Time's Laughingstocks and Other verses

Hardy, Thomas

Time's Laughingstocks and Other verses

Die große eBook-Bibliothek der Weltliteratur

Thomas Hardy

Time's Laughingstocks

and Other Verses

Time's Laughingstocks

Preface

In collecting the following poems I have to thank the editors and proprietors of the periodicals in which certain of them have appeared for permission to reclaim them.

Now that the miscellany is brought together, some lack of concord in pieces written at widely severed dates, and in contrasting moods and circumstances, will be obvious enough. This I cannot help, but the sense of disconnection, particularly in respect of those lyrics penned in the first person, will be immaterial when it is borne in mind that they are to be regarded, in the main, as dramatic monologues by different characters.

As a whole they will, I hope, take the reader forward, even if not far, rather than backward. I should add that some lines in the early-dated poems have been rewritten, though they have been left substantially unchanged.

T. H.

September 1909

The Revisitation

As I lay awake at night-time

In an ancient country barrack known to ancient cannoneers,

And recalled the hopes that heralded each seeming brave and bright time

Of my primal purple years,

Much it haunted me that, nigh there,

I had borne my bitterest loss – when One who went, came not again;

In a joyless hour of discord, in a joyless-hued July there –

A July just such as then.

And as thus I brooded longer,

With my faint eyes on the feeble square of wan-lit window frame,

A quick conviction sprung within me, grew, and grew yet stronger

That the month-night was the same,

Too, as that which saw her leave me

On the rugged ridge of Waterstone, the peewits plaining round;

And a lapsing twenty years had ruled that – as it were to grieve me –

I should near the once-loved ground.

Though but now a war-worn stranger

Chance had quartered here, I rose up and descended to the yard.

All was soundless, save the troopers' horses tossing at the manger,

And the sentry keeping guard.

Through the gateway I betook me

Down the High Street and beyond the lamps, across the battered bridge,

Till the country darkness clasped me and the friendly shine forsook me,

And I bore towards the Ridge,

With a dim unowned emotion

Saying softly: »Small my reason, now at midnight, to be here. ...

Yet a sleepless swain of fifty with a brief romantic notion

May retrace a track so dear.«

Thus I walked with thoughts half-uttered

Up the lane I knew so well, the grey, gaunt, lonely Lane of Slyre;

And at whiles behind me, far at sea, a sullen thunder muttered

As I mounted high and higher.

Till, the upper roadway quitting,

I adventured on the open drouthy downland thinly grassed,

While the spry white scuts of conies flashed before me, earthward flitting,

And an arid wind went past.

Round about me bulged the barrows

As before, in antique silence – immemorial funeral piles –

Where the sleek herds trampled daily the remains of flint-tipt arrows

Mid the thyme and chamomiles;

And the Sarsen stone there, dateless,

On whose breast we had sat and told the zephyrs many a tender vow,

Held the heat of yester sun, as sank thereon one fated mateless

From those far fond hours till now.

Maybe flustered by my presence

Rose the peewits, just as all those years back, wailing soft and loud,

And revealing their pale pinions like a fitful phosphorescence

Up against the cope of cloud,

Where their dolesome exclamations

Seemed the voicings of the self-same throats I had heard when life was green,

Though since that day uncounted frail forgotten generations

Of their kind had flecked the scene. –

And so, living long and longer

In a past that lived no more, my eyes discerned there, suddenly,

That a figure broke the skyline – first in vague contour, then stronger,

And was crossing near to me.

Some long-missed familiar gesture,

Something wonted, struck me in the figure's pause to list and heed,

Till I fancied from its handling of its loosely wrapping vesture

That it might be She indeed.

'Twas not reasonless: below there

In the vale, had been her home; the nook might hold her even yet,

And the downlands were her father's fief; she still might come and go there; –

So I rose, and said, »Agnette!«

With a little leap, half-frightened,

She withdrew some steps; then letting intuition smother fear

In a place so long-accustomed, and as one whom thought enlightened,

She replied: »What – that voice? – here!«

»Yes, Agnette! – And did the occasion

Of our marching hither make you think I might walk where we two –«

»O, I often come,« she murmured with a moment's coy evasion,

»('Tis not far), – and – think of you.«

Then I took her hand, and led her

To the ancient people's stone whereon I had sat. There now sat we;

And together talked, until the first reluctant shyness fled her,

And she spoke confidingly.

