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Томас Харди (Гарди)
Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces

HER SECRET

 
That love’s dull smart distressed my heart
   He shrewdly learnt to see,
But that I was in love with a dead man
   Never suspected he.
 
 
He searched for the trace of a pictured face,
   He watched each missive come,
And a note that seemed like a love-line
   Made him look frozen and glum.
 
 
He dogged my feet to the city street,
   He followed me to the sea,
But not to the neighbouring churchyard
   Did he dream of following me.
 

“SHE CHARGED ME”

 
She charged me with having said this and that
To another woman long years before,
In the very parlour where we sat, —
 
 
Sat on a night when the endless pour
Of rain on the roof and the road below
Bent the spring of the spirit more and more.
 
 
– So charged she me; and the Cupid’s bow
Of her mouth was hard, and her eyes, and her face,
And her white forefinger lifted slow.
 
 
Had she done it gently, or shown a trace
That not too curiously would she view
A folly passed ere her reign had place,
 
 
A kiss might have ended it.  But I knew
From the fall of each word, and the pause between,
That the curtain would drop upon us two
Ere long, in our play of slave and queen.
 

THE NEWCOMER’S WIFE

 
He paused on the sill of a door ajar
That screened a lively liquor-bar,
For the name had reached him through the door
Of her he had married the week before.
 
 
“We called her the Hack of the Parade;
But she was discreet in the games she played;
If slightly worn, she’s pretty yet,
And gossips, after all, forget.
 
 
“And he knows nothing of her past;
I am glad the girl’s in luck at last;
Such ones, though stale to native eyes,
Newcomers snatch at as a prize.”
 
 
“Yes, being a stranger he sees her blent
Of all that’s fresh and innocent,
Nor dreams how many a love-campaign
She had enjoyed before his reign!”
 
 
That night there was the splash of a fall
Over the slimy harbour-wall:
They searched, and at the deepest place
Found him with crabs upon his face.
 

A CONVERSATION AT DAWN

 
He lay awake, with a harassed air,
And she, in her cloud of loose lank hair,
   Seemed trouble-tried
As the dawn drew in on their faces there.
 
 
The chamber looked far over the sea
From a white hotel on a white-stoned quay,
   And stepping a stride
He parted the window-drapery.
 
 
Above the level horizon spread
The sunrise, firing them foot to head
   From its smouldering lair,
And painting their pillows with dyes of red.
 
 
“What strange disquiets have stirred you, dear,
This dragging night, with starts in fear
   Of me, as it were,
Or of something evil hovering near?”
 
 
“My husband, can I have fear of you?
What should one fear from a man whom few,
   Or none, had matched
In that late long spell of delays undue!”
 
 
He watched her eyes in the heaving sun:
“Then what has kept, O reticent one,
   Those lids unlatched —
Anything promised I’ve not yet done?”
 
 
“O it’s not a broken promise of yours
(For what quite lightly your lip assures
   The due time brings)
That has troubled my sleep, and no waking cures!”.
 
 
“I have shaped my will; ’tis at hand,” said he;
“I subscribe it to-day, that no risk there be
   In the hap of things
Of my leaving you menaced by poverty.”
 
 
“That a boon provision I’m safe to get,
Signed, sealed by my lord as it were a debt,
   I cannot doubt,
Or ever this peering sun be set.”
 
 
“But you flung my arms away from your side,
And faced the wall.  No month-old bride
   Ere the tour be out
In an air so loth can be justified?
 
 
“Ah – had you a male friend once loved well,
Upon whose suit disaster fell
   And frustrance swift?
Honest you are, and may care to tell.”
 
 
She lay impassive, and nothing broke
The stillness other than, stroke by stroke,
   The lazy lift
Of the tide below them; till she spoke:
 
 
“I once had a friend – a Love, if you will —
Whose wife forsook him, and sank until
   She was made a thrall
In a prison-cell for a deed of ill.
 
 
“He remained alone; and we met – to love,
But barring legitimate joy thereof
   Stood a doorless wall,
Though we prized each other all else above.
 
 
“And this was why, though I’d touched my prime,
I put off suitors from time to time —
   Yourself with the rest —
Till friends, who approved you, called it crime,
 
 
“And when misgivings weighed on me
In my lover’s absence, hurriedly,
   And much distrest,
I took you.. Ah, that such could be!.
 
 
“Now, saw you when crossing from yonder shore
At yesternoon, that the packet bore
   On a white-wreathed bier
A coffined body towards the fore?
 
