The Well-Beloved

The Well-Beloved
A SKETCH OF A TEMPERAMENT
BY THOMAS HARDY

PREFACE
The peninsula carved by Time out of a single stone, whereon most of
the following scenes are laid, has been for centuries immemorial the
home of a curious and well-nigh distinct people, cherishing strange
beliefs and singular customs, now for the most part obsolescent.
Fancies, like certain soft-wooded plants which cannot bear the silent
inland frosts, but thrive by the sea in the roughest of weather, seem to
grow up naturally here, in particular amongst those natives who have
no active concern in the labours of the 'Isle.' Hence it is a spot apt to
generate a type of personage like the character imperfectly sketched in
these pages--a native of natives--whom some may choose to call a
fantast (if they honour him with their consideration so far), but whom
others may see only as one that gave objective continuity and a name to
a delicate dream which in a vaguer form is more or less common to all
men, and is by no means new to Platonic philosophers.
To those who know the rocky coign of England here
depicted--overlooking the great Channel Highway with all its
suggestiveness, and standing out so far into mid-sea that touches of the
Gulf Stream soften the air till February--it is matter of surprise that the
place has not been more frequently chosen as the retreat of artists and
poets in search of inspiration--for at least a month or two in the year,
the tempestuous rather than the fine seasons by preference. To be sure,
one nook therein is the retreat, at their country's expense, of other

geniuses from a distance; but their presence is hardly discoverable. Yet
perhaps it is as well that the artistic visitors do not come, or no more
would be heard of little freehold houses being bought and sold there for
a couple of hundred pounds--built of solid stone, and dating from the
sixteenth century and earlier, with mullions, copings, and corbels
complete. These transactions, by the way, are carried out and
covenanted, or were till lately, in the parish church, in the face of the
congregation, such being the ancient custom of the Isle.
As for the story itself, it may be worth while to remark that, differing
from all or most others of the series in that the interest aimed at is of an
ideal or subjective nature, and frankly imaginative, verisimilitude in the
sequence of events has been subordinated to the said aim.
The first publication of this tale in an independent form was in 1897;
but it had appeared in the periodical press in 1892, under the title of
'The Pursuit of the Well-Beloved.' A few chapters of that experimental
issue were rewritten for the present and final form of the narrative.
T. H. August 1912.

CONTENTS
PART FIRST -- A YOUNG MAN OF TWENTY.
I. A SUPPOSITITIOUS PRESENTMENT OF HER II. THE
INCARNATION IS ASSUMED TO BE TRUE III. THE
APPOINTMENT IV. A LONELY PEDESTRIAN V. A CHARGE VI.
ON THE BRINK VII. HER EARLIER INCARNATIONS VIII. 'TOO
LIKE THE LIGHTNING' IX. FAMILIAR PHENOMENA IN THE
DISTANCE
PART SECOND -- A YOUNG MAN OF FORTY.
I. THE OLD PHANTOM BECOMES DISTINCT II. SHE DRAWS
CLOSE AND SATISFIES III. SHE BECOMES AN INACCESSIBLE
GHOST IV. SHE THREATENS TO RESUME CORPOREAL

SUBSTANCE V. THE RESUMPTION TAKES PLACE VI. THE
PAST SHINES IN THE PRESENT VII. THE NEW BECOMES
ESTABLISHED VIII. HIS OWN SOUL CONFRONTS HIM IX.
JUXTAPOSITIONS X. SHE FAILS TO VANISH STILL XI. THE
IMAGE PERSISTS XII. A GRILLE DESCENDS BETWEEN XIII.
SHE IS ENSHROUDED FROM SIGHT
PART THIRD -- A YOUNG MAN OF SIXTY.
I. SHE RETURNS FOR THE NEW SEASON II. MISGIVINGS ON
THE RE-EMBODIMENT III. THE RENEWED IMAGE BURNS
ITSELF IN IV. A DASH FOR THE LAST INCARNATION V. ON
THE VERGE OF POSSESSION VI. THE WELL-BELOVED
IS--WHERE? VII. AN OLD TABERNACLE IN A NEW ASPECT
VIII. 'ALAS FOR THIS GREY SHADOW, ONCE A MAN!'

PART FIRST -- A YOUNG MAN OF TWENTY.
--'Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a
garland of my vows;
Her that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is
She.' --R. CRASHAW.

1. I. A SUPPOSITITIOUS PRESENTMENT OF HER
A person who differed from the local wayfarers was climbing the steep
road which leads through the sea-skirted townlet definable as the Street
of Wells, and forms a pass into that Gibraltar of Wessex, the singular
peninsula once an island, and still called such, that stretches out like the
head of a bird into the English Channel. It is connected with the
mainland by a long thin neck of pebbles 'cast up by rages of the se,' and
unparalleled in its kind in Europe.
The