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THOMAS HARDY:

now his widow. To her, a woman of infinite tact, the
world owes a great debt, for it was she who shielded him
from all worry and anxiety and importunate callers, tended
him with gentle care, and so prolonged his life in the haven
of a peaceful and happy old age. Hardy himself realised
his great debt to her, and wrote :—

For one did care,
And spiriting into my house, to, fro,
Like wind on the stair,
Cares still, heeds all ...

There was no "pessimism" in the home life of Max
Gate, any more than there is in Hardy's literary work.
He was, in his prose and poetry, often preoccupied with
the fate of humanity as the sport and victim of ironical
immortal powers; with the mischances of life and love;
with the swift passing of beauty and happiness—the sad
impermanence of all mortal things. He lamented that the
flowers should fade and spring be so quickly gone. The
moon wanes and the sun sinks to rest, and human life, un-
like these forces of nature, is not reborn, but is bounded
by the little green hillock in the churchyard and the
eternal night—decay, blotted memories, extinction in ex-
change for all the high hopes, the fine ambitions, the love,
the "throbbings of noontide," when the mountain tops
were roseate at the outset of youth. What deep thinker
but can be sad in contemplation of the facts of life: this
is not pessimism, only regretful resignation.

As a man, Mr. Hardy—as I saw him—offered no
“pessimism,” either in his conversation or his personal
appearance. It always amazes me when I read the
accounts of his “eyes full of pain” and his confessions of
fits of dreary depression. The fact is, his was an extremely
shy and sensitive nature, and the mask he wore to the
outer world was an artificial protection of his inner self.
To bores and intrusive journalists seeking “copy” he
presented the “pessimism” they inspired and desired to
find; and these people, who could only see in the “tired
eyes” infinite sadness and depression, little knew that the
same eyes could twinkle with fun as he told or heard some
amusing story. I could relate several humorous observa-

SOME PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS 405

tions and anecdotes of his concerning still living or
recently deceased people, but I prefer to dwell on his
kindly simplicity and his unconsciousness of his genius
and importance. I will advance two instances, and must
again ask pardon for what may seem an egotistical intru-
sion. On presenting to Mr. Hardy one of my books
which contained his portrait as frontispiece, he said: "I
ought not to come first." And when I replied: "You
could not be put in any other place," he only smiled and
shook his head in friendly reproof.

I look back to a very memorable visit to Max Gate on
Michaelmas Day, 1922, a lovely autumnal day. On
leaving, Mr. and Mrs. Hardy walked with me by the field
route to Dorchester station, not forgetting "Wessex," who
provided vocal noise. The distance must be quite a mile,
but Hardy, though then eighty-two years of age, walked
along as quickly and actively as a boy, talking humorously
the while. On reaching a bridge over the railway line, I
said good-bye and proceeded to the station some distance
away. My train left quite a quarter of an hour later and
passed under the same bridge I have mentioned. By a
fortunate inspiration I looked out of the carriage window,
and there was Mr. Hardy still waiting on the bridge and
waving a final adieu. It was an incident that touched me
greatly, and I am glad to say Mrs. Hardy wrote to me
later: "My husband saw your final wave to him out of the
carriage window. I was amazed you could see him on
the bridge as the train passed beneath."

The last time I went to Dorset, in 1925—it was winter-
tide—it had been a murky day. As the train from Ware-
ham travelled across portions of Egdon Heath the evening
sun burst through the clouds and took the colour of a dull
red ball lighting up the pools of water on the heath as
with fire. As the sun sank, the pools became the colour of
blood and the distant hills took on a lovely tinge of purple.
When I reached Woolbridge House—where poor Tess
arrived to spend her honeymoon—the sun had set, and that
dire, haunted manor-house beside the “great Elizabethan
bridge” looked drear indeed in the fading light, the last
rays reflected in the flooded land around. Twilight

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THOMAS HARDY

merged into night, and lights soon were twinkling from the
homesteads scattered here and there on the great range of
downs and on that black mass of Egdon Heath, which per-
chance is also the heath of storm and sorrow of Lear,
traditionary King of Wessex.

But my thoughts are with that greater King of
Wessex whose torch of genius and romance has lit
up for human time the aspects of his native country-
side. His body does not lie, as he expected, be-
neath the shade of the great yew trees in Stinsford—
“Mellstock”—churchyard, but his memory is there and
to the verge of his Wessex “till the last crash of all things
low and high shall end the spheres.”