 
“Well, while you stood at the other end,
The loungers talked, and I could but lend
   A listening ear,
For they named the dead.  ’Twas the wife of my friend.
 
 
“He was there, but did not note me, veiled,
Yet I saw that a joy, as of one unjailed,
   Now shone in his gaze;
He knew not his hope of me just had failed!
 
 
“They had brought her home: she was born in this isle;
And he will return to his domicile,
   And pass his days
Alone, and not as he dreamt erstwhile!”
 
 
“ – So you’ve lost a sprucer spouse than I!”
She held her peace, as if fain deny
   She would indeed
For his pleasure’s sake, but could lip no lie.
 
 
“One far less formal and plain and slow!”
She let the laconic assertion go
   As if of need
She held the conviction that it was so.
 
 
“Regard me as his he always should,
He had said, and wed me he vowed he would
   In his prime or sere
Most verily do, if ever he could.
 
 
“And this fulfilment is now his aim,
For a letter, addressed in my maiden name,
   Has dogged me here,
Reminding me faithfully of his claim.
 
 
“And it started a hope like a lightning-streak
That I might go to him – say for a week —
   And afford you right
To put me away, and your vows unspeak.
 
 
“To be sure you have said, as of dim intent,
That marriage is a plain event
   Of black and white,
Without any ghost of sentiment,
 
 
“And my heart has quailed. – But deny it true
That you will never this lock undo!
   No God intends
To thwart the yearning He’s father to!”
 
 
The husband hemmed, then blandly bowed
In the light of the angry morning cloud.
   “So my idyll ends,
And a drama opens!” he mused aloud;
 
 
And his features froze.  “You may take it as true
That I will never this lock undo
   For so depraved
A passion as that which kindles you.”
 
 
Said she: “I am sorry you see it so;
I had hoped you might have let me go,
   And thus been saved
The pain of learning there’s more to know.”
 
 
“More?  What may that be?  Gad, I think
You have told me enough to make me blink!
   Yet if more remain
Then own it to me.  I will not shrink!”
 
 
“Well, it is this.  As we could not see
That a legal marriage could ever be,
   To end our pain
We united ourselves informally;
 
 
“And vowed at a chancel-altar nigh,
With book and ring, a lifelong tie;
   A contract vain
To the world, but real to Him on High.”
 
 
“And you became as his wife?” – “I did.” —
He stood as stiff as a caryatid,
   And said, “Indeed!.
No matter.  You’re mine, whatever you ye hid!”
 
 
“But is it right!  When I only gave
My hand to you in a sweat to save,
   Through desperate need
(As I thought), my fame, for I was not brave!”
 
 
“To save your fame?  Your meaning is dim,
For nobody knew of your altar-whim?”
   “I mean – I feared
There might be fruit of my tie with him;
 
 
“And to cloak it by marriage I’m not the first,
Though, maybe, morally most accurst
   Through your unpeered
And strict uprightness.  That’s the worst!
 
 
“While yesterday his worn contours
Convinced me that love like his endures,
   And that my troth-plight
Had been his, in fact, and not truly yours.”
 
 
“So, my lady, you raise the veil by degrees.
I own this last is enough to freeze
   The warmest wight!
Now hear the other side, if you please:
 
 
“I did say once, though without intent,
That marriage is a plain event
   Of black and white,
Whatever may be its sentiment.
 
 
“I’ll act accordingly, none the less
That you soiled the contract in time of stress,
   Thereto induced
By the feared results of your wantonness.
 
 
“But the thing is over, and no one knows,
And it’s nought to the future what you disclose.
   That you’ll be loosed
For such an episode, don’t suppose!
 
 
“No: I’ll not free you.  And if it appear
There was too good ground for your first fear
   From your amorous tricks,
I’ll father the child.  Yes, by God, my dear.
 
 
“Even should you fly to his arms, I’ll damn
Opinion, and fetch you; treat as sham
   Your mutinous kicks,
And whip you home.  That’s the sort I am!”
 
 
She whitened. “Enough.. Since you disapprove
I’ll yield in silence, and never move
   Till my last pulse ticks
A footstep from the domestic groove.”
 
 
“Then swear it,” he said, “and your king uncrown.”
He drew her forth in her long white gown,
   And she knelt and swore.
“Good.  Now you may go and again lie down
 
 
“Since you’ve played these pranks and given no sign,
You shall crave this man of yours; pine and pine
   With sighings sore,
’Till I’ve starved your love for him; nailed you mine.
 
