Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

by Thomas Hardy

  With solemn speech and sign:

  Should things go ill, and my life pay

  For botchery in this rash assay,

  You are to take hers likewise — yea,

  The month the law takes mine.

  “For should my rival, Wrestler Joe,

  Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor -

  My reckless rival, Wrestler Joe,

  My Love’s possessor be,

  My tortured spirit would not rest,

  But wander weary and distrest

  Throughout the world in wild protest:

  The thought nigh maddens me!”

  PART II

  Thus did he speak — this brother of mine -

  On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor,

  Born at my birth of mother of mine,

  And forthwith went his way

  To dare the deed some coming night . . .

  I kept the watch with shaking sight,

  The moon at moments breaking bright,

  At others glooming gray.

  For three full days I heard no sound

  Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor,

  I heard no sound at all around

  Whether his fay prevailed,

  Or one malign the master were,

  Till some afoot did tidings bear

  How that, for all his practised care,

  He had been caught and jailed.

  They had heard a crash when twelve had chimed

  By Mendip east of Dunkery Tor,

  When twelve had chimed and moonlight climbed;

  They watched, and he was tracked

  By arch and aisle and saint and knight

  Of sculptured stonework sheeted white

  In the cathedral’s ghostly light,

  And captured in the act.

  Yes; for this Love he loved too well

  Where Dunkery sights the Severn shore,

  All for this Love he loved too well

  He burst the holy bars,

  Seized golden vessels from the chest

  To buy her ornaments of the best,

  At her ill-witchery’s request

  And lure of eyes like stars . . .

  When blustering March confused the sky

  In Toneborough Town by Exon Moor,

  When blustering March confused the sky

  They stretched him; and he died.

  Down in the crowd where I, to see

  The end of him, stood silently,

  With a set face he lipped to me -

  ”Remember.” “Ay!” I cried.

  By night and day I shadowed her

  From Toneborough Deane to Dunkery Tor,

  I shadowed her asleep, astir,

  And yet I could not bear -

  Till Wrestler Joe anon began

  To figure as her chosen man,

  And took her to his shining van -

  To doom a form so fair!

  He made it handsome for her sake -

  And Dunkery smiled to Exon Moor -

  He made it handsome for her sake,

  Painting it out and in;

  And on the door of apple-green

  A bright brass knocker soon was seen,

  And window-curtains white and clean

  For her to sit within.

  And all could see she clave to him

  As cleaves a cloud to Dunkery Tor,

  Yea, all could see she clave to him,

  And every day I said,

  “A pity it seems to part those two

  That hourly grow to love more true:

  Yet she’s the wanton woman who

  Sent one to swing till dead!”

  That blew to blazing all my hate,

  While Dunkery frowned on Exon Moor,

  And when the river swelled, her fate

  Came to her pitilessly . . .

  I dogged her, crying: “Across that plank

  They use as bridge to reach yon bank

  A coat and hat lie limp and dank;

  Your goodman’s, can they be?”

  She paled, and went, I close behind -

  And Exon frowned to Dunkery Tor,

  She went, and I came up behind

  And tipped the plank that bore

  Her, fleetly flitting across to eye

  What such might bode. She slid awry;

  And from the current came a cry,

  A gurgle; and no more.

  How that befell no mortal knew

  From Marlbury Downs to Exon Moor;

  No mortal knew that deed undue

  But he who schemed the crime,

  Which night still covers . . . But in dream

  Those ropes of hair upon the stream

  He sees, and he will hear that scream

  Until his judgment-time.

  THE ABBEY MASON

  (Inventor of the “Perpendicular” Style of Gothic Architecture)

  The new-vamped Abbey shaped apace

  In the fourteenth century of grace;

  (The church which, at an after date,

  Acquired cathedral rank and state.)

  Panel and circumscribing wall

  Of latest feature, trim and tall,

  Rose roundabout the Norman core

  In prouder pose than theretofore,

  Encasing magically the old

  With parpend ashlars manifold.

  The trowels rang out, and tracery

  Appeared where blanks had used to be.

  Men toiled for pleasure more than pay,

  And all went smoothly day by day,

  Till, in due course, the transept part

  Engrossed the master-mason’s art.

  - Home-coming thence he tossed and turned

  Throughout the night till the new sun burned.