»It is just as ere we parted!«

Said she, brimming high with joy. – »And when, then, came you here, and why?«

»– Dear, I could not sleep for thinking of our trystings when twin-hearted.«

She responded, »Nor could I.

There are few things I would rather

Than be wandering at this spirit-hour – lone-lived, my kindred dead –

On this wold of well-known feature I inherit from my father:

Night or day, I have no dread. ...

O I wonder, wonder whether

Any heartstring bore a signal-thrill between us twain or no? –

Some such influence can, at times, they say, draw severed souls together.«

I said, »Dear, we'll dream it so.«

Each one's hand the other's grasping,

And a mutual forgiveness won, we sank to silent thought,

A large content in us that seemed our rended lives reclasping,

And contracting years to nought.

Till I, maybe overweary

From the lateness, and a wayfaring so full of strain and stress

For one no longer buoyant, to a peak so steep and eery,

Sank to slow unconsciousness. ...

How long I slept I knew not,

But the brief warm summer night had slid when, to my swift surprise,

A red upedging sun, of glory chambered mortals view not,

Was blazing on my eyes,

From the Milton Woods to Dole-Hill

All the spacious landscape lighting, and around about my feet

Flinging tall thin tapering shadows from the meanest mound and molehill,

And on trails the ewes had beat.

She was sitting still beside me,

Dozing likewise; and I turned to her, to take her hanging hand;

When, the more regarding, that which like a spectre shook and tried me

In her image then I scanned;

That which Time's transforming chisel

Had been tooling night and day for twenty years, and tooled too well,

In its rendering of crease where curve was, where was raven, grizzle –

Pits, where peonies once did dwell.

She had wakened, and perceiving

(I surmise) my sigh and shock, my quite involuntary dismay,

Up she started, and – her wasted figure all throughout it heaving –

Said, »Ah, yes: I am thus by day!

Can you really wince and wonder

That the sunlight should reveal you such a thing of skin and bone,

As if unaware a Death's-head must of need lie not far under

Flesh whose years out-count your own?

Yes: that movement was a warning

Of the worth of man's devotion! – Yes, Sir, I am old,« said she,

»And the thing which should increase love turns it quickly into scorning –

And your new-won heart from me!«

Then she went, ere I could call her,

With the too proud temper ruling that had parted us before,

And I saw her form descend the slopes, and smaller grow and smaller,

Till I caught its course no more. ...

True; I might have dogged her downward;

– But it may be (though I know not) that this trick on us of Time

Disconcerted and confused me. – Soon I bent my footsteps townward,

Like to one who had watched a crime.

Well I knew my native weakness,

Well I know it still. I cherished her reproach like physic-wine,

For I saw in that emaciate shape of bitterness and bleakness

A nobler soul than mine.

Did I not return, then, ever? –

Did we meet again? – mend all? – Alas, what greyhead perseveres! –

Soon I got the Route elsewhither. – Since that hour I have seen her never:

Love is lame at fifty years.

A Trampwoman's Tragedy

(182–)

I

From Wynyard's Gap the livelong day,

The livelong day,

We beat afoot the northward way

We had travelled times before.

The sun-blaze burning on our backs,

Our shoulders sticking to our packs,

By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracks

We skirted sad Sedge-Moor.

II

Full twenty miles we jaunted on,

We jaunted on, –

My fancy-man, and jeering John,

And Mother Lee, and I.

And, as the sun drew down to west,

We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest,

And saw, of landskip sights the best,

The inn that beamed thereby.

III

For months we had padded side by side,

Ay, side by side

Through the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide,

And where the Parret ran.

We'd faced the gusts on Mendip ridge,

Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge,

Been stung by every Marshwood midge,

I and my fancy-man.

IV

Lone inns we loved, my man and I,

My man and I;

»King's Stag«, »Windwhistle« high and dry,

»The Horse« on Hintock Green,

The cosy house at Wynyard's Gap,

»The Hut« renowned on Bredy Knap,

And many another wayside tap

Where folk might sit unseen.

V

Now as we trudged – O deadly day,

O deadly day! –

I teased my fancy-man in play

And wanton idleness.

I walked alongside jeering John,

I laid his hand my waist upon;

I would not bend my glances on

My lover's dark distress.

VI

Thus Poldon top at last we won,

At last we won,

And gained the inn at sink of sun

Far-famed as »Marshal's Elm«.

Beneath us figured tor and lea,

From Mendip to the western sea –

I doubt if finer sight there be

Within this royal realm.

VII

Inside the settle all a-row –

All four a-row

We sat, I next to John, to show

That he had wooed and won.

