Evidently Hardy believes women are made to charm and
comfort man, not to lead him to spiritual heights, where the air is
thin and chill and kisses have no sweetness.
In his first novel Hardy lightened the tragedy of life with rare
comedy. These comic interludes are furnished by a choice collection of
rustics, who discuss the affairs of the universe and of their own
township with a humor that is infectious. In this work Hardy surpasses
George Eliot and all other novelists of his day, just as he surpasses
them all in such wholesome types of country life as Giles Winterbourne
and Marty South of _The Woodlanders_. No pathos is finer than Marty's
unselfish love for the man who cannot see her own rare spirit, and
nothing that Hardy has written is more powerful than Marty's lament
over the grave of Giles:
"Now, my own, my love," she whispered, "you are mine, and on'y
mine, for she has forgot 'ee at last, although for her you
died. But I--whenever I get up I'll think of 'ee, and whenever
I lie down I'll think of 'ee. Whenever I plant the young
larches I'll think none can plant as you planted; and whenever
I split a gad, and whenever I turn the cider-wring, I'll say
none could do it like you. If I forget your name, let me
forget home and heaven! But, no, no, my love, I never can
forget 'ee, for you was a good man and did good things!"
_The Return of the Native_ is generally regarded as Hardy's finest
work.
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