 
“I’m a practical man, and want no tears;
You’ve made a fool of me, it appears;
   That you don’t again
Is a lesson I’ll teach you in future years.”
 
 
She answered not, but lay listlessly
With her dark dry eyes on the coppery sea,
   That now and then
Flung its lazy flounce at the neighbouring quay.
 

1910.

A KING’S SOLILOQUY ON THE NIGHT OF HIS FUNERAL

 
From the slow march and muffled drum
   And crowds distrest,
And book and bell, at length I have come
   To my full rest.
 
 
A ten years’ rule beneath the sun
   Is wound up here,
And what I have done, what left undone,
   Figures out clear.
 
 
Yet in the estimate of such
   It grieves me more
That I by some was loved so much
   Than that I bore,
 
 
From others, judgment of that hue
   Which over-hope
Breeds from a theoretic view
   Of regal scope.
 
 
For kingly opportunities
   Right many have sighed;
How best to bear its devilries
   Those learn who have tried!
 
 
I have eaten the fat and drunk the sweet,
   Lived the life out
From the first greeting glad drum-beat
   To the last shout.
 
 
What pleasure earth affords to kings
   I have enjoyed
Through its long vivid pulse-stirrings
   Even till it cloyed.
 
 
What days of drudgery, nights of stress
   Can cark a throne,
Even one maintained in peacefulness,
   I too have known.
 
 
And so, I think, could I step back
   To life again,
I should prefer the average track
   Of average men,
 
 
Since, as with them, what kingship would
   It cannot do,
Nor to first thoughts however good
   Hold itself true.
 
 
Something binds hard the royal hand,
   As all that be,
And it is That has shaped, has planned
   My acts and me.
 

May 1910.

THE CORONATION

 
At Westminster, hid from the light of day,
Many who once had shone as monarchs lay.
 
 
Edward the Pious, and two Edwards more,
The second Richard, Henrys three or four;
 
 
That is to say, those who were called the Third,
Fifth, Seventh, and Eighth (the much self-widowered),
 
 
And James the Scot, and near him Charles the Second,
And, too, the second George could there be reckoned.
 
 
Of women, Mary and Queen Elizabeth,
And Anne, all silent in a musing death;
 
 
And William’s Mary, and Mary, Queen of Scots,
And consort-queens whose names oblivion blots;
 
 
And several more whose chronicle one sees
Adorning ancient royal pedigrees.
 
 
– Now, as they drowsed on, freed from Life’s old thrall,
And heedless, save of things exceptional,
 
 
Said one: “What means this throbbing thudding sound
That reaches to us here from overground;
 
 
“A sound of chisels, augers, planes, and saws,
Infringing all ecclesiastic laws?
 
 
“And these tons-weight of timber on us pressed,
Unfelt here since we entered into rest?
 
 
“Surely, at least to us, being corpses royal,
A meet repose is owing by the loyal?”
 
 
“ – Perhaps a scaffold!” Mary Stuart sighed,
“If such still be.  It was that way I died.”
 
 
“ – Ods!  Far more like,” said he the many-wived,
“That for a wedding ’tis this work’s contrived.
 
 
“Ha-ha!  I never would bow down to Rimmon,
But I had a rare time with those six women!”
 
 
“Not all at once?” gasped he who loved confession.
“Nay, nay!” said Hal.  “That would have been transgression.”
 
 
“ – They build a catafalque here, black and tall,
Perhaps,” mused Richard, “for some funeral?”
 
 
And Anne chimed in: “Ah, yes: it maybe so!”
“Nay!” squeaked Eliza.  “Little you seem to know —
 
 
“Clearly ’tis for some crowning here in state,
As they crowned us at our long bygone date;
 
 
“Though we’d no such a power of carpentry,
But let the ancient architecture be;
 
 
“If I were up there where the parsons sit,
In one of my gold robes, I’d see to it!”
 
 
“But you are not,” Charles chuckled.  “You are here,
And never will know the sun again, my dear!”
 
 
“Yea,” whispered those whom no one had addressed;
“With slow, sad march, amid a folk distressed,
We were brought here, to take our dusty rest.
 
 
“And here, alas, in darkness laid below,
We’ll wait and listen, and endure the show.
Clamour dogs kingship; afterwards not so!”
 

1911.

AQUAE SULIS

 
The chimes called midnight, just at interlune,
And the daytime talk of the Roman investigations
Was checked by silence, save for the husky tune
The bubbling waters played near the excavations.
 