And then he took me on his knee,

And swore it was his turn to be

My favoured mate, and Mother Lee

Passed to my former one.

VIII

Then in a voice I had never heard,

I had never heard,

My only Love to me: »One word,

My lady, if you please!

Whose is the child you are like to bear? –

His? After all my months o' care?«

God knows 'twas not! But, O despair!

I nodded – still to tease.

IX

Then up he sprung, and with his knife –

And with his knife

He let out jeering Johnny's life,

Yes; there, at set of sun.

The slant ray through the window nigh

Gilded John's blood and glazing eye,

Ere scarcely Mother Lee and I

Knew that the deed was done.

X

The taverns tell the gloomy tale,

The gloomy tale,

How that at Ivel-chester jail

My Love, my sweetheart swung;

Though stained till now by no misdeed

Save one horse ta'en in time o' need;

(Blue Jimmy stole right many a steed

Ere his last fling he flung.)

XI

Thereaft I walked the world alone,

Alone, alone!

On his death-day I gave my groan

And dropt his dead-born child.

'Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree,

None tending me; for Mother Lee

Had died at Glaston, leaving me

Unfriended on the wild.

XII

And in the night as I lay weak,

As I lay weak,

The leaves a-falling on my cheek,

The red moon low declined –

The ghost of him I'd die to kiss

Rose up and said: »Ah, tell me this!

Was the child mine, or was it his?

Speak, that I rest may find!«

XIII

O doubt not but I told him then,

I told him then,

That I had kept me from all men

Since we joined lips and swore.

Whereat he smiled, and thinned away

As the wind stirred to call up day ...

– 'Tis past! And here alone I stray

Haunting the Western Moor.

Notes.

»Windwhistle« (Stanza IV). The highness and dryness of Windwhistle Inn was impressed upon the writer two or three years ago, when, after climbing on a hot afternoon to the beautiful spot near which it stands and entering the inn for tea, he was informed by the landlady that none could be had, unless he would fetch water from a valley half a mile off, the house containing not a drop, owing to its situation. However, a tantalizing row of full barrels behind her back testified to a wetness of a certain sort, which was not at that time desired.

»Marshal's Elm« (Stanza VI), so picturesquely situated, is no longer an inn, though the house, or part of it, still remains. It used to exhibit a fine old swinging sign.

»Blue Jimmy« (Stanza X) was a notorious horse-stealer of Wessex in those days, who appropriated more than a hundred horses before he was caught, among others one belonging to a neighbour of the writer's grandfather. He was hanged at the now demolished Ivelchester or Ilchester jail above mentioned – that building formerly of so many sinister associations in the minds of the local peasantry, and the continual haunt of fever, which at last led to its condemnation.

Its site is now an innocent-looking green meadow.

The Two Rosalinds

I

The dubious daylight ended,

And I walked the Town alone, unminding whither bound and why,

As from each gaunt street and gaping square a mist of light ascended

And dispersed upon the sky.

II

Files of evanescent faces

Passed each other without heeding, in their travail, teen, or joy,

Some in void unvisioned listlessness inwrought with pallid traces

Of keen penury's annoy.

III

Nebulous flames in crystal cages

Leered as if with discontent at city movement, murk, and grime,

And as waiting some procession of great ghosts from bygone ages

To exalt the ignoble time.

IV

In a colonnade high-lighted,

By a thoroughfare where stern utilitarian traffic dinned,

On a red and white emblazonment of players and parts, I sighted

The name of ›Rosalind‹,

V

And her famous mates of ›Arden‹,

Who observed no stricter customs than ›the seasons‹ difference' bade,

Who lived with running brooks for books in Nature's wildwood garden,

And called idleness their trade. ...

VI

Now the poster stirred an ember

Still remaining from my ardours of some forty years before,

When the self-same portal on an eve it thrilled me to remember

A like announcement bore;

VII

And expectantly I had entered,

And had first beheld in human mould a Rosalind woo and plead,

On whose transcendent figuring my speedy soul had centred

As it had been she indeed. ...

VIII

So; all other plans discarding.

I resolved on entrance, bent on seeing what I once had seen,

And approached the gangway of my earlier knowledge, disregarding

The tract of time between.

IX

»The words, sir?« cried a creature

Hovering mid the shine and shade as 'twixt the live world and the tomb;

But the well-known numbers needed not for me a text or teacher

To revive and re-illume.

