Autobiography of Anthony Trollope eBook

To my own initiation 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 solaced many of his latter hours.  I sometimes look back, meditating for hours together, on his adverse fate.  He was a man, finely educated, of great parts, with immense capacity for work, physically strong very much beyond the average of men, addicted to no vices, 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 irritable that even those whom he loved the best could not endure it.  We were all estranged 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 industrious woman, with great capacity for enjoyment 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 pitfalls of exaggeration.

CHAPTER III