The Life of Thomas Hardy (Brennecke)/Apology
APOLOGY
IN putting together this biographical account it has been my hope to place at the disposal of Thomas Hardy’s readers some material which may add a certain amount of richness to those profound emotional experiences which are created by a sympathetic perusal of his imaginative works. I have purposed to accomplish this by means of description—of the man personally, with his simple human likes and hates; of his interesting ancestry; of his surroundings; of his experiences. Among the last I have included purely intellectual, purely artistic events and influences, as well as superficial, physical happenings.
This will indicate that the following pages include some account—even some comparative study—of Hardy’s books; possibly to the annoyance of those who seek in a "life" a complete divorcement from criticism, and a concentration on the sensational possibilities of the subject’s career.
There is, therefore, little "spice," and perhaps too little "story," in this book. For this lack there are several contributory causes: There was very little "story" in Hardy’s life. Very meagre information, regarding even that little, is possessed even by Hardy’s intimates. Hardy is at this moment still alive; to tell too much, even if one could, would be indelicate, impertinent.
Hardy was a man whose chief occupation was writing. He simply sat down and wrote. Other things which he did are unimportant, except in so far as they affected his writings. As far as his masterpiece, The Dynasts, is concerned, for instance, it is far more important to realize what Æschylus wrote in the Sixth Century B. C. than it is to know whether Hardy dipped his pen in black ink or lavender ink. Still, I admit that if I had discovered him writing, let us say, with a quill on pink paper, I would have retailed the observation here with great unction.
To read any author without prejudice is impossible, even for the dispassionately scientific literary chemists in the graduate schools of our universities. I have therefore not hesitated to exhibit mine. I have already shown my strong preference for Hardy’s poetry. Other examples of bias will be noticed. Many readers will disagree with me here and there. But to anticipate such disagreements would be to emasculate a largely personal record, such as this.
E. B. New York, December, 1924