The Return of the Native
by Thomas Hardy
Contents
PREFACE
BOOK FIRST—THE THREE WOMEN
I. A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression
II. Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in Hand with Trouble
III. The Custom of the Country
IV. The Halt on the Turnpike Road
V. Perplexity among Honest People
VI. The Figure against the Sky
VII. Queen of Night
VIII. Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to Be Nobody
IX. Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy
X. A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion
XI. The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman
BOOK SECOND—THE ARRIVAL
I. Tidings of the Comer
II. The People at Blooms-End Make Ready
III. How a Little Sound Produced a Great Dream
IV. Eustacia Is Led on to an Adventure
V. Through the Moonlight
VI. The Two Stand Face to Face
VII. A Coalition between Beauty and Oddness
VIII. Firmness Is Discovered in a Gentle Heart
BOOK THIRD—THE FASCINATION
I. “My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is”
II. The New Course Causes Disappointment
III. The First Act in a Timeworn Drama
IV. An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness
V. Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues
VI. Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete
VII. The Morning and the Evening of a Day
VIII. A New Force Disturbs the Current
BOOK FOURTH—THE CLOSED DOOR
I. The Rencounter by the Pool
II. He Is Set upon by Adversities but He Sings a Song
III. She Goes Out to Battle against Depression
IV. Rough Coercion Is Employed
V. The Journey across the Heath
VI. A Conjuncture, and Its Result upon the Pedestrian
VII. The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends
VIII. Eustacia Hears of Good Fortune, and Beholds Evil
BOOK FIFTH—THE DISCOVERY
I. “Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery”
II. A Lurid Light Breaks in upon a Darkened Understanding
III. Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning
IV. The Ministrations of a Half-forgotten One
V. An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated
VI. Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin, and He Writes a Letter
VII. The Night of the Sixth of November
VIII. Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers
IX. Sights and Sounds Draw the Wanderers Together
BOOK SIXTH—AFTERCOURSES
I. The Inevitable Movement Onward
II. Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road
III. The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin
IV. Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His Vocation
“To sorrow
I bade good morrow,
And thought to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly;
She is so constant to me, and so kind.
I would deceive her,
And so leave her,
But ah! she is so constant and so kind.”
PREFACE
The date at which the following events are assumed to have occurred may
be set down as between 1840 and 1850, when the old watering place
herein called “Budmouth” still retained sufficient afterglow from its
Georgian gaiety and prestige to lend it an absorbing attractiveness to
the romantic and imaginative soul of a lonely dweller inland.
Under the general name of “Egdon Heath,” which has been given to the
sombre scene of the story, are united or typified heaths of various
real names, to the number of at least a dozen; these being virtually
one in character and aspect, though their original unity, or partial
unity, is now somewhat disguised by intrusive strips and slices brought
under the plough with varying degrees of success, or planted to
woodland.
It is pleasant to dream that some spot in the extensive tract whose
southwestern quarter is here described, may be the heath of that
traditionary King of Wessex—Lear.
T.H.
_July_, 1895.
BOOK FIRST—THE THREE WOMEN
I.
A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression
A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight,
and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as Egdon Heath embrowned
itself moment by moment. Overhead the hollow stretch of whitish cloud
shutting out the sky was as a tent which had the whole heath for its
floor.
The heaven being spread with this pallid screen and the earth with the
darkest vegetation, their meeting-line at the horizon was clearly
marked. In such contrast the heath wore the appearance of an instalment
of night which had taken up its place before its astronomical hour was
come: darkness had to a great extent arrived hereon, while day stood
distinct in the sky. Looking upwards, a furze-cutter would have been
inclined to continue work; looking down, he would have decided to
finish his faggot and go home. The distant rims of the world and of the
firmament seemed to be a division in time no less than a division in
matter. The face of the heath by its mere complexion added half an hour
to evening; it could in like manner retard the dawn, sadden noon,
anticipate the frowning of storms scarcely generated, and intensify the
opacity of a moonless midnight to a cause of shaking and dread.
In fact, precisely at this transitional point of its nightly roll into
darkness the great and particular glory of the Egdon waste began, and
nobody could be said to understand the heath who had not been there at
such a time. It could best be felt when it could not clearly be seen,
its complete effect and explanation lying in this and the succeeding
hours before the next dawn; then, and only then, did it tell its true
tale. The spot was, indeed, a near relation of night, and when night
showed itself an apparent tendency to gravitate together could be
perceived in its shades and the scene. The sombre stretch of rounds and
hollows seemed to rise and meet the evening gloom in pure sympathy, the
heath exhaling darkness as rapidly as the heavens precipitated it. And
so the obscurity in the air and the obscurity in the land closed
together in a black fraternization towards which each advanced halfway.
The place became full of a watchful intentness now; for when other
things sank brooding to sleep the heath appeared slowly to awake and
listen. Every night its Titanic form seemed to await something; but it
had waited thus, unmoved, during so many centuries, through the crises
of so many things, that it could only be imagined to await one last
crisis—the final overthrow.