  “What fearful visions have inspired

  These gaingivings?” his wife inquired;

  “As if your tools were in your hand

  You have hammered, fitted, muttered, planned;

  “You have thumped as you were working hard:

  I might have found me bruised and scarred.

  “What then’s amiss. What eating care

  Looms nigh, whereof I am unaware?”

  He answered not, but churchward went,

  Viewing his draughts with discontent;

  And fumbled there the livelong day

  Till, hollow-eyed, he came away.

  - ‘Twas said, “The master-mason’s ill!”

  And all the abbey works stood still.

  Quoth Abbot Wygmore: “Why, O why

  Distress yourself? You’ll surely die!”

  The mason answered, trouble-torn,

  “This long-vogued style is quite outworn!

  “The upper archmould nohow serves

  To meet the lower tracery curves:

  “The ogees bend too far away

  To give the flexures interplay.

  “This it is causes my distress . . .

  So it will ever be unless

  “New forms be found to supersede

  The circle when occasions need.

  “To carry it out I have tried and toiled,

  And now perforce must own me foiled!

  “Jeerers will say: ‘Here was a man

  Who could not end what he began!’“

  - So passed that day, the next, the next;

  The abbot scanned the task, perplexed;

  The townsmen mustered all their wit

  To fathom how to compass it,

  But no raw artistries availed

  Where practice in the craft had failed . . .

  - One night he tossed, all open-eyed,

  And early left his helpmeet’s side.

  Scattering the rushes of the floor

  He wandered from the chamber door

  And sought the sizing pile, whereon

  Struck dimly a cadaverous dawn

  Through freezing rain, that drenched the board

  Of diagram-lines he last had scored -

  Chalked phantasies in vain begotr />
  To knife the architectural knot -

  In front of which he dully stood,

  Regarding them in hopeless mood.

  He closelier looked; then looked again:

  The chalk-scratched draught-board faced the rain,

  Whose icicled drops deformed the lines

  Innumerous of his lame designs,

  So that they streamed in small white threads

  From the upper segments to the heads

  Of arcs below, uniting them

  Each by a stalactitic stem.

  - At once, with eyes that struck out sparks,

  He adds accessory cusping-marks,

  Then laughs aloud. The thing was done

  So long assayed from sun to sun . . .

  - Now in his joy he grew aware

  Of one behind him standing there,

  And, turning, saw the abbot, who

  The weather’s whim was watching too.

  Onward to Prime the abbot went,

  Tacit upon the incident.

  - Men now discerned as days revolved

  The ogive riddle had been solved;

  Templates were cut, fresh lines were chalked

  Where lines had been defaced and balked,

  And the work swelled and mounted higher,

  Achievement distancing desire;

  Here jambs with transoms fixed between,

  Where never the like before had been -

  There little mullions thinly sawn

  Where meeting circles once were drawn.

  “We knew,” men said, “the thing would go

  After his craft-wit got aglow,

  “And, once fulfilled what he has designed,

  We’ll honour him and his great mind!”

  When matters stood thus poised awhile,

  And all surroundings shed a smile,

  The master-mason on an eve

  Homed to his wife and seemed to grieve . . .

  - “The abbot spoke to me to-day:

  He hangs about the works alway.

  “He knows the source as well as I

  Of the new style men magnify.

  “He said: ‘You pride yourself too much

  On your creation. Is it such?

  “‘Surely the hand of God it is

  That conjured so, and only His! -

  “‘Disclosing by the frost and rain

  Forms your invention chased in vain;

  “‘Hence the devices deemed so great

  You copied, and did not create.’

  “I feel the abbot’s words are just,

  And that all thanks renounce I must.

  “Can a man welcome praise and pelf

  For hatching art that hatched itself? . . .

  “So, I shall own the deft design

  Is Heaven’s outshaping, and not mine.”

  “What!” said she. “Praise your works ensure

  To throw away, and quite obscure

  “Your beaming and beneficent star?

  Better you leave things as they are!

  “Why, think awhile. Had not your zest

  In your loved craft curtailed your rest -

  “Had you not gone there ere the day

  The sun had melted all away!”

