ABSTRACT
Llewelyn Powys As ill luck would have it, my essay fell under the all-seeing eye of Amy Lowell, who was just then collecting material for her biography of Keats.1 And what must she do but bustle off to Max Gate to harass Mr Hardy with cross-questioning after the manner of one who wants facts rather than fiction and has a mind to sift all evidence to the bottom! It was not until I had returned once more to Dorset with my American wife, Miss Alyse Gregory, that the full effect of this awkward solecism was felt by me. My brother John,2 as was his custom, had written to ask whether he could pay his summer visit to Max Gate and on this occasion bring with him my brother Theodore.3 Just before the two of them left East Chaldon a letter arrived from Mrs Hardy complaining of my ill conduct in having published in the Dial an intimate communication that had never been intended for literary use. My brother Theodore, though he had already put on his Sunday jacket, forthwith abandoned out of hand all idea of visiting Max Gate, and, as those who know him will guess, much Frome water had to flow under Grey’s Bridge before ever he crossed the great man’s threshold. I felt humiliated on my own account and indignant with Miss Lowell, recalling with renewed irritation the bluntness of her speech when, on our first being introduced, she had remarked in her autocratic manner: ‘In any case, I am glad you are not your brother’.
