; among them
was a wounded general who was at once surrounded by Russian
officers. Hundreds of wounded,- French and Russians,— their
faces drawn with anguish, were carried off the mamelon, or
dragged themselves away. Once more Pierre went up; but those
who had been his friends there were gone: he found only a heap
of slain, for the most part unknown to him, though he saw the
young lieutenant still in the same place by the earthwork, sunk
in a heap in a pool of blood; the ruddy-faced gunner still moved
convulsively, but was too far gone to be carried away. Pierre
fairly took to his heels. "They must surely leave off now," he
thought. "They must be horrified at what they have done. "
And he mechanically followed in the wake of the procession of
litters which were quitting the field of action.
The sun, shrouded in the cloud of smoke, was still high above
the horizon. Away to the left, and particularly round Séménov-
ski, a confused mass swayed and struggled in the distance, and
the steady roar of cannon and musketry, far from diminishing,
swelled louder and louder; it was like the wild despairing effort
of a man who collects all his strength for a last furious cry.
The principal scene of action had been over a space of about
two versts, lying between Borodino and the advanced works held
by Bagration. Beyond this radius the cavalry at Ouvarow had
made a short diversion in the middle of the day; and behind
Outitza, Poniatowski and Toutchkow had come to blows: but
these were relatively trifling episodes. It was on the plain,
between the village and Bagration's intrenchment,-a tract of
open ground almost clear of copse or brushwood,- that the real
engagement was fought, and in the simplest way. The signal to
begin was given on each side by the firing of above a hundred.
cannon. Then as the smoke rolled down in a thick cloud, the
divisions under Desaix and Compans attacked Bagration, while
the Viceroy's marched on Borodino. It was about a verst from


## p. 15025 (#609) ##########################################

LYOF TOLSTOY
15025
Bagration's position to Schevardino, where Napoleon had posted
himself; and more than two, as the crow flies, from those ad-
vanced works to Borodino. Napoleon could not therefore be
aware of what was going on there, for the whole valley was
shrouded in smoke. Desaix's men were invisible as soon as they
got into the hollow, and when they had disappeared they could
be seen no more, as the opposite slope was hidden from view.
Here and there a black mass, or a few bayonets, might be seen;
still, from the redoubt at Schevardino, no one could be certain
whether the hostile armies were moving or standing still. The
slanting rays of a glorious sun lighted up Napoleon's face, and
he screened his eyes with his hand to examine the defenses oppo-
site. Shouts rose now and then above the rattle of musketry,
but the smoke thickened and curtained everything from view.
He went down from the eminence and walked up and down,
stopping now and then to listen to the artillery, and looking at
the field of battle; but neither from where he stood, nor from
the knoll, where he had left his generals, nor from the intrench-
ments, which had fallen into the hands of the French and the
Russians alternately, could anything that was happening be dis-
covered.
For several hours in succession, now the French came into
view and now the Russians,- now the infantry and now the
cavalry; they seemed to surge up, to fall, struggle, jostle, and
then, not knowing what to do, shouted and ran forwards or
backwards. Napoleon's aides-de-camp, orderly officers, and mar-
shals, rode up every few minutes to report progress: but these
reports were necessarily fictitious, because, in the turmoil and
fire, it was impossible to know exactly how matters stood; and
because most of the aides-de-camp were content to repeat what
was told them, without going themselves to the scene of action;
because, too, during the few minutes that it took them to ride.
back again, everything changed, and what had been true was
then false. Thus, one of the Viceroy's aides-de-camp flew to tell
the Emperor that Borodino was taken, that the bridge over the
Kolotcha was held by the French, and to ask Napoleon whether
troops should be made to cross it or no. Napoleon's commands
were to form in line on the other side and wait; but even while
he was giving this order, and at the very time when the aide-
de-camp was leaving Borodino, the bridge had been recaptured
and burnt by the Russians in the conflict with which Pierre had
XXV-940


