A Pair of Blue Eyes
by Thomas Hardy
'A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute;
No more.'
PREFACE
The following chapters were written at a time when the craze for
indiscriminate church-restoration had just reached the remotest
nooks of western England, where the wild and tragic features of
the coast had long combined in perfect harmony with the crude
Gothic Art of the ecclesiastical buildings scattered along it,
throwing into extraordinary discord all architectural attempts at
newness there. To restore the grey carcases of a mediaevalism
whose spirit had fled, seemed a not less incongruous act than to
set about renovating the adjoining crags themselves.
Hence it happened that an imaginary history of three human hearts,
whose emotions were not without correspondence with these material
circumstances, found in the ordinary incidents of such church-
renovations a fitting frame for its presentation.
The shore and country about 'Castle Boterel' is now getting well
known, and will be readily recognized. The spot is, I may add,
the furthest westward of all those convenient corners wherein I
have ventured to erect my theatre for these imperfect little
dramas of country life and passions; and it lies near to, or no
great way beyond, the vague border of the Wessex kingdom on that
side, which, like the westering verge of modern American
settlements, was progressive and uncertain.
This, however, is of little importance. The place is pre-
eminently (for one person at least) the region of dream and
mystery. The ghostly birds, the pall-like sea, the frothy wind,
the eternal soliloquy of the waters, the bloom of dark purple
cast, that seems to exhale from the shoreward precipices, in
themselves lend to the scene an atmosphere like the twilight of a
night vision.
One enormous sea-bord cliff in particular figures in the
narrative; and for some forgotten reason or other this cliff was
described in the story as being without a name. Accuracy would
require the statement to be that a remarkable cliff which
resembles in many points the cliff of the description bears a name
that no event has made famous.
T. H.
March 1899
THE PERSONS
ELFRIDE SWANCOURT a young Lady
CHRISTOPHER SWANCOURT a Clergyman
STEPHEN SMITH an Architect
HENRY KNIGHT a Reviewer and Essayist
CHARLOTTE TROYTON a rich Widow
GERTRUDE JETHWAY a poor Widow
SPENSER HUGO LUXELLIAN a Peer
LADY LUXELLIAN his Wife
MARY AND KATE two little Girls
WILLIAM WORM a dazed Factotum
JOHN SMITH a Master-mason
JANE SMITH his Wife
MARTIN CANNISTER a Sexton
UNITY a Maid-servant
Other servants, masons, labourers, grooms, nondescripts, etc., etc.
THE SCENE
Mostly on the outskirts of Lower Wessex.
Chapter I
'A fair vestal, throned in the west'
Elfride Swancourt was a girl whose emotions lay very near the
surface. Their nature more precisely, and as modified by the
creeping hours of time, was known only to those who watched the
circumstances of her history.
Personally, she was the combination of very interesting
particulars, whose rarity, however, lay in the combination itself
rather than in the individual elements combined. As a matter of
fact, you did not see the form and substance of her features when
conversing with her; and this charming power of preventing a
material study of her lineaments by an interlocutor, originated
not in the cloaking effect of a well-formed manner (for her manner
was childish and scarcely formed), but in the attractive crudeness
of the remarks themselves. She had lived all her life in
retirement--the monstrari gigito of idle men had not flattered
her, and at the age of nineteen or twenty she was no further on in
social consciousness than an urban young lady of fifteen.
One point in her, however, you did notice: that was her eyes. In
them was seen a sublimation of all of her; it was not necessary to
look further: there she lived.
These eyes were blue; blue as autumn distance--blue as the blue we
see between the retreating mouldings of hills and woody slopes on
a sunny September morning. A misty and shady blue, that had no
beginning or surface, and was looked INTO rather than AT.
As to her presence, it was not powerful; it was weak. Some women
can make their personality pervade the atmosphere of a whole
banqueting hall; Elfride's was no more pervasive than that of a
kitten.
