Works of Thomas Hardy discussion

I know not how it may be with others
Who sit amid relics of householdry
That date from the days of their mothers' mothers,
But well I know how it is with me
Continually.

I see the hands of the generations
That owned each shiny familiar thing
In play on its knobs and indentations,
And with its ancient fashioning
Still dallying:

Hands behind hands, growing paler and paler,
As in a mirror a candle-flame
Shows images of itself, each frailer
As it recedes, though the eye may frame
Its shape the same.

On the clock's dull dial a foggy finger,
Moving to set the minutes right
With tentative touches that lift and linger
In the wont of a moth on a summer night,
Creeps to my sight.

On this old viol, too, fingers are dancing—
As whilom—just over the strings by the nut,
The tip of a bow receding, advancing
In airy quivers, as if it would cut
The plaintive gut.

And I see a face by that box for tinder,
Glowing forth in fits from the dark,
And fading again, as the linten cinder
Kindles to red at the flinty spark,
Or goes out stark.

Well, well. It is best to be up and doing,
The world has no use for one to-day
Who eyes things thus—no aim pursuing!
He should not continue in this stay,
But sink away.

As with the last weekend’s poem, this one comes from his Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Verses collection.

It made me feel rather wistful. When I moved from New Jersey to North Carolina, I left most of my furniture in New Jersey. Either donated or given away, including one antique desk. I had planned or just wanted to buy all new things. But I do miss the old stuff and on some days, I wish I had taken it with me. So, this poem struck a chord.

One comment: in the last line, I would have preferred slink over sink. I had the impression from the entire poem itself, that slinking away from such thoughts would be a good idea.

Hello, John! I feel like we sink away from life, as we grow older. Life surrounds us, but as a very senior woman myself, I identify with the idea of life drifting, sinking away from me.

There can be a great deal of sadness that comes with our memories. This poem hit home for me. I have cherished antiques from both my parents, who are long gone. In this room where I am sitting, there is a simple table with slender legs and a drawer with a hole for an old key. It goes back generations to great-great-grandparents in Massachusetts.

It’s nice to have that, Lee. My biggest regret with my move was leavinging behind an antique desk. But I gave it to someone who could use it, so it is thriving where it is.

One thing about Hardy is his generally deft use of exclamation points. I see it more in his poems than any other poet that I read. This poem has one. It does work where it is. Deft use is better than over use. You start to feel like you need to jump out of your chair.

I often think some part of the person is embodied in the well-used and well-loved household goods. The viol hit me the most in this poem, as my father was a fiddler and his fiddle is in the possession of my niece who allows me to finger it from time to time. It is not the fiddle I see when I touch it, but the fingers of my father sliding across those strings and rosining the bow.

I can relate to your leaving behind the desk, John. I have parted with similar pieces. Because of constant down-sizing, I have only a few left. Most of mine have been distributed to family, which makes it easier. And, Lee, I can absolutely feel the appropriateness of "sink". You have expressed it perfectly.

I was noticing how much sensory imagery Hardy uses in this poem, especially words about touching and seeing. The poem is full of memories of the hands of past generations touching the old furniture, the violin, and other objects. Vision is mentioned as the narrator's eyes view the objects and sees into the past. Although hearing is not mentioned directly, the fourth stanza about the clock has many "t" sounds like the tick-tock of a clock.

In the last stanza, it seems like the narrator is an older person full of memories. But the world is moving on to new modern things, and does not have the narrator's appreciation for older things. It's not really the "things" that the narrator appreciates, but the "memories" associated with them.

Sounds like this poem taps into something universal, memories of people locked in objects. Like Sara the viol hit a chord with me. I have my great grandmothers piano, and when I sit down to play, I often think of her fingers gliding up and down the keys alongside my own. I’m so glad I have the piano.

Beautiful analysis, Connie.

I noticed his use of a rather technical term — nut — for a musical instrument. As I recall from my days taking acoustic guitar lessons, from the tuners the strings stretched over the nut to be above the frets and then past the sound hole to the bridge and then anchored by the pins. Whew.