## p. 15026 (#610) ##########################################

15026
LYOF TOLSTOY
got mixed up at the beginning of the engagement. Another
aide-de-camp came riding up, with a scared face, to say that the
attack on the advanced works had been repulsed, that Compans
was wounded and Davoust killed; while in fact, the intrench-
ments had been recaptured by fresh troops, and Davoust had only
been bruised.
As the outcome of these reports,—which were inevitably in-
accurate by the mere force of circumstances,- Napoleon made
fresh arrangements, which if they had not been anticipated by
prompt action on the spot, must have come too late. The mar-
shals and generals in command, who were nearer to the struggle
than he was, and who now and then exposed themselves to fire,
took steps without waiting to refer to the Emperor, directed the
artillery, and brought up the cavalry on this side or the infantry
on that. Often, however, their orders were only half executed,
or not heeded at all. The ranks that were ordered to advance,
flinched and turned tail as soon as they smelt grape-shot; those
who ought to have stood firm, fled or rushed on as they saw the
foe rise up before them; and the cavalry, again, would bolt off to
catch the Russian fugitives. In this way two regiments of cav-
alry charged across the ravine of Séménovski, dashed up the hill,
turned right round and pelted back again, while the infantry
performed much the same feat,- allowing itself to be completely
carried away.
Hence all the decisions necessitated by the events
of the moment were taken by those in immediate command,
without waiting for orders from Ney, Davoust, or Murat - much
less from Napoleon. They did not hesitate indeed to take the
responsibility; since during the struggle a man's sole idea is to
escape with his life, and in seeking his own safety he rushes for-
ward or back, and acts under the immediate influence of his own
personal excitement.
On the whole, after all, these various movements resulting
from mere chance neither helped, nor even altered, the attitude
of the troops. Their attacks and blows did little harm: it was
the round shot and shell flying across the wide plain that brought
death and wounds. As soon as the men were out of range of the
cannon, their leaders had them in hand, formed them into line,
brought them under discipline; and by sheer force of that disci-
pline, led them back into the ring of iron and fire, where they
again lost their presence of mind, and fled headlong, dragging one
another into the stampede.


## p. 15027 (#611) ##########################################

LYOF TOLSTOY
15027
Davoust, Murat, and Ney had led forward their troops under
fire again and again in enormous masses and in perfect order:
but instead of seeing the enemy take to flight, as in so many
previous battles, these disciplined troops turned back disbanded
and panic-stricken; in vain they reformed their ranks,—their num-
bers perceptibly dwindled. About noon Murat sent a message
to Napoleon to ask for reinforcements. Napoleon was sitting at
the foot of the knoll drinking punch. When the aide-de-camp
came up and said the Russians could certainly be routed if his
Majesty would send a reinforcement, Napoleon looked stern and
astonished.
"Reinforcements? " he cried, as if he did not understand the
meaning of the request; and he looked up at the handsome lad
with curly hair who had been sent on the errand.
"Reinforcements! " he repeated to himself in an undertone.
"What more can they want of me, when they have half of the
army at their disposal in front of the Russian left wing, which has
not even an intrenchment? Tell the King of Naples that it is
not yet noon, and I do not see my way on the chessboard. Go. "
The handsome young fellow sighed, and with his hand still up
to his shako, rode back into the fire. Napoleon rose and called
Caulaincourt and Berthier, with whom he discussed various mat-
ters not relating to the battle. In the middle of the conversation
Berthier's attention was attracted by seeing a general riding a
horse covered with foam, and coming towards the mamelon with
his staff. This was Belliard. He dismounted; and hastening to-
wards the Emperor, explained to him in loud and positive tones,
that the reinforcements must be sent up. He swore on his
honor that the Russians would be utterly cut up if the Emperor
would only send forward one division. Napoleon shrugged his
shoulders and said nothing, still walking up and down; while
Belliard vehemently expressed his opinions to the generals who
stood round him.
"Belliard, you are too hot-headed," said Napoleon. "It is so
easy to make a mistake in the thick of the fray. Go back; look
again, and then return! "
Belliard had hardly disappeared when another messenger ar-
rived from the scene of action.
"Well, what now? " said Napoleon, in the tone of a man who
is worried by unlooked-for difficulties.
"Your Majesty, the prince - "


