ABSTRACT
Mr Hardy was of medium height and figure, his features were regular, his face furrowed with thought, his expression placid rather than sad. He wore a blue suit and a white waistcoat with black stripes. When Mr H. Wells first set eyes on his great fellow writer, he is supposed to have exclaimed ‘What! is this little grey man Hardy?’1 That is a very good description, but the greyness was lighted up by a pair of wonderful light blue eyes which seemed to look far into the past. [...]
There was nothing whatever of a pessimist in Mr Hardy’s manner. He had all the qualities which we appreciate in an English gentleman, kindness, courtesy, humour, and modesty, a rare but becoming quality in a great author. I quite agree with what Mr A. Bennett,2 who had met him in London a few months earlier, says about him in this respect: ‘He had authority but did not show it. This man is all right. No nonsense about him. No pose. No secret but apparent preoccupation with the fact that he was the biggest living thing in English literature’. Mr Hardy was not sparing with words. His conversation was easy and natural, passing from grave to gay subjects (pp. 134-5).