It was a spot which returned upon the memory of those who loved it with
an aspect of peculiar and kindly congruity. Smiling champaigns of
flowers and fruit hardly do this, for they are permanently harmonious
only with an existence of better reputation as to its issues than the
present. Twilight combined with the scenery of Egdon Heath to evolve a
thing majestic without severity, impressive without showiness, emphatic
in its admonitions, grand in its simplicity. The qualifications which
frequently invest the façade of a prison with far more dignity than is
found in the façade of a palace double its size lent to this heath a
sublimity in which spots renowned for beauty of the accepted kind are
utterly wanting. Fair prospects wed happily with fair times; but alas,
if times be not fair! Men have oftener suffered from, the mockery of a
place too smiling for their reason than from the oppression of
surroundings oversadly tinged. Haggard Egdon appealed to a subtler and
scarcer instinct, to a more recently learnt emotion, than that which
responds to the sort of beauty called charming and fair.
Indeed, it is a question if the exclusive reign of this orthodox beauty
is not approaching its last quarter. The new Vale of Tempe may be a
gaunt waste in Thule; human souls may find themselves in closer and
closer harmony with external things wearing a sombreness distasteful to
our race when it was young. The time seems near, if it has not actually
arrived, when the chastened sublimity of a moor, a sea, or a mountain
will be all of nature that is absolutely in keeping with the moods of
the more thinking among mankind. And ultimately, to the commonest
tourist, spots like Iceland may become what the vineyards and myrtle
gardens of South Europe are to him now; and Heidelberg and Baden be
passed unheeded as he hastens from the Alps to the sand dunes of
Scheveningen.
The most thoroughgoing ascetic could feel that he had a natural right
to wander on Egdon—he was keeping within the line of legitimate
indulgence when he laid himself open to influences such as these.
Colours and beauties so far subdued were, at least, the birthright of
all. Only in summer days of highest feather did its mood touch the
level of gaiety. Intensity was more usually reached by way of the
solemn than by way of the brilliant, and such a sort of intensity was
often arrived at during winter darkness, tempests, and mists. Then
Egdon was aroused to reciprocity; for the storm was its lover, and the
wind its friend. Then it became the home of strange phantoms; and it
was found to be the hitherto unrecognized original of those wild
regions of obscurity which are vaguely felt to be compassing us about
in midnight dreams of flight and disaster, and are never thought of
after the dream till revived by scenes like this.
It was at present a place perfectly accordant with man’s nature—neither
ghastly, hateful, nor ugly; neither commonplace, unmeaning, nor tame;
but, like man, slighted and enduring; and withal singularly colossal
and mysterious in its swarthy monotony. As with some persons who have
long lived apart, solitude seemed to look out of its countenance. It
had a lonely face, suggesting tragical possibilities.
This obscure, obsolete, superseded country figures in Domesday. Its
condition is recorded therein as that of heathy, furzy, briary
wilderness—“Bruaria.” Then follows the length and breadth in leagues;
and, though some uncertainty exists as to the exact extent of this
ancient lineal measure, it appears from the figures that the area of
Egdon down to the present day has but little diminished. “Turbaria
Bruaria”—the right of cutting heath-turf—occurs in charters relating to
the district. “Overgrown with heth and mosse,” says Leland of the same
dark sweep of country.
Here at least were intelligible facts regarding landscape—far-reaching
proofs productive of genuine satisfaction. The untameable, Ishmaelitish
thing that Egdon now was it always had been. Civilization was its
enemy; and ever since the beginning of vegetation its soil had worn the
same antique brown dress, the natural and invariable garment of the
particular formation. In its venerable one coat lay a certain vein of
satire on human vanity in clothes. A person on a heath in raiment of
modern cut and colours has more or less an anomalous look. We seem to
want the oldest and simplest human clothing where the clothing of the
earth is so primitive.
To recline on a stump of thorn in the central valley of Egdon, between
afternoon and night, as now, where the eye could reach nothing of the
world outside the summits and shoulders of heathland which filled the
whole circumference of its glance, and to know that everything around
and underneath had been from prehistoric times as unaltered as the
stars overhead, gave ballast to the mind adrift on change, and harassed
by the irrepressible New. The great inviolate place had an ancient
permanence which the sea cannot claim. Who can say of a particular sea
that it is old? Distilled by the sun, kneaded by the moon, it is
renewed in a year, in a day, or in an hour. The sea changed, the fields
changed, the rivers, the villages, and the people changed, yet Egdon
remained. Those surfaces were neither so steep as to be destructible by
weather, nor so flat as to be the victims of floods and deposits. With
the exception of an aged highway, and a still more aged barrow
presently to be referred to—themselves almost crystallized to natural
products by long continuance—even the trifling irregularities were not