ABSTRACT
Early in June [1914] I spent some unforgettable hours with Thomas Hardy and his fine young wife, to whom he owed the subdued tranquillity of his later years. My friend Louise Collier Willcox was with me, and, in response to an invitation from Mrs Hardy, we drove out from Dorchester to tea at Max Gate. The afternoon was brilliant with one of those rare English days in which heaven appears to touch the earth. Our reception was charming, and I had no difficulty in hearing Hardy’s voice. Somewhat to my surprise, for I had heard that he could not be made to speak of his work, Hardy talked to me, freely and frankly, about his books. His poetry would outlive his novels, he believed, and he gave the impression of caring little for the Wessex Tales, which had brought him fame. He did not hesitate to say that he considered The Dynasts his greatest work (he may have said ‘best’) and he was pleased when he found that I had read it all, and was able to repeat from the ‘Semichorus of the Years’:
O Immanence, That reasonest not In putting forth all things begot, Thou build’st Thy house in space – for what?1
