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THE RUINED MAID and THE MAN HE KILLED
Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)
Thomas Hardy is a controversial poet. Over the years, his critics have accused him of being overly pessimistic and gloomy, and have asserted that his poems are often clumsy, uneven and "ragged." Others are drawn to the tenderness, compassion, humor, and deep understanding of the human condition that is evident in much of his poetry, all folded into a wonderfully original variety of metrical styles and stanza forms, and a wide scope of tone and attitude.
Auden described him as his "first Master." He recognized Hardy's technical shortcomings but said that they gave him hope, since "a flawless poet might have made me despair." T.S. Eliot remarked that Hardy wrote "sometimes overpoweringly well, but always very carelessly," adding that "at times his style touches on sublimity without ever having passed through the state of being good." Chesterton described him as a "village atheist brooding and blaspheming over the village idiot."
Be that as it may, for someone like me who just happens to like poets who are interesting, emotionally alive, intellectually challenging, highly imaginative, provocative, vigorous, nostalgic, bitter-sweet, and earthy, sitting down with a book of Hardy's poems is a great treat.
His wonderful and well known little Christmas poem, The Oxen, appeared in these pages in December 2002. This week, I have chosen two others among my many favorite Hardy poems - one fun and one thoughtful. I hope you enjoy them.
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The Ruined Maid
"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" -
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.
- "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" -
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.
- "At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon,' and 'theas oon,' and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" -
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.
- "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak,
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" -
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.
- "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" -
"True. There's an advantage in ruin," said she.
- "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" -
"My dear--a raw country girl, such as you be,
Isn't equal to that. You ain't ruined," said she.
The Man He Killed
"Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
"But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him and he at me,
And killed him in his place.
"I shot him dead because -
Because he was my foe,
Just so - my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although
"He thought he'd 'list perhaps,
Off-hand like - just as I -
Was out of work - had sold his traps -
No other reason why.
"Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown."
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