So he has turned to the writing
of verse, in which he barely takes second rank. It is one of the
tragedies of literature to think of a man of Hardy's rank as a
novelist, who might give the world a second _Tess_ or _The Return of
the Native_, contenting himself with a ponderous poem like _The
Dynasts_, or wasting his powers on minor poems containing no real
poetry.
Hardy's best novels are among the few in English fiction that can be
read again and again, and that reveal at every reading some fresh
beauties of thought or style. The man is so big, so genuine and so
unlike all other writers that his work must be set apart in a class by
itself. Were he not so richly endowed his pessimism would be fatal,
for the world does not favor the novelist who demands that his fiction
should be governed by the same hard rules that govern real life. In
the work of most novelists we know that whatever harsh fate may befall
the leading characters the skies will be sunny before the story
closes, and the worthy souls who have battled against malign destiny
will receive their reward. Not so with Hardy. We know when we begin
one of his tales that tragedy is in store for his people. The dark
cloud of destiny soon obscures the heavens, and through the lowering
storm the victims move on to the final scene in which the wreck of
their fortunes is completed.
[Illustration: THOMAS HARDY--A PORTRAIT WHICH BRINGS OUT
STRIKINGLY THE MAN OF CREATIVE POWER, THE ARTIST, THE PHILOSOPHER
AND THE POET]
Literary genius can work no greater miracle than this--to make the
reader accept as a transcript of life stories in which generous,
unselfish people are dealt heavy blows by fate, while the mean-souled,
sordid men and women often escape their just deserts.
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