________________________________________________
_ A Sequelula To "the Dynasts"[7]
_By_
TH*M*S H*RDY
[Footnote 7: _This has been composed from a scenario thrust on me by some one else. My philosophy of life saves me from sense of responsibility for any of my writings; but I venture to hold myself specially irresponsible for this one._--TH*M*S H*RDY.]
The Void is disclosed. Our own Solar System is visible,
distant by some two million miles.
Enter the Ancient Spirit and Chorus of the Years, the Spirit
and Chorus of the Pities, the Spirit Ironic, the Spirit
Sinister, Rumours, Spirit-Messengers, and the Recording Angel.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.
_Yonder, that swarm of things insectual_
_Wheeling Nowhither in Particular--_
_What is it?_
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.
_That? Oh that is merely one_
_Of those innumerous congeries_
_Of parasites by which, since time began,_
_Space has been interfested._
SPIRIT SINISTER.
_What a pity_
_We have no means of stamping out these pests!_
SPIRIT IRONIC.
_Nay, but I like to watch them buzzing round,_
_Poor little trumpery ephaeonals!_
CHORUS OF THE PIETIES (aerial music).
_Yes, yes!_
_What matter a few more or less?_
_Here and Nowhere plus_
_Whence and Why makes Thus._
_Let these things be._
_There's room in the world for them and us._
_Nothing is,_
_Out in the vast immensities_
_Where these things flit,_
_Irrequisite_
_In a minor key_
_To the tune of the sempiternal It._
SPIRIT IRONIC.
_The curious thing about them is that some_
_Have lesser parasites adherent to them--_
_Bipedular and quadrupedular_
_Infinitesimals. On close survey_
_You see these movesome. Do you not recall,_
_We once went in a party and beheld_
_All manner of absurd things happening_
_On one of those same--planets, don't you call them?_
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS (screwing up his eyes at the Solar System).
_One of that very swarm it was, if I mistake not._
_It had a parasite that called itself_
_Napoleon. And lately, I believe,_
_Another parasite has had the impudence_
_To publish an elaborate account_
_Of our (for so we deemed it) private visit._
SPIRIT SINISTER.
_His name?_
RECORDING ANGEL.
_One moment._
(Turns over leaves.)
_Hardy, Mr. Thomas,_
_Novelist. Author of "The Woodlanders,"_
_"Far from the Madding Crowd," "The Trumpet Major,"_
_"Tess of the D'Urbervilles," etcetera,_
_Etcetera. In 1895_
_"Jude the Obscure" was published, and a few_
_Hasty reviewers, having to supply_
_A column for the day of publication,_
_Filled out their space by saying that there were_
_Several passages that might have been_
_Omitted with advantage. Mr. Hardy_
_Saw that if that was so, well then, of course,_
_Obviously the only thing to do_
_Was to write no more novels, and forthwith_
_Applied himself to drama, and to Us._
SPIRIT IRONIC.
_Let us hear what he said about Us._
THE OTHER SPIRITS.
_Let's._
RECORDING ANGEL (raising receiver of aerial telephone).
_3 oh 4 oh oh 3 5, Space.... Hulloa._
_Is that the Superstellar Library?_
_I'm the Recording Angel. Kindly send me_
_By Spirit-Messenger a copy of_
_"The Dynasts" by T. Hardy. Thank you._
A pause. Enter Spirit-Messenger, with copy of "The Dynasts."
_Thanks._
Exit Spirit-Messenger. The Recording Angel reads "The Dynasts" aloud.
Just as the reading draws to a close, enter the Spirit of Mr. Clement Shorter and Chorus of Subtershorters. They are visible as small grey transparencies swiftly interpenetrating the brains of the spatial Spirits.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.
_It is a book which, once you take it up,_
_You cannot readily lay down._
SPIRIT SINISTER.
_There is_
_Not a dull page in it._
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.
_A bold conception_
_Outcarried with that artistry for which_
_The author's name is guarantee. We have_
_No hesitation in commending to our readers_
_A volume which--_
The Spirit of Mr. Clement Shorter and Chorus of Subtershorters are detected and expelled.
_--we hasten to denounce_
_As giving an entirely false account_
_Of our impressions._
SPIRIT IRONIC.
Hear, _hear_!
SPIRIT SINISTER.
Hear, _hear_!
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.
_Hear_!
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.
_Intensive vision has this Mr. Hardy,_
_With a dark skill in weaving word-patterns_
_Of subtle ideographies that mark him_
_A man of genius. So am not I,_
_But a plain Spirit, simple and forthright,_
_With no damned philosophical fal-lals_
_About me. When I visited that planet_
_And watched the animalculae thereon,_
_I never said they were "automata"_
_And "jackaclocks," nor dared describe their deeds_
_As "Life's impulsion by Incognizance."_
_It may be that those mites have no free will,_
_But how should I know? Nay, how Mr. Hardy?_
_We cannot glimpse the origin of things,_
_Cannot conceive a Causeless Cause, albeit_
_Such a Cause must have been, and must be greater_
_Than we whose little wits cannot conceive it._
_"Incognizance"! Why deem incognizant_
_An infinitely higher than ourselves?_
_How dare define its way with us? How know_
_Whether it leaves us free or holds us bond?_
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.