  - But, though his good wife argued so,

  The mason let the people know

  That not unaided sprang the thought

  Whereby the glorious fane was wrought,

  But that by frost when dawn was dim

  The method was disclosed to him.

  “Yet,” said the townspeople thereat,

  “‘Tis your own doing, even with that!”

  But he — chafed, childlike, in extremes -

  The temperament of men of dreams -

  Aloofly scrupled to admit

  That he did aught but borrow it,

  And diffidently made request

  That with the abbot all should rest.

  - As none could doubt the abbot’s word,

  Or question what the church averred,

  The mason was at length believed

  Of no more count than he conceived,

  And soon began to lose the fame

  That late had gathered round his name . . .

  - Time passed, and like a living thing

  The pile went on embodying,

  And workmen died, and young ones grew,

  And the old mason sank from view

  And Abbots Wygmore and Staunton went

  And Horton sped the embellishment.

  But not till years had far progressed

  Chanced it that, one day, much impressed,

  Standing within the well-graced aisle,

  He asked who first conceived the style;

  And some decrepit sage detailed

  How, when invention nought availed,

  The cloud-cast waters in their whim

  Came down, and gave the hint to him

  Who struck each arc, and made each mould;

  And how the abbot would not hold

  As sole begetter him who applied

  Forms the Almighty sent as guide;

  And how the master lost renown,

  And wore in death no artist’s crown.

  - Then Horton, who in inner thought

  Had more perceptions than he taught,

  Replied: “Nay; art can but transmute;

  Invention is not absolute;

  “Things fail to spring from nought at call,

  And art-beginnings most of all.

  “He did but what all artists do,

  Wait upon Nature for his cue.”

  - “Had you been here to tell them so

  Lord Abbot, sixty years ago,

  “The mason, now long underground,

  Doubtless a different fate had found.

  “He passed into oblivion dim,

  And none knew what became of him!

  “His name? ‘Twas of some common kind

  And now has faded out of mind.”

  The Abbot: “It shall not be hid!

  I’ll trace it.” . . . But he never did.

  - When longer yet dank death had wormed

  The brain wherein the style had germed

  From Gloucester church it flew afar -

  The style called Perpendicular. -

  To Winton and to Westminster

  It ranged, and grew still beautifuller:

  From Solway Frith to Dover Strand

  Its fascinations starred the land,

  Not only on cathedral walls

  But upon courts and castle halls,

  Till every edifice in the isle

  Was patterned to no other style,

  And till, long having played its part,

  The curtain fell on Gothic art.

  - Well: when in Wessex on your rounds,

  Take a brief step beyond its bounds,

  And enter Gloucester: seek the quoin

  Where choir and transept interjoin,

  And, gazing at the forms there flung

  Against the sky by one unsung -

  The ogee arches transom-topped,

  The tracery-stalks by spandrels stopped,

  Petrified lacework — lightly lined

  On ancient massiveness behind -

  Muse that some minds so modest be

  As to renounce fame’s fairest fee,

  (Like him who crystallized on this spot

  His visionings, but lies forgot,

  And many a mediaeval one

  Whose symmetries salute the sun)

  While others boom a baseless claim,

  And upon nothing rear a name.

  THE JUBILEE OF A MAGAZINE

  (To the Editor)

  Yes; your up-dated modern page -

  All flower-fresh, as it appears -

  Can claim a time-tried lineage,

  That reaches backward fifty years

  (Which, if but short for sleepy squires,

  Is much in magazines’ careers).

  - Here, on y
our cover, never tires

  The sower, reaper, thresher, while

  As through the seasons of our sires

  Each wills to work in ancient style

  With seedlip, sickle, share and flail,

  Though modes have since moved many a mile!

  The steel-roped plough now rips the vale,

  With cog and tooth the sheaves are won,

  Wired wheels drum out the wheat like hail;

  But if we ask, what has been done

  To unify the mortal lot

  Since your bright leaves first saw the sun,

  Beyond mechanic furtherance — what

  Advance can rightness, candour, claim?

  Truth bends abashed, and answers not.

  Despite your volumes’ gentle aim

  To straighten visions wry and wrong,

  Events jar onward much the same!

  - Had custom tended to prolong,

  As on your golden page engrained,

  Old processes of blade and prong,

  And best invention been retained

  For high crusades to lessen tears