## p. 15028 (#612) ##########################################

15028
LYOF TOLSTOY
"Wants reinforcements, I suppose? "
-
The aide-de-camp bowed affirmatively. Napoleon turned away,
went forward a step or two, turned back and addressed Berthier.
"We must send them the reserves - what do you think?
Who can we send to help that gosling I hatched into an eagle? "
"Let us send Claparède's division, sire," replied Berthier, who
knew every division, regiment, and battalion by name.
The Emperor nodded approval: the aide-de-camp went off at
a gallop towards Claparède's division; and a few minutes later
the regiment known as the Young Guard (in contradistinction
to the Old Guard), which stood in reserve behind the mamelon,
began to move forward. Napoleon stood looking at it.
"No," he said suddenly, "I cannot send Claparède; send Fri-
ant. "
Though there was nothing to be gained by moving the sec-
ond rather than the first, and in fact the immediate result was
great delay, this order was carried out exactly. Napoleon, though
he little suspected it, was dealing with his army like a doctor
who impedes the course of nature by the application of rem-
edies: a method he was always ready to criticize severely in
others. Friant's division was soon lost to sight in the smoke,
with the rest; while aides-de-camp came in from every point of
the action, as if they had conspired to make the same demand.
All reported that the Russians stood firm in their positions,
and were keeping up a terrific fire under which the French were
fairly melting away. M. de Beausset, who was still fasting, went
up to the Emperor, who had taken a seat on a camp-stool, and
respectfully suggested breakfast.
"I fancy I may congratulate your Majesty on a victory?
said.
» he
Napoleon shook his head. M. de Beausset, thinking that this
negative referred to the assumed victory, took the liberty of
remarking, in a half-jesting tone, that there could be no mortal
reason against their having some breakfast as soon as it might
be possible.
"Go-you- " Napoleon suddenly began, and he turned away.
A smile of pity and dejection was Beausset's comment, as he
left the Emperor and joined the officers.
Napoleon was going through the painful experience of a gam-
bler, who, after a long run of luck, has calculated every chance
and staked handfuls of gold, and then finds himself beaten after


## p. 15029 (#613) ##########################################

LYOF TOLSTOY
15029
all, just because he has played too elaborately. The troops
and commanders were the same as of old; his plans well laid;
his address short and vigorous; he was sure of himself, and of
his experience,- his genius which had ripened with years; the
enemy in front was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland; he
had counted on falling on him tooth and nail-and the stroke
had failed as if by magic. He was wont to see his designs
crowned with success. To-day, as usual, he had concentrated
his fire on a single point, had thrown forward his reserves and
his cavalry-men of steel- to break through the Russian lines;
and yet Victory held aloof. From all sides came the cry for
reinforcement, the news that generals were killed or wounded,
that the regiments were demoralized, that it was impossible to
move the Russians. On other occasions, after two or three
moves, and two or three orders hastily given, the aides-de-camp
and marshals had come to him beaming, to announce with com-
pliments and congratulations that whole corps had been taken
prisoners, to bring in sheaves of standards and eagles taken
from the foe; trains of cannon had rattled up behind them, and
Murat had asked leave to charge the baggage-wagons with cav-
alry! This was how things had gone at Lodi, at Marengo, at
Arcola, at Jena, at Austerlitz, at Wagram. To-day something
strange was in the air: the Russian advanced works, to be sure,
had been taken by storm; still he felt it, and he knew that all
his staff felt it too. Every face was gloomy; each man avoided
catching his neighbor's eye: and Napoleon himself knew better
than any one else what was the meaning of a struggle that had
lasted eight hours, and had not yet resulted in victory, though
all his forces had been engaged. He knew that it was a drawn
game, and that even now the smallest turn of fortune might, at
this critical moment, involve him and his army in ruin.
As he thought over this weird campaign in Russia,-in which,
during two months' fighting, not a battle had been won, not a
flag, not a gun, not a company of men had been captured,- the
dismal faces of his courtiers, and their lamentations over the
obstinacy of the Russians, oppressed him like a nightmare. The
Russians might at any moment fall on his left wing, or break
through his centre! A spent ball might even hit him! All these
things were possible. He had been used to look forward to none
but happy chances; to-day, on the contrary, an endless series of
chances, all against him, rose before his fancy.
When he heard
―
-