Elfride had as her own the thoughtfulness which appears in the
face of the Madonna della Sedia, without its rapture: the warmth
and spirit of the type of woman's feature most common to the
beauties--mortal and immortal--of Rubens, without their insistent
fleshiness. The characteristic expression of the female faces of
Correggio--that of the yearning human thoughts that lie too deep
for tears--was hers sometimes, but seldom under ordinary
conditions.
The point in Elfride Swancourt's life at which a deeper current
may be said to have permanently set in, was one winter afternoon
when she found herself standing, in the character of hostess, face
to face with a man she had never seen before--moreover, looking at
him with a Miranda-like curiosity and interest that she had never
yet bestowed on a mortal.
On this particular day her father, the vicar of a parish on the
sea-swept outskirts of Lower Wessex, and a widower, was suffering
from an attack of gout. After finishing her household
supervisions Elfride became restless, and several times left the
room, ascended the staircase, and knocked at her father's chamber-
door.
'Come in!' was always answered in a hearty out-of-door voice from
the inside.
'Papa,' she said on one occasion to the fine, red-faced, handsome
man of forty, who, puffing and fizzing like a bursting bottle, lay
on the bed wrapped in a dressing-gown, and every now and then
enunciating, in spite of himself, about one letter of some word or
words that were almost oaths; 'papa, will you not come downstairs
this evening?' She spoke distinctly: he was rather deaf.
'Afraid not--eh-hh !--very much afraid I shall not, Elfride.
Piph-ph-ph! I can't bear even a handkerchief upon this deuced toe
of mine, much less a stocking or slipper--piph-ph-ph! There 'tis
again! No, I shan't get up till to-morrow.'
'Then I hope this London man won't come; for I don't know what I
should do, papa.'
'Well, it would be awkward, certainly.'
'I should hardly think he would come to-day.'
'Why?'
'Because the wind blows so.'
'Wind! What ideas you have, Elfride! Who ever heard of wind
stopping a man from doing his business? The idea of this toe of
mine coming on so suddenly!...If he should come, you must send him
up to me, I suppose, and then give him some food and put him to
bed in some way. Dear me, what a nuisance all this is!'
'Must he have dinner?'
'Too heavy for a tired man at the end of a tedious journey.'
'Tea, then?'
'Not substantial enough.'
'High tea, then? There is cold fowl, rabbit-pie, some pasties, and
things of that kind.'
'Yes, high tea.'
'Must I pour out his tea, papa?'
'Of course; you are the mistress of the house.'
'What! sit there all the time with a stranger, just as if I knew
him, and not anybody to introduce us?'
'Nonsense, child, about introducing; you know better than that. A
practical professional man, tired and hungry, who has been
travelling ever since daylight this morning, will hardly be
inclined to talk and air courtesies to-night. He wants food and
shelter, and you must see that he has it, simply because I am
suddenly laid up and cannot. There is nothing so dreadful in
that, I hope? You get all kinds of stuff into your head from
reading so many of those novels.'
'Oh no; there is nothing dreadful in it when it becomes plainly a
case of necessity like this. But, you see, you are always there
when people come to dinner, even if we know them; and this is some
strange London man of the world, who will think it odd, perhaps.'
'Very well; let him.'
'Is he Mr. Hewby's partner?'
'I should scarcely think so: he may be.'
'How old is he, I wonder?'
'That I cannot tell. You will find the copy of my letter to Mr.
Hewby, and his answer, upon the table in the study. You may read
them, and then you'll know as much as I do about our visitor.'
'I have read them.'
'Well, what's the use of asking questions, then? They contain all
I know. Ugh-h-h!...Od plague you, you young scamp! don't put
anything there! I can't bear the weight of a fly.'
'Oh, I am sorry, papa. I forgot; I thought you might be cold,'
she said, hastily removing the rug she had thrown upon the feet of
the sufferer; and waiting till she saw that consciousness of her
offence had passed from his face, she withdrew from the room, and
retired again downstairs.