 
And a warm air came up from underground,
And a flutter, as of a filmy shape unsepulchred,
That collected itself, and waited, and looked around:
Nothing was seen, but utterances could be heard:
 
 
Those of the goddess whose shrine was beneath the pile
Of the God with the baldachined altar overhead:
“And what did you get by raising this nave and aisle
Close on the site of the temple I tenanted?
 
 
“The notes of your organ have thrilled down out of view
To the earth-clogged wrecks of my edifice many a year,
Though stately and shining once – ay, long ere you
Had set up crucifix and candle here.
 
 
“Your priests have trampled the dust of mine without rueing,
Despising the joys of man whom I so much loved,
Though my springs boil on by your Gothic arcades and pewing,
And sculptures crude.. Would Jove they could be removed!”
 
 
“ – Repress, O lady proud, your traditional ires;
You know not by what a frail thread we equally hang;
It is said we are images both – twitched by people’s desires;
And that I, like you, fail as a song men yesterday sang!”
 

* * * * *

 
And the olden dark hid the cavities late laid bare,
And all was suspended and soundless as before,
Except for a gossamery noise fading off in the air,
And the boiling voice of the waters’ medicinal pour.
 

Bath.

SEVENTY-FOUR AND TWENTY

 
Here goes a man of seventy-four,
Who sees not what life means for him,
And here another in years a score
Who reads its very figure and trim.
 
 
The one who shall walk to-day with me
Is not the youth who gazes far,
But the breezy wight who cannot see
What Earth’s ingrained conditions are.
 

THE ELOPEMENT

 
“A woman never agreed to it!” said my knowing friend to me.
“That one thing she’d refuse to do for Solomon’s mines in fee:
No woman ever will make herself look older than she is.”
I did not answer; but I thought, “you err there, ancient Quiz.”
 
 
It took a rare one, true, to do it; for she was surely rare —
As rare a soul at that sweet time of her life as she was fair.
And urging motives, too, were strong, for ours was a passionate case,
Yea, passionate enough to lead to freaking with that young face.
 
 
I have told no one about it, should perhaps make few believe,
But I think it over now that life looms dull and years bereave,
How blank we stood at our bright wits’ end, two frail barks in distress,
How self-regard in her was slain by her large tenderness.
 
 
I said: “The only chance for us in a crisis of this kind
Is going it thorough!” – “Yes,” she calmly breathed.  “Well, I don’t mind.”
And we blanched her dark locks ruthlessly: set wrinkles on her brow;
Ay – she was a right rare woman then, whatever she may be now.
 
 
That night we heard a coach drive up, and questions asked below.
“A gent with an elderly wife, sir,” was returned from the bureau.
And the wheels went rattling on, and free at last from public ken
We washed all off in her chamber and restored her youth again.
 
 
How many years ago it was!  Some fifty can it be
Since that adventure held us, and she played old wife to me?
But in time convention won her, as it wins all women at last,
And now she is rich and respectable, and time has buried the past.
 

“I ROSE UP AS MY CUSTOM IS”

 
I rose up as my custom is
   On the eve of All-Souls’ day,
And left my grave for an hour or so
To call on those I used to know
   Before I passed away.
 
 
I visited my former Love
   As she lay by her husband’s side;
I asked her if life pleased her, now
She was rid of a poet wrung in brow,
   And crazed with the ills he eyed;
 
 
Who used to drag her here and there
   Wherever his fancies led,
And point out pale phantasmal things,
And talk of vain vague purposings
   That she discredited.
 
 
She was quite civil, and replied,
   “Old comrade, is that you?
Well, on the whole, I like my life. —
I know I swore I’d be no wife,
   But what was I to do?
 
 
“You see, of all men for my sex
   A poet is the worst;
Women are practical, and they
Crave the wherewith to pay their way,
   And slake their social thirst.
 
 
“You were a poet – quite the ideal
   That we all love awhile:
But look at this man snoring here —
He’s no romantic chanticleer,
   Yet keeps me in good style.
 
 
“He makes no quest into my thoughts,
   But a poet wants to know
What one has felt from earliest days,
Why one thought not in other ways,
   And one’s Loves of long ago.”
 
 
Her words benumbed my fond frail ghost;
   The nightmares neighed from their stalls
The vampires screeched, the harpies flew,
And under the dim dawn I withdrew
   To Death’s inviolate halls.