## p. 15030 (#614) ##########################################

15030
LYOF TOLSTOY
that the left wing was in fact attacked by the enemy, he was
panic-stricken. Berthier came up, and suggested that he should
ride round and judge for himself of the state of affairs.
"What? What did you say? Ah! yes, to be sure; call for
my horse-»
And he started towards Séménovski.
All along the road nothing was to be seen but horses and
men, singly or in heaps, lying in pools of blood; neither Napo-
leon nor his generals had ever seen so many slain within so
small a space.
The hollow roar of the cannon, which had never
ceased for ten hours, and of which the ear was weary, made a
sinister accompaniment to the scene. Having reached the height
above Séménovski, he could see in the distance, across the smoke,
close lines of uniforms of unfamiliar colors: these were the Rus-
sians. They stood in compact masses behind the village and the
knoll, and their guns still thundered unremittingly all along the
line: it was not a battle,-it was butchery, equally fruitless to
both sides. Napoleon stopped and relapsed into the revery from
which Berthier had roused him. It was impossible to put an end
to the slaughter, and yet he it was who, to the world, was the
responsible authority; this first repulse brought home to him all
the horror and waste of such massacres.
One of the generals ventured to suggest that the Old Guard
should be sent forward; Ney and Berthier exchanged glances and
smiled in contempt for so preposterous a notion. Napoleon sat
in silence, with his head down.
a
"We are eight hundred leagues from home," he suddenly ex-
claimed; and I will not have my Guards cut to pieces! " Then
turning his horse, he galloped back to Schevardino.


## p. 15031 (#615) ##########################################

15031
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
(1815-1882)
BY JANE GROSVENOR COOKE
N THE pictured face of Anthony Trollope there is a certain
bourgeois quality. The kindly deep-set eyes are shrewd
rather than thoughtful. The rugged features express prac-
tical experience, and more of common than of uncommon sense.
Anthony Trollope, third son of a scholarly but unpractical gentle-
man, came into the world soon after the family fortunes began to
ebb; and hence passed an embittered child-
hood, which strongly influenced his mental
development. Soon after his birth in Lon-
don, in 1815,
father moved to Harrow,
and began the unfortunate attempt at farm-
ing recounted in Anthony's 'Autobiography.
'
The bookish visionary was still wrestling
unhappily with the alternation of crops,
and devoting spare moments to the prepa-
ration of an Encyclopædia Ecclesiastica,'
-
- which he never finished,-when at seven
years old, Anthony was sent as day scholar
to Harrow School. The Trollopes' big pov-
erty-stricken household was neither comfort-
able nor well ordered. Anthony describes
himself as a shy and dirty lad, feeling from babyhood the degradation
of a poverty which unclassed him. After three wretched years of
social ostracism at Harrow, he was sent to Winchester College, where
his experience was much the same. Meantime Mr. Trollope grew
constantly poorer; and finally his wife, with three of her children,
went to America in a heroic endeavor to better things. The bazaar
for fancy articles which she established at Cincinnati was a failure;
but she exercised her keen wit and ready observation upon the novel
New World life, and soon after her return published The Domestic
Manners of the Americans' (1832), with a gratifying pecuniary result.
This she speedily followed with a successful novel; and from this
time, for many years, she was the family bread-winner.
Left with his father while his mother was in America, Anthony
fared worse than ever. The plain sturdy lad was sensitive; and the

ANTHONY TROLLOPE


## p. 15032 (#616) ##########################################

ANTHONY TROLLOPE
15032
mortification of his lot cowed him for a time. How could he main-
tain self-respect when he alone of all the schoolboy world had no
pocket-money, could not contribute his quota to the servants' fees,
and heard the tutor tell people that he was gratuitously instructed?
He returned to Harrow School, and remained in its unfriendly atmo-
sphere until nearly nineteen. Youthful buoyancy and ideality were
naturally scorched in this hot shame; and thus Anthony Trollope
learned the esteem for money, and the practical view of life, evident
in his stories. The constant repulse to his longing for affection and
approbation, while encasing him in reserve and gaucherie, had one
beneficial result: it whetted his naturally keen observation; and he
appreciated with greater discrimination of mind and heart the pleas-
ant comradeship he saw but could not share. It has often been
thought curious that his scanty opportunities for social life should
have resulted in such graphic and comprehensive pictures of society.
But those to whom an experience is commonplace are usually not
its most capable describers. Regarding much as self-evident, and so
ignoring it, they draw blurred unfinished pictures. Nothing escapes
an attention which is absorbed not in doing, but in longing to do
like others.
Naturally Trollope's ideal became that of money-getting. His was
never the miserly spirit of mere acquisition; but he loved money for
what it represented of liberal natural life,- of friends, beauty, and
pleasure.
There were hard humiliating years still before him, when, his edu-
cation completed, and after much family discussion as to his future,
he was sent to London in 1834, and established as a government
clerk in the General Post Office, with a salary of £100 a year. To his
inexperience this seemed almost wealth; but he soon realized its
inadequacy to keep him out of debt. He was an unpopular employé,
- stubborn, tactless; and frequently on the verge of dismissal. After
seven years of this unsatisfactory life, he was transferred to Ireland
as surveyor's clerk, with a salary of £100, and perquisites amount-
ing to £400 more; and this change inaugurated his prosperity. The
chance to start over again, untrammeled by an unfortunate reputa-
tion, was what he needed; and for the following twenty-six years he
was interested and efficient in his official duties.
But under other preoccupations, Anthony Trollope had always
nursed literary ambitions. His mother, brother, and sister, were all
writing; but when he announced that he had a novel in manuscript,
his family felt the news "an unfortunate aggravation of the disease. "
In spite of misgivings, his mother found him a publisher; and in
1847 The Macdermots of Ballycloran' appeared, and found very few
readers. A second Irish story, The Kellys and the O'Kellys,' was