It struck a chord with me too, thanks John. Every so often I will see something which reminds me strongly of my past relatives' furniture. Just yesterday in a TV drama, I noticed a rolltop desk exactly like one I used to use in my bedroom as a child. Hadn't thought about it for years, but the nostalgic feeling hit hard.

I really like how, so often, Thomas Hardy will set the scene with himself somewhere in it. Here he is yet again, sitting looking at the old furniture he loves, and as we all feel, also at the memories it evokes. We can imagine ourselves there with him, as he describes his thoughts and feelings in the first person, just as if he is writing in his journal or diary.

My favourite part was about the old viol. The dancing fingers on the old violin will have been those of Thomas Hardy’s father, who - as we know - played the violin. The violinist’s bow recedes and advances, just like a dancer itself. I thought it was clever to use the word "quiver", as we might have expected a musical term "quaver", but he replaced it with ‘airy quivers’. (I think Americans use "quarter notes" for quavers, and "half notes" for minims and "whole notes" for crotchets, but I'm not sure what is used for a semi-breve.) Another technical thing is that this is well before the days of synthetic material for strings, so the violin is literally strung with cat "gut".

It also reminds me of my uncle who was a cabinet-maker: a true craftsman. All these pieces are much loved and valued. Professor Tim Armstrong notes that the idea here is similar to that in William Barnes’s ‘Woak Hill’:

"my goods all a-sheenen
Wi’long years o’handlen’."

Thomas Hardy also quoted these lines in Far From the Madding Crowd

(Linking now)

“Struck a chord” is perfect, Jean.

I was also reminded of one of my great uncles who did some fine woodwork in his basement. My mom still has this beautiful wood vanity table he made for her when she graduated high school.

That sounds like my mum, who used a sewing cabinet with a hinged lid (turning it into a side table) her brother made her every day of her life. I wondered about keeping it, but left it with all its useful content for a young neighbour of hers who was handy with a needle. I have a box, bookends and marquetry by uncle Percy, to remember him.

I love how Thomas Hardy immediately fills us with our own personal memories.

My favorite collection of Hardy’s poems has been Winter Words in Various Moods and Metres, which was also his last book. But I am finding that Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Verses may be supplanting Winter Words. This poem and the previous week’s both come from Moments, which also contains The Oxen — as good a poem as the last century has given us.

Thank you for sharing this wonderful poem, John. I too have been hit by the nostalgia of the words and think about how we all have to downsize at some point.

When I cleared out my mother's house, I was dealing with all sorts of things. I got to the point where I had to tell myself, "what would always remind you of my mom and my dad?"

The choices aren't always about value as my mother's worn red leather wallet can attest. But they mean something to me. I have two platform rockers from my grandmother's house — I suppose that they have aged to the point of being antiques, but mostly I remember growing up in those chairs, wearing out the seats at least twice!

And of course, I kept some books. My father, surprisingly had a book about a doctor who practiced in a mining town, my grandmother read the spy books of Helen MacInnes, and the mysteries of Mary Stewart.

I only hope my children cherish some family items to pass down to their children.

This poem and the comments reminds me of a book that I did keep, thankfully. I had donated several bookcases worth of books, but did keep one case of books. And there stands my great uncle’s old Machinist’s Handbook. Not a whit do I understand it, but it sure has value to me.

Pamela wrote: "My father, surprisingly had a book about a doctor who practiced in a mining town ..."

I'll have a guess at this being The Citadel by A.J. Cronin. A marvellous book which has been cited as inspiring our wonderful NHS. He also wrote The Stars Look Down.

Both were popular books with a huge influence because of their social message. And both were filmed ... probably in the 1940s.

You're right, Jean! I looked it up after typing about it yesterday! And I enjoyed the story as well. Sometime (when my stash is smaller ...) I'll have to get my hands on The Stars Look Down.

I immediately thought it must be the The Green Years. Cronin is always who comes to mind when you think about tales of the Welsh mines and doctors. Your mother's love for Mary Stewart was easy to relate to, as she was a huge favorite of mine (and still is).

