FROM AN INK-WELL

Southland Times, Issue 19823, 20 March 1926, Page 13

FROM AN INK-WELL

HARDY'S VERSE-MAKING (By Brunnhilde.) If the lines be looked at coldly, it will be realised that “for thrillings pant not” ought to read awkwardly, and would read awkwardly, if written by any other man; and that even the last line, with its dragged accentuation for the rhyme’s sake, is the kind of thing which would be deplored in a young writer, particularly when occurring at the end of a very short poem, which, conventionally, should achieve a high technical finish. Mr. Hardy “gets away with it.” ... In Mr. Hardy we are actually glad of such words; they are right for him, and he makes . them right for us. When J. C. Squire wrote the above, it was in defence of “Any Little Old Song,” which appears in Thomas Hardy’s latest collection of poems, under the title of “Human Shows: Far Phantasies: Songs and Trifles,” published towards the end of last year. Completed, it is: Any little old song Will do for me, Tell it of joys gone long Or joys to be, Or friendly faces best Loved to’ see. Newest themes I want not On subtle strings, And for thrillings pant, not That new song brings: I only need rhe homeliest Of heart stirrings. Obviously, from the gist of these very verses, Mr. Hardy makes them “right for himself.” But whether he “makes them right” for others is a point on which Mr. Squire surely must differ with the bulk of the clear-eyed, unbiassed reading public to whom poetry means anything significant and real. That’a great writer leaves weaknesses in his work none will deny; but that these are condoned by his identity is a very grievous error, a slur on the intellect and discrimination of the reader. Faults can be measured only with the rest of the writer’s work, and it is not the eminence of his name, nor the reader’s magnanimity, which condone them, but .the lasting worth of the completed work. Because it was Shakespeare who made Hamlet say: “I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records,” with the accent on the last syllable of “records,” the liberty is not pardoned. Were it to appear in an unworthy passage, then he had been as open to blame as the least of his brethern; but before Hamlet’s impassioned outcry, such an offence becomes pardonable, more—insignificant, and one feels that many, and much more serious faults would have to be there, to outweigh the magnificence of the lines. Similarly, no poet who so justly earned for himself the title of “great,” has rhymed so inconsistently as Keats, and yet rhyme becomes a secondary thing before the nectared inspiration of his genius. In the past, the great have taken liberties, and in the present they are taking liberties; but it is the supreme test of their greatness, whether they “get away with it,” or not. If Mr Hardy is sincere when he says

“I only want the homeliest Of heart stirrings.” (and in the whole of his prolific works he has shown no signs of sincerity), he would be the first to admit his faults for what they are worth, and to deny his poetry the seal of greatness. Feeling he has, and cleverness in rhyming, and a remarkable knowledge of nature, and the creatures of nature, behind him. His keen powers of observation have made him ever on the alert for new ideas; but it Is painfully evident that these ideas have ever the same trend, culled from a limited circle whose circumference at no point is in touch with that of any adjacent circle, many of which would be needed to form a sapient and satisfying conception of Life. That is why Mr. Hardy can hardly be called a philosopher—one “versed in the principles of nature and morality,” his scope is too limited, his conclusions too vague, to fix him a title of any distinctness. His is rather a forlorn resignation to the inevitable, summed up in the first page of his new volume: A Star looks down at me And says: “Here I and you Stand, each in our degree; What do you mean to do— Mean to do?” I say: “For all I know, —“Wait, and let Time go by,”—when he Till my change come” —“Just sc ” The Star says: “So mean I So mean I.” That is typical of the man his poems reveal —“Wait, and let time go by,”—when he might be up and doing, “making the most of what we yet may spend,” he is sitting back, continually assuring himself of his readiness to meet the worst, and—letting— Time—go—by ! Somehow “blind understanding” has been omitted from his makeup, so that, while the rest of the world dories in the beauty of the moon, absorbs the sun’s brilliance with each throbbing heart-beat, he site in the darkness, shivering, and in the agony of expectation, he perspires laboriously. Those who charge Mr. Hardy with pessimism cannot be blamed for doing so, for they have reason on their side. His friends, his supporters—there are many of these—prefer to call this “the grey atmosphere of sadness continually in the background: the shadow of death is never far from the poet’s chair.” They go on to explain that he cannot forget for long that— Golden lads and girls all must As chimney sweepers, come to dust; and in doing so, they themselves are his most effective accusers. I have never read a friendly criticism of Hardy, which has not laid repeated stress on his lack of pessimism. Why, then, is it worth-while mentioning at all? Why not take such pains to defend his integrity, or his religion, or his morality? Admitting that “the shadow of death is never far from the poet’s mind,” that is damning conviction in itself. Human beings were not brought into the world to dwell on that time when they would be removed from it again. The servant who buried his one talent in keeping for the day of account earned his master’s keen displeasure. I am convinced, had he used and lost it, he would have been dealt with more leniently. Mr. Hardy’s years have been singularly unfruitful, if they have not taught him this. , For this reason, presumably, he cannot interpret human understanding, other than from his own standpoint. He sees silent pathos in the animal world, where surely there is none. He sees the horses “herded on the quay, doomed to the war, gazing through their eye-holes, unwitting as they are,” . . . .they appear wrenched awary From the scheme Nature planned for them —wondering why.

It is not thinkable that the divine Creative Power which rules the universe places in it dumb creatures, “wondering why.” If they are dumb, at least they have never known the sweetness of speech. A Power showing such Complete Understanding and Wisdom in the planning of the Universe has sympathy too finely developed than to let the animal minds he created be cursed with the light of human reasoning. The beauty of the sky, and the seas, and the lovely earth have been given for the enjoyment of animals and humans, and, though humans, with the progress of their civilisation, have developed the habit of asking the why and wherefore, to animals has been given the art of blind acceptance, and its accompanying peace. There is more than a trace of blasphemy in this “wondering why,” and his friends would do well to be silent concerning such passages, rather than drag them into the light of rational criticism.

For Mr Hardy is not a poet of Nature; learning has taken the place of imagination in him, without which there cannot be comprehensive understanding. He knows so much, so many facts, that his undoubted creative faculties find most suitable outlet in them. And it is as a balladist he excels. If he lives in this world as a poet long after his body is dead, it will be through such living monuments as “Valenciennes,” “San Sebastian,” “The Burghers,” “The Alarm,” “The Dance at the Phoenix,” “The Lost Pyx,” and others of his earlier work.

It was in an earlier work that he wrote “A Singer Asleep,” to Algernon- Charles Swinburne, as a tribute to his greatness. From his lavished praises it would appear that Hardy himself knew of his own imperfections, his own limitations, and found eager delight in the genius of others. This is a pleasant thing to think on. I walked and read with a quick, glad surprise New words, in classic guise,—

The passionate pages of his earlier years, Fraught with hot. sighs, sad laughter, kisses, tears; Fresh-fluted notes, yet from a minstrel who Blew them not naively, but as one who knew

Full well why thus he blew. Perha>- had Thomas Hardy written his verses before his spirit flagged with the first flight of youth, he, too, may have been a minstrel “w r ho knew full well why thus he blew.”