## p. 15033 (#617) ##########################################

ANTHONY TROLLOPE
15033
equally unsuccessful. Difficulty only made Trollope more persevering;
and ten years later he was one of the most popular of English novel-
ists. Thousands of readers found the men and women of his books
almost as real as those they saw, and felt for them as genuine likings
and dislikes. Nathaniel Hawthorne's keen appreciation best sums up
the effect produced; and it was very grateful to Anthony Trollope,
because it showed that he had accomplished just what he attempted:
"Have you ever read the novels of Anthony Trollope? » Hawthorne asks.
"They precisely suit my taste. Solid and substantial, written on the strength
of beef and through the inspiration of ale, and just as real as if some giant
had hewn a great lump out of the earth, and put it under a glass case, with
all its inhabitants going about their daily business, and not suspecting that
they were being made a show of; and these books are just as English as a
beefsteak. "
Although Trollope wrote for money, as he frankly admits, he
was also ambitious of fame, of a desirable place in public estimation.
His honest mind never attributed to itself genius. He never aspired
to poetic heights. But he did believe that he could tell story so as
to interest people.
Unlike his friend Wilkie Collins, he could not devise startling sit-
uations, or an ingenious puzzle of a plot. But then, character appealed
to him more strongly than incident.
With many fine qualities, his nature was slightly tinged with me-
diocrity. So, naturally enough, he felt more interest in the kind of
men and women he saw about him than in unusual characters. He
loved to show people in the every-day relations of life,-acting and
reacting upon each other,—and in the English setting he best knew.
Thus he was a forerunner of our later realism, with its effort to fix
contemporary life. Of strong yet simple emotions himself, with a
satirically humorous sense of common self-deceptions and foibles, and
also an optimistic belief in human nobility, he pictures the world to
which most of his readers belong.
More idealistic minds find something revolting in Trollope's method
of work. He exulted in his own capacity for plodding, and could
not understand George Eliot's shudders when he boasted of his
twenty pages a week, and two hundred and fifty words a page,-
which, sick or well, he forced himself to accomplish. "To me it
would not be more absurd if the shoemaker were to wait for inspi-
ration, or the tallow-chandler for the divine moment of melting," he
maintained. This hard-and-fast system, although conducive to quan-
tity, was somewhat deleterious to quality. Anthony Trollope was
very prolific. He wrote many magazine sketches, short stories, and
books of travel; and did a great deal of editorial work in connec-
tion with the Cornhill Magazine and the Fortnightly Magazine, in
-


