Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (1003 page)

(brokenly)

Better had she been made the purposed victim
Than that this should have so befallen to save her!
Foul disaster of fatherhood and home-pride! . . .
Let this citadel fall; the Spartan army
Trample over its dust, and enter in here!
She is worse than a martyr for the State-weal,
I than one of the slain. And king to-morrow!

(He pauses)

Tis not true!

He makes as if to fall upon her lover with his sword. Lover defends himself with his dagger. Aristodemus turns to rush into the castle after his daughter.

I misdoubt it! They speak falsely!

[Exit Aristodemus. Lover walks up and down in strained suspense. Interval. A groan is heard. Lover is about to rush out, but re-enter Aristodemus sword in hand, now bloody.
Aristodemus

I have proved me her honour, shown the falsehood
Ye twain both have declared me!
Lover

That canst not do!

Aristodemus

I say I have outshown it; proved her even
Until death very virgin pure and spotless!
Enter Attendants.
Attendants

(severally)
Horror, horror indeed! He’s ripped her up — yea,
With his sword! He hath split her beauteous body
To prove her maid!
Aristodemus

(to lover)
Now diest thou for thy lying, like as she died!
He turns his sword on lover, but falls from exhaustion. Lover seizes Aristodemus’ sword, and is about to run him through with it; but he checks his hand, and turn the sword upon himself.
(Lover dies.)

EVENING SHADOWS

The shadows of my chimneys stretch afar
Across the plot, and on to the privet bower,
And even the shadows of their smokings show,
And nothing says just now that where they are
They will in future stretch at this same hour,
Though in my earthen cyst I shall not know.

And at this time the neighbouring Pagan mound,
Whose myths the Gospel news now supersede,
Upon the greensward also throws its shade,
And nothing says such shade will spread around
Even as to-day when men will no more heed
The Gospel news than when the mound was made.

THE THREE TALL MEN

The First Tapping

“What’s that tapping at night: tack, tack,
In some house in the street at the back?”

“O, ‘tis a man who, when he has leisure,
Is making himself a coffin to measure.
He’s so very tall that no carpenter
Will make it long enough, he’s in fear.
His father’s was shockingly short for his limb —
And it made a deep impression on him.”

The Second Tapping

“That tapping has begun again,
Which ceased a year back, or near then?”

“Yes, ‘tis the man you heard before
Making his coffin. The first scarce done
His brother died — his only one —
And, being of his own height, or more,
He used it for him; for he was afraid
He’d not get a long enough one quick made.
He’s making a second now, to fit
Himself when there shall be need for it.
Carpenters work so by rule of thumb
That they make mistakes when orders come.”

The Third Tapping

“It’s strange, but years back, when I was here,
I used to notice a tapping near;
A man was making his coffin at night,
And he made a second, if I am right?
I have heard again the self-same tapping —
Yes, late last night — or was I napping?”

“O no. It’s the same man. He made one
Which his brother had; and a second was done —
For himself, as he thought. But lately his son,
As tall as he, died; aye, and as trim,
And his sorrowful father bestowed it on him.
And now the man is making a third,
To be used for himself when he is interred.”

“Many years later was brought to me
News that the man had died at sea.”

THE LODGING-HOUSE FUCHSIAS

Mrs. Masters’s fuchsias hung
Higher and broader, and brightly swung,
Bell-like, more and more
Over the narrow garden-path,
Giving the passer a sprinkle-bath
In the morning.

She put up with their pushful ways,
And made us tenderly lift their sprays,
Going to her door:
But when her funeral had to pass
They cut back all the flowery mass
In the morning.

THE WHALER’S WIFE

I never pass that inn “The Ring of Bells”
Without recalling what its signpost tells
To recollection:
A tale such as all houses yield, maybe,
That ever have known of fealties, phantasy,
Hate, or affection.

He has come from a whaling cruise to settle down
As publican in his small native town,
Where his wife dwells.
It is a Sunday morning; she has gone
To church with others. Service still being on,
He seeks “The Bells.”

“Yes: she’s quite thriving; very much so, they say.
I don’t believe in tales; ‘tis not my way!
I hold them stuff.
But — as you press me — certainly we know
He visits her once at least each week or so,
Fair weather or rough.

“And, after all, he’s quite a gentleman,
And lonely wives must friend them where they can.
She’ll tell you all,
No doubt, when prayers are done and she comes home.
I’m glad to hear your early taste to roam
Begins to pall.”

“I’ll stroll out and await her,” then said he.
Anon the congregation passed, and she
Passed with the rest,
Unconscious of the great surprise at hand
And bounding on, and smiling — fair and bland —
In her Sunday best.

Straight she was told. She fainted at the news,
But rallied, and was able to refuse
Help to her home.
There she sat waiting all day — with a look —
A look of joy, it seemed, if none mistook . . .
But he did not come.

Time flew: her husband kept him absent still,
And by slow slips the woman pined, until,
Grown thin, she died —
Of grief at loss of him, some would aver,
But how could that be? They anyway buried her
By her mother’s side.

And by the grave stood, at the funeral,
A tall man, elderly and grave withal;
Gossip grew grim:
He was the same one who had been seen before;
He paid, in cash, all owing; and no more
Was heard of him.

At the pulling down of her house, decayed and old,
Many years after, was the true tale told
By an ancient swain.
The tall man was the father of the wife.
He had beguiled her mother in maiden life,
And to cover her stain,

Induced to wive her one in his service bred,
Who brought her daughter up as his till wed.
 — This the girl knew,
But hid it close, to save her mother’s name,
Even from her seaman spouse, and ruined her fame
With him, though true.

