The Dynasts

by Thomas Hardy

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Genres: Classics, Fiction, Poetry, Plays, Drama, British Literature, War

438 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1904

About the author

Thomas Hardy, OM, was an English author of the naturalist movement, although in several poems he displays elements of the previous romantic and enlightenment periods of literature, such as his fascination with the supernatural. He regarded himself primarily as a poet and composed novels mainly for financial gain.

The bulk of his work, set mainly in the semi-fictional land of Wessex, delineates characters struggling against their passions and circumstances. Hardy's poetry, first published in his 50s, has come to be as well regarded as his novels, especially after The Movement of the 1950s and 1960s.

The term cliffhanger is considered to have originated with Thomas Hardy's serial novel A Pair of Blue Eyes in 1873. In the novel, Hardy chose to leave one of his protagonists, Knight, literally hanging off a cliff staring into the stony eyes of a trilobite embedded in the rock that has been dead for millions of years. This became the archetypal — and literal — cliff-hanger of Victorian prose.

Excerpted from Wikipedia.

Reviews

[Nathan Jerpe · Rating 5 out of 5]

ADVENTURES IN OLD BOOKS 101

(Or so I'd like to think, no institution I've attended so far has ever offered this course)

So I picked this up a few years ago, it was in the musty rare books parlor of Eagle Eye if I recall, all the way in the back, but it was only last week that I finally got around to giving it my full attention. This is Hardy's epic drama, a term, I suppose, which could use some explanation, as there's really no such thing anymore, but for now let's just call it a Gargantua-sized play. My hardback edition is pretty thick & sturdy. It was published by Macmillan in 1923, & there is some cursive handwriting on the back of the front cover, also dated 1923, which reads 'From the Carnegie Trust'. I have rather enjoyed lugging this thing around on the Atlanta coffee shop circuit, & gorging on it when I am able, because Hardy is an excellent poet, & here he is really ambitious as all hell. He was an old man in 1908 by the time he finished The Dynasts, which gives some hope to all of those aging poets out there, who fear this is predominantly a young man's game.

Now I could have read this on Gutenberg, for god's sakes, the print in my copy after all is pretty tiny, but then I've been interested in this book's typography for awhile. I'm curious how all of this blank verse & balladry is spread featly on the page, & how all of the cinematic stage directions have been carefully interposed. There's probably a course on FONTS 101 embedded here too, although I imagine you could cover that in a summer session.

Anyhow the interesting bit which I really wanted to describe happened today, when I started getting up into the low three hundreds. I was picking up speed, Napoleon was getting remarried & it was really dramatic, until I noticed that a bunch of the pages in the book were stuck together. I tried to get them apart without damaging the book, & as I tugged & maybe even swore a little I realized that they weren't stuck together after all. What in fact had happened was that the pages were never cut properly, and that the top of say page 301 and 303 were joined together by a folded edge. As I flipped further I noticed that this had happened on some of the side edges too, & that some strange eight page interval was trying to manifest itself. The word 'octavo' entered my mind, but that is as far as I got with that. Anyhow I decided after almost no hesitation that something must be done, Gutenberg be damned, & so I ran off to my daughter's room for the safety scissors. Moments later I had begun, with no regrets! to cut.

I have since stopped around page 400 or so, there's no rush, I figure I can fix the rest when I get to it. Besides, I want to savor the fact that my copy of this book, which has been a real treat to read, & which I will surely find time someday to go through a second time, is ninety-five years old & counting, & also, for I have had what amounts to surefire proof, that I will soon become the first person in ninety-five years who has ever held it long enough to read it from start to finish.

[Bill FromPA · Rating 4 out of 5]

An odd one - a sequence of three historical dramas in verse, intended for reading rather than performance. In adapting to the "drama" novelistic condensations of time and space as well as the novel's capacity for infinitely expandable casts, Hardy anticipates any number of cinematic techniques, some almost certainly requiring digital technology.

The main problem here is lack of momentum. Hardy draws all the named characters in his cast from history and the result is more like a pageant of historical scenes than a drama. The only character present from beginning to end is Napoleon, and Hardy doesn't manage to get inside him - he is seen as an instrument of fate, or the "Immanent Will" as Hardy terms it, and this instrumentality largely frees the author of responsibility for delving into motivation.

Individual scenes, however, are often excellent and there are memorable passages, like this from Pitt:

Tasking and toilsome war's details must be,
And toilsome, too, must be their criticism,—
Not in a moment's stroke extemporized.
- (Part 1 - I. iii.)

Or this line from Empress Josephine:

Yet there's no joy save sorrow waived awhile.
- (Part 2 - I. vi.)

Or, from Napoleon's final meditation in defeat:

Great men are meteors that consume themselves
To light the earth. - (Part 3, VII, ix)

Hardy attempts to unify his work by having the action observed and commented upon by a group of "spirits" of different natures: pity, irony, sinister, the years, and the earth. They are a kind of atheistic substitution for the gods of ancient epics.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
What is the creed that these rich rites disclose?
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
A local cult, called Christianity,
Which the wild dramas of the wheeling spheres
Include, with divers other such, in dim
Pathetical and brief parentheses,
Beyond whose span, uninfluenced, unconcerned,
The systems of the suns go sweeping on
With all their many-mortaled planet train
In mathematic roll unceasingly.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
I did not recognize it here, forsooth;
Though in its early, lovingkindly days
Of gracious purpose it was much to me.
- (Part 1 - I. vi.)

These spirits seem to watch the action without foreknowledge, though occasionally, apparently for the sake of a good line, they are allowed to know something of things to come:

ARCHDUKE
I amply recognize the drear disgrace
Involving Austria if this upstart chief
Should of his cunning seize and hold in pawn
A royal-lineaged son, whose ancestors
Root on the primal rocks of history.
SPIRIT IRONIC
Note that. Five years, and legal brethren they -
This feudal treasure and the upstart man!
- (Part 1 - IV. iii.)

Interestingly, this passage is not included in the Project Gutenberg text of the work. Hardy later somewhat justifies this foreknowledge by having the "spirit of the years" refer to "The bounded prophecy I am dowered with - " (Part 3, IV, ii)

Though there are a few passages in prose, mainly for servants and unnamed commoners, most characters speak in an "elevated" blank verse that can seem pretentions or silly at times:

Perhaps within this very house and hour,
Under an innocent mask of Love or Hope,
Some enemy queues my ways to coffin me....
When at the first clash of the late campaign,
A bold belief in Austria's star prevailed,
There pulsed quick pants of expectation round
Among the cowering kings, that too well told
What would have fared had I been overthrown!
So; I must send down shoots to future time
Who'll plant my standard and my story there;
And a way opens.—Better I had not
Bespoke a wife from Alexander's house.
Not there now lies my look. But done is done!
- (Part 2, V, i)

For the most part I found the scenes narrated by the spirits trying to get through. In addition to providing a "cosmic" perspective on the action, they occasionally speak lyrical passages that I, who read poetry infrequently, found to be somewhat hit or miss. The longest and best of these was this passage in terza rima set in the British encampment on the night before Waterloo:

CHORUS OF THE YEARS [aerial music]
The eyelids of eve fall together at last,
And the forms so foreign to field and tree
Lie down as though native, and slumber fast!
CHORUS OF THE PITIES
Sore are the thrills of misgiving we see
In the artless champaign at this harlequinade,
Distracting a vigil where calm should be!

The green seems opprest, and the Plain afraid
Of a Something to come, whereof these are the proofs,—
Neither earthquake, nor storm, nor eclipses's shade!
CHORUS OF THE YEARS
Yea, the coneys are scared by the thud of hoofs,
And