## p. 15034 (#618) ##########################################

15034
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
addition to about thirty novels. But of all his works perhaps only
'The Parliamentary Series,' 'The Chronicles of Barset,' and 'Orley
Farm,'-by many considered his best story,- have permanent quali-
ties of merit. Phineas Finn,' 'Phineas Redux,' 'Can You Forgive
Her? The Duke's Children,' 'The Prime Minister,' afford an inti-
mate acquaintance with London life and the complications of Eng-
lish politics; and are full of brilliant character sketches. But for
simple human interest they are inferior to the 'Chronicles. ' Wan-
dering about Salisbury one day, Anthony Trollope conceived the idea
of 'The Warden,' - the first and shortest of the five included in this
series. Its reception showed him that he had learned at last how
to gratify the public. The imaginary county of Barset became very
real to novel readers. Gentle Bishop Proudie, impotent under the
rule of his shrewish wife; the impressive but shallow archdeacon,
his good sensible wife, and his wife's relations, with their exagger-
ated respect for ecclesiastical precedences, involving petty squabbles,
-form the background for pleasant romances. Trollope delights in
pretty, sensible, spirited girls. Grace Crawley, Lily Dale, Mary Thorne,
and their sisterhood, are fine warm-hearted young women. Perhaps
the most lovable character in all Trollope's works is mild Mr. Har-
ding, a pure-minded and simple Christian, loving his faith, and try-
ing his best to live it consistently.
Trollope never forces a moral. His tales were written for the
recreation of others, although it was a matter of pride with him that
the pleasure he furnished was always wholesome.
Trollope saw the world as a sphere of many satisfactions, much
pleasure, and little joy. Most people, it seemed to him, struggling
more or less cheerfully through difficulties, find life something of a
makeshift. This truth he shows, and emphasizes in a rich volumi-
nous style, like that of a ready talker with a copious vocabulary at
command.
It is pleasant to remember that after his hard youth, Anthony
Trollope passed years of comfort and congenial companionship. His
frank delight in the Garrick Club - where he met Dickens, Thack-
eray, Wilkie Collins, and other gifted men-compensated his solitary
boyhood. Another enduring pleasure was hunting. He kept fine
horses, and followed the hounds clumsily but enthusiastically almost
to the time of his death in 1882.
Jone
Grosvenor Cooke.
-
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## p. 15035 (#619) ##########################################

ANTHONY TROLLOPE
15035
WAR
From Barchester Towers'
"G
OOD heavens! " exclaimed the archdeacon, as he placed his
foot on the gravel walk of the close, and raising his hat
with one hand, passed the other somewhat violently over
his now grizzled locks. Smoke issued forth from the uplifted
beaver as it were a cloud of wrath; and the safety-valve of his
anger opened, and emitted a visible steam, preventing positive
explosion and probable apoplexy. "Good heavens! "— and the
archdeacon looked up to the gray pinnacles of the cathedral
tower, making a mute appeal to that still living witness which
had looked down on the doings of so many bishops of Bar-
chester.
"I don't think I shall ever like that Mr. Slope," said Mr.
Harding.
"Like him! " roared the archdeacon, standing still for a mo-
ment to give more force to his voice; "like him! " All the
ravens of the close cawed their assent. The old bells of the
tower, in chiming the hour, echoed the words; and the swallows
flying out from their nests mutely expressed a similar opinion.
Like Mr. Slope! Why no, it was not very probable that any
Barchester-bred living thing should like Mr. Slope!
"Nor Mrs. Proudie either," said Mr. Harding.
The archdeacon hereupon forgot himself. I will not follow
his example, nor shock my readers by transcribing the term in
which he expressed his feeling as to the lady who had been
named. The ravens and the last lingering notes of the clock
bells were less scrupulous, and repeated in corresponding echoes
the very improper exclamation. The archdeacon again raised his
hat, and another salutary escape of steam was effected.
There was a pause, during which the precentor tried to real-
ize the fact that the wife of a bishop of Barchester had been
thus designated, in the close of the cathedral, by the lips of its
own archdeacon; but he could not do it.
"The bishop seems to be a quiet man enough," suggested Mr.
Harding, having acknowledged to himself his own failure.
"Idiot! " exclaimed the doctor, who for the nonce was not
capable of more than such spasmodic attempts at utterance.
«< Well, he did not seem very bright," said Mr. Harding;
"and yet he has always had the reputation of a clever man. I


## p. 15036 (#620) ##########################################

15036
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
suppose he's cautious and not inclined to express himself very
freely. "
The new bishop of Barchester was already so contemptible a
creature in Dr. Grantly's eyes that he could not condescend to
discuss his character. He was a puppet to be played by others;
a mere wax doll, done up in an apron and a shovel hat, to be
stuck on a throne or elsewhere, and pulled about by wires as
others chose. Dr. Grantly did not choose to let himself down low
enough to talk about Dr. Proudie; but he saw that he would
have to talk about the other members of his household, the co-
adjutor bishops, who had brought his Lordship down, as it were,
in a box, and were about to handle the wires as they willed. This
in itself was a terrible vexation to the archdeacon. Could he
have ignored the chaplain, and have fought the bishop, there
would have been, at any rate, nothing degrading in such a con-
test. Let the Queen make whom she would bishop of Barchester:
a man, or even an ape, when once a bishop, would be a respect-
able adversary, if he would but fight, himself. But what was
such a person as Dr. Grantly to do, when such another person as
Mr. Slope was put forward as his antagonist?
If he, our archdeacon, refused the combat, Mr. Slope would
walk triumphant over the field, and have the diocese of Barches
ter under his heel.
If, on the other hand, the archdeacon accepted as his enemy
the man whom the new puppet bishop put before him as such,
he would have to talk about Mr. Slope, and write about Mr.
Slope, and in all matters treat with Mr. Slope, as a being stand-
ing in some degree on ground similar to his own. He would
have to meet Mr. Slope; to- Bah! the idea was sickening. He
could not bring himself to have to do with Mr. Slope.
"He is the most thoroughly bestial creature that ever I set
my eyes upon," said the archdeacon.
"Who - the bishop? " asked the other innocently.
"Bishop! no;-I'm not talking about the bishop. How on
earth such a creature got ordained! They'll ordain anybody
now, I know: but he's been in the Church these ten years; and
they used to be a little careful ten years ago. "
"Oh! you mean Mr. Slope. "
"Did
>>>
you ever see any animal less like a gentleman ?
Dr. Grantly.
"I can't say I felt myself much disposed to like him. "
asked