X

Then the play. ... But how unfitted

Was this Rosalind! – a mammet quite to me, in memories nurst,

And with chilling disappointment soon I sought the street I had quitted,

To re-ponder on the first.

XI

The hag still hawked, – I met her

Just without the colonnade. »So you don't like her, sir?« said she.

»Ah – I was once that Rosalind! – I acted her – none better –

Yes – in eighteen sixty-three.

XII

Thus I won Orlando to me

In my then triumphant days when I had charm and maidenhood,

Now some forty years ago. – I used to say, Come woo me, woo me!«

And she struck the attitude.

XIII

It was when I had gone there nightly;

And the voice – though raucous now – was yet the old one. – Clear as noon

My Rosalind was here. ... Thereon the band withinside lightly

Beat up a merry tune.

A Sunday Morning Tragedy

(circa 186–)

I bore a daughter flower-fair,

In Pydel Vale, alas for me;

I joyed to mother one so rare,

But dead and gone I now would be.

Men looked and loved her as she grew,

And she was won, alas for me;

She told me nothing, but I knew,

And saw that sorrow was to be.

I knew that one had made her thrall,

A thrall to him, alas for me;

And then, at last, she told me all,

And wondered what her end would be.

She owned that she had loved too well,

Had loved too well, unhappy she,

And bore a secret time would tell,

Though in her shroud she'd sooner be.

I plodded to her sweetheart's door

In Pydel Vale, alas for me:

I pleaded with him, pleaded sore,

To save her from her misery.

He frowned, and swore he could not wed,

Seven times he swore it could not be;

»Poverty's worse than shame,« he said,

Till all my hope went out of me.

»I've packed my traps to sail the main« –

Roughly he spake, alas did he –

»Wessex beholds me not again,

'Tis worse than any jail would be!«

– There was a shepherd whom I knew,

A subtle man, alas for me:

I sought him all the pastures through,

Though better I had ceased to be.

I traced him by his lantern light,

And gave him hint, alas for me,

Of how she found her in the plight

That is so scorned in Christendie.

»Is there an herb ...?« I asked. »Or none?«

Yes, thus I asked him desperately.

»– There is,« he said; »a certain one. ...«

Would he had sworn that none knew he!

»To-morrow I will walk your way,«

He hinted low, alas for me. –

Fieldwards I gazed throughout next day;

Now fields I never more would see!

The sunset-shine, as curfew strook,

As curfew strook beyond the lea,

Lit his white smock and gleaming crook,

While slowly he drew near to me.

He pulled from underneath his smock

The herb I sought, my curse to be –

»At times I use it in my flock,«

He said, and hope waxed strong in me.

»'Tis meant to balk ill-motherings« –

(Ill-motherings! Why should they be?) –

»If not, would God have sent such things?«

So spoke the shepherd unto me.

That night I watched the poppling brew,

With bended back and hand on knee:

I stirred it till the dawnlight grew,

And the wind whiffled wailfully.

»This scandal shall be slain,« said I,

»That lours upon her innocency:

I'll give all whispering tongues the lie;« –

But worse than whispers was to be.

»Here's physic for untimely fruit,«

I said to her, alas for me,

Early that morn in fond salute;

And in my grave I now would be.

– Next Sunday came, with sweet church chimes

In Pydel Vale, alas for me:

I went into her room betimes;

No more may such a Sunday be!

»Mother, instead of rescue nigh,«

She faintly breathed, alas for me,

»I feel as I were like to die,

And underground soon, soon should be«

From church that noon the people walked

In twos and threes, alas for me,

Showed their new raiment – smiled and talked,

Though sackcloth-clad I longed to be.

Came to my door her lover's friends,

And cheerly cried, alas for me,

»Right glad are we he makes amends,

For never a sweeter bride can be«.

My mouth dried, as 'twere scorched within,

Dried at their words, alas for me:

More and more neighbours crowded in,

(O why should mothers ever be!)

»Ha-ha! Such well-kept news!« laughed they,

Yes – so they laughed, alas for me.

»Whose banns were called in church to-day?« –

Christ, how I wished my soul could flee!

»Where is she? O the stealthy miss,«

Still bantered they, alas for me,

»To keep a wedding close as this ...«

Ay, Fortune worked thus wantonly!

»But you are pale – you did not know?«

They archly asked, alas for me,

I stammered, »Yes – some days – ago,«

While coffined clay I wished to be.

»'Twas done to please her, we surmise?«

(They spoke quite lightly in their glee)

»Done by him as a fond surprise?«

I thought their words would madden me.

Her lover entered.