_Allow me to associate myself_
_With every word that's fallen from your lips._
_The author of "The Dynasts" has indeed_
_Misused his undeniably great gifts_
_In striving to belittle things that are_
_Little enough already. I don't say_
_That the phrenetical behaviour_
_Of those aforesaid animalculae_
_Did, while we watched them, seem to indicate_
_Possession of free-will. But, bear in mind,_
_We saw them in peculiar circumstances--_
_At war, blinded with blood and lust and fear._
_Is it not likely that at other times_
_They are quite decent midgets, capable_
_Of thinking for themselves, and also acting_
_Discreetly on their own initiative,_
_Not drilled and herded, yet gregarious--_
_A wise yet frolicsome community?_
SPIRIT IRONIC.
_What are these "other times" though? I had thought_
_Those midgets whiled away the vacuous hours_
_After one war in training for the next._
_And let me add that my contempt for them_
_Is not done justice to by Mr. Hardy._
SPIRIT SINISTER.
_Nor mine. And I have reason to believe_
_Those midgets shone above their average_
_When we inspected them._
A RUMOUR (tactfully intervening).
_Yet have I heard_
_(Though not on very good authority)_
_That once a year they hold a festival_
_And thereat all with one accord unite_
_In brotherly affection and good will._
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS (to Recording Angel).
_Can you authenticate this Rumour?_
RECORDING ANGEL.
_Such festival they have, and call it "Christmas."_
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.
_Then let us go and reconsider them_
_Next "Christmas."_
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS (to Recording Angel).
_When is that?_
RECORDING ANGEL (consults terrene calendar).
_This day three weeks._
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.
_On that day we will re-traject ourselves._
_Meanwhile, 'twere well we should be posted up_
_In details of this feast._
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES (to Recording Angel).
_Aye, tell us more._
RECORDING ANGEL.
_I fancy you could best find what you need_
_In the Complete Works of the late Charles Dickens._
_I have them here._
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.
_Read them aloud to us._
The Recording Angel reads aloud the Complete Works of Charles Dickens.
RECORDING ANGEL (closing "Edwin Drood").
_'Tis Christmas Morning._
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.
_Then must we away._
SEMICHORUS I. OF YEARS (aerial music).
_'Tis time we press on to revisit_
_That dear little planet,_
_To-day of all days to be seen at_
_Its brightest and best._
_Now holly and mistletoe girdle_
_Its halls and its homesteads,_
_And every biped is beaming_
_With peace and good will._
SEMICHORUS II.
_With good will and why not with free will?_
_If clearly the former_
_May nest in those bosoms, then why not_
_The latter as well?_
_Let's lay down no laws to trip up on,_
_Our way is in darkness,_
_And not but by groping unhampered_
_We win to the light._
The Spirit and Chorus of the Years traject themselves, closely followed by the Spirit and Chorus of the Pities, the Spirits and Choruses Sinister and Ironic, Rumours, Spirit Messengers, and the Recording Angel.
There is the sound of a rushing wind. The Solar System is seen for a few instants growing larger and larger--a whorl of dark, vastening orbs careering round the sun. All but one of these is lost to sight. The convex seas and continents of our planet spring into prominence.
The Spirit of Mr. Hardy is visible as a grey transparency swiftly interpenetrating the brain of the Spirit of the Years, and urging him in a particular direction, to a particular point.
The Aerial Visitants now hover in mid-air on the outskirts of Casterbridge, Wessex, immediately above the County Gaol.
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.
_First let us watch the revelries within_
_This well-kept castle whose great walls connote_
_A home of the pre-eminently blest._
The roof of the gaol becomes transparent, and the whole interior is revealed, like that of a beehive under glass. Warders are marching mechanically round the corridors of white stone, unlocking and clanging open the iron doors of the cells. Out from every door steps a convict, who stands at attention, his face to the wall.
At a word of command the convicts fall into gangs of twelve,
and march down the stone stairs, out into the yard, where they
line up against the walls.
Another word of command, and they file mechanically, but not
more mechanically than their warders, into the Chapel.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.
_Enough!_
SPIRITS SINISTER AND IRONIC.
_'Tis more than even we can bear._
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.
_Would we had never come!_
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.
_Brother, 'tis well_
_To have faced a truth however hideous,_
_However humbling. Gladly I discipline_
_My pride by taking back those pettish doubts_
_Cast on the soundness of the central thought_
_In Mr. Hardy's drama. He was right._
_Automata these animalculae_
_Are--puppets, pitiable jackaclocks._
_Be't as it may elsewhere, upon this planet_
_There's no free will, only obedience_
_To some blind, deaf, unthinking despotry_
_That justifies the horridest pessimism._
_Frankly acknowledging all this, I beat_
_A quick but not disorderly retreat._
He re-trajects himself into Space, followed closely by his Chorus, and by the Spirit and Chorus of the Pities, the Spirits Sinister and Ironic with their Choruses, Rumours, Spirit Messengers, and the Recording Angel. _
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