## p. 15037 (#621) ##########################################

ANTHONY TROLLOPE
15037
"Like him! " again shouted the doctor, and the assenting
ravens again cawed an echo. "Of course you don't like him.
It's not a question of liking. But what are we to do with him? "
"Do with him? " asked Mr. Harding.
"Yes; - what are we to do with him? How are we to treat
him? There he is, and there he'll stay. He has put his foot in
that palace, and he will never take it out again till he's driven.
How are we to get rid of him? "
"I don't suppose he can do us much harm. "
"Not do harm! -Well: I think you'll find yourself of a dif-
ferent opinion before a month is gone.
What would you say
now if he got himself put into the hospital ? Would that be
harm? "
Mr. Harding mused awhile, and then said he didn't think the
new bishop would put Mr. Slope into the hospital.
"If he doesn't put him there, he'll put him somewhere else
where he'll be as bad. I tell you that that man, to all intents
and purposes, will be bishop of Barchester. " Then again Dr.
Grantly raised his hat, and rubbed his hand thoughtfully and
sadly over his head.
"Impudent scoundrel! " he continued after a while. "To dare
to cross-examine me about the Sunday schools in the diocese,-
and Sunday traveling too. I never in my life met his equal for
sheer impudence. Why, he must have thought we were two can-
didates for ordination! "
"I declare I thought Mrs. Proudie was the worst of the two,"
said Mr. Harding.
«< When a woman is impertinent, one must only put up with
it, and keep out of her way in future. But I am not inclined to
put up with Mr. Slope. Sabbath traveling! " and the doctor
attempted to imitate the peculiar drawl of the man he so much
disliked: "Sabbath traveling! ' Those are the sort of men who
will ruin the Church of England, and make the profession of a
clergyman disreputable. It is not the dissenters or the papists
that we should fear, but the set of canting, low-bred hypocrites
who are wriggling their way in among us; men who have no
fixed principle, no standard ideas of religion or doctrine, but who
take up some popular cry, as this fellow has done about 'Sab-
bath traveling. '"
Dr. Grantly did not again repeat the question aloud, but he did
so constantly to himself, "What were they to do with Mr. Slope ? »


## p. 15038 (#622) ##########################################

15038
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
How was he openly, before the world, to show that he utterly
disapproved of and abhorred such a man?
Hitherto Barchester had escaped the taint of any extreme
rigor of church doctrine. The clergymen of the city and neigh-
borhood, though very well inclined to promote high-class princi-
ples, privileges, and prerogatives, had never committed themselves
to tendencies which are somewhat too loosely called Puseyite prac-
tices. They all preached in their black gowns, as their fathers
had done before them; they wore ordinary black cloth waistcoats;
they had no candles on their altars, either lighted or unlighted;
they made no peculiar genuflexions, and were contented to con-
fine themselves to such ceremonial observances as had been in
vogue for the last hundred years. The services were decently
and demurely read in their parish churches, chanting was con-
fined to the cathedral, and the science of intoning was unknown.
One young man who had come direct from Oxford as a curate
to Plumstead had, after the lapse of two or three Sundays,
made a faint attempt, much to the bewilderment of the poorer
part of the congregation. Dr. Grantly had not been present on
the occasion; but Mrs. Grantly, who had her own opinion on the
subject, immediately after the service expressed a hope that the
young gentleman had not been taken ill, and offered to send
him all kinds of condiments supposed to be good for a sore throat.