THROWING A TREE

NEW FOREST

The two executioners stalk along over the knolls,
Bearing two axes with heavy heads shining and wide,
And a long limp two-handled saw toothed for cutting great boles,
And so they approach the proud tree that bears the death-mark on its side.

Jackets doffed they swing axes and chop away just above ground,
And the chips fly about and lie white on the moss and fallen leaves;
Till a broad deep gash in the bark is hewn all the way round,
And one of them tries to hook upward a rope, which at last he achieves.

The saw then begins, till the top of the tall giant shivers:
The shivers are seen to grow greater each cut than before:
They edge out the saw, tug the rope; but the tree only quivers,
And kneeling and sawing again, they step back to try pulling once more.

Then, lastly, the living mast sways, further sways: with a shout
Job and Ike rush aside. Reached the end of its long staying powers
The tree crashes downward: it shakes all its neighbours throughout,
And two hundred years’ steady growth has been ended in less than two hours.

THE WAR-WIFE OF CATKNOLL

“What crowd is this in Catknoll Street,
Now I am just come home?
What crowd is this in my old street,
That flings me such a glance?
A stretcher — and corpse? A sobering sight
To greet me, when my heart is light
With thoughts of coming cheer to-night
Now I am back from France.”

“O ‘tis a woman, soldier-man,
Who seem to be new come:
O ‘tis a woman, soldier-man,
Found in the river here,
Whither she went and threw her in,
And now they are carrying her within:
She’s drowned herself for a sly sin
Against her husband dear.

“‘A said to me, who knew her well,
‘O why was I so weak!’
‘A said to me, who knew her well,
And have done all her life,
With a downcast face she said to me,
‘O why did I keep company
Wi’ them that practised gallantry,
When vowed a faithful wife!’

“‘O God, I’m driven mad!’ she said,
‘To hear he’s coming back;
I’m fairly driven mad!’ she said:
‘He’s been two years agone,
And now he’ll find me in this state,
And not forgive me. Had but fate
Kept back his coming three months late,
Nothing of it he’d known!’

“We did not think she meant so much,
And said: ‘He may forgive.’
O never we thought she meant so much
As to go doing this.

And now she must be crowned ! — so fair! —
Who drew men’s eyes so everywhere! —
And love-letters beyond compare
For coaxing to a kiss.

“She kept her true a year or more
Against the young men all;
Yes, kept her true a year or more,
And they were most to blame.
There was Will Peach who plays the flute,
And Waywell with the dandy suit,
And Nobb, and Knight. . . . But she’s been mute
As to the father’s name.”

Old English for “there must be a coroner’s inquest over her.”

CONCERNING HIS OLD HOME

Mood I

I wish to see it never —
That dismal place
With cracks in its floor —
I would forget it ever!

Mood II

To see it once, that sad
And memoried place —
Yes, just once more —
I should be faintly glad!

Mood III

To see it often again —
That friendly place
With its green low door —
I’m willing anywhen!

Mood IV

I’ll haunt it night and day —
That loveable place,
With its flowers’ rich store
That drives regret away!

HER SECOND HUSBAND HEARS HER STORY

“Still, Dear, it is incredible to me
That here, alone,
You should have sewed him up until he died,
And in this very bed. I do not see
How you could do it, seeing what might betide.”

“Well, he came home one midnight, liquored deep —
Worse than I’d known —
And lay down heavily, and soundly slept:
Then, desperate driven, I thought of it, to keep
Him from me when he woke. Being an adept

“With needle and thimble, as he snored, click-click
An hour I’d sewn,
Till, had he roused, he couldn’t have moved from bed,
So tightly laced in sheet and quilt and tick
He lay. And in the morning he was dead.

“Ere people came I drew the stitches out,
And thus ‘twas shown
To be a stroke.” — ”It’s a strange tale!” said he.
“And this same bed?” — ”Yes, here it came about.”
“Well, it sounds strange — told here and now to me.

“Did you intend his death by your tight lacing?”
“O, that I cannot own.
I could not think of else that would avail
When he should wake up, and attempt embracing.” —
“Well, it’s a cool queer tale!”

YULETIDE IN A YOUNGER WORLD

We believed in highdays then,
And could glimpse at night
On Christmas Eve
Imminent oncomings of radiant revel —
Doings of delight: —
Now we have no such sight.

We had eyes for phantoms then,
And at bridge or stile
On Christmas Eve
Clear beheld those countless ones who had crossed it
Cross again in file: —
Such has ceased longwhile!

We liked divination then,
And, as they homeward wound
On Christmas Eve,
We could read men’s dreams within them spinning
Even as wheels spin round: —
Now we are blinker-bound.

We heard still small voices then,
And, in the dim serene
Of Christmas Eve,
Caught the fartime tones of fire-filled prophets
Long on earth unseen. . . .
 — Can such ever have been?

AFTER THE DEATH OF A FRIEND

You died, and made but little of it! —
Why then should I, when called to doff it,
Drop, and renounce this worm-holed raiment,
Shrink edgewise off from its grey claimant?
Rather say, when I am Time-outrun,
As you did: Take me, and have done,
Inexorable, insatiate one!

THE SON’S PORTRAIT

I walked the streets of a market town,
And came to a lumber-shop,
Which I had known ere I met the frown
Of fate and fortune,
And habit led me to stop.

In burrowing mid this chattel and that,
High, low, or edgewise thrown,
I lit upon something lying flat —
A fly-flecked portrait,
Framed. ‘Twas my dead son’s own.

“That photo? . . . A lady — I know not whence —
Sold it me, Ma’am, one day,
With more. You can have it for eighteenpence:
The picture’s nothing;
It’s but for the frame you pay.”

He had given it her in their heyday shine,
When she wedded him, long her wooer:
And then he was sent to the front-trench-line,
And fell there fighting;
And she took a new bridegroom to her.