And I'm now wanting to reread A.J. Cronin! Strange which paths these threads can lead one ...

I've had Shannon's Way and The Green Years sitting in my Abe's Books saved for later cart for about a year now and I had forgotten about them. I was waiting to purchase until I finished The Stars Look Down as I didn't want my TBR shelves cluttered with too many of these look-alike blue monstrosities. They're fairly pricey too.

But, as I finished TSLD in June, I just now ordered the two Robert Shannon books.

Thanks for the reminder, Sara.

I have a copy of The Judas Tree that has been waiting a long time...I might have to move that up after this discussion.😁

This is so beautiful. The poem & the memories discussed by others here bring back my own memories - such as watching my dad wind our old clock every Sunday morning when I was young. I still use the needlework cabinet he made for my mum & an old bookcase my parents were given for their first home. But in a small home decisions have to be made about what is practical to keep & I notice that the poem & discussions refer to missing objects that can’t be kept.

It is so lovely to have those objects, Trisha, mainly because of the memories attached to them. Thank you for sharing.

Oh Tr1sha this sounds so familiar! Just like my Uncle Percy's beautiful woodwork ... I am glad you read and enjoyed this poem too. Thank you!

I finally read this poignant poem yesterday. It expresses something that I notice as a broad theme in Hardy's work: nostalgia for the remembered past of his childhood and youth, and for the quieter, slower-paced and more human-centered lifeways and attitudes of those days, contrasted with the bustling, materialistic, utilitarian world of his old age. (The last stanza isn't necessarily to be taken at face value; I personally take it as an ironic nod to the world's counsel as to what's "best" and "should" be done, but which the "I" in the poem is actually far from feeling.) And I'd definitely see this as an expression of the outlook that led Claire Tomalin to subtitle her Hardy biography "The Time-Torn Man."

Werner wrote: "nostalgia for the remembered past of his childhood and youth ..."

Yes Werner, that's a big part of his desire to keep the old country traditions and farming methods too; it's all consistent with his view of life, as you say.

As our read of Thomas Hardy: The Time Torn Man is over half way through now, I'm sure Bridget and Brian will be better able with their up-to-date knowledge (not my memory!) to comment on your latter thought.

That phrase "time-torn man" is wonderful. It lingers in my imagination. It can and does mean so many different things. Here is one possible interpretation, that differ a little from Werner's ideas (which are also spot on and lovely!!)

I have just finished the chapter of Tomalin's book where Hardy meets Mrs. Florence Henniker, a younger upper-class woman with whom Hardy falls in love. Though the feeling is not mutual, the two stay good friends. According to Tomalin, Hardy wrote nine or ten poems about Mrs. Henniker. One of them was "A Broken Appointment" written in 1893.

It's the origin of the phrase "time-torn man". I think the "time-torn" in this poem is about an older person longing to reclaim his youth. And I think you can apply that to the "Old Furniture" poem as well.

A Broken Appointment

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb,—
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness’ sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
–I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me?

Bridget, thanks for sharing this! "The Broken Appointment" is a Hardy poem I hadn't read until you posted it here, so I didn't know it was the origin of the phrase Tomalin used.

It is a marvelous poem and when I someday get to the biography (which haunts my Kindle and calls my name), I will know, going-in, where the title originates. So, thank you Bridget.

When you do read Thomas Hardy: The Time Torn Man Sara, do please look at and add to the thread. Bridget (and Brian) have posted so much extra detail there - and photographs. There are four more chapters to read at the moment, but I know Bridget welcomes comments at any time, as it's not spoilerish like a novel.

Thank you, Jean. I will do that. I sometimes wish I could clone myself and then I would have the time to read everything I want to read exactly when I want to read it.

Sara wrote: "Thank you, Jean. I will do that. I sometimes wish I could clone myself and then I would have the time to read everything I want to read exactly when I want to read it."

I totally relate to that sentiment, Sara! I'm glad you enjoyed "The Broken Appointment" poem. I'm sure you will enjoy Tomalin's biography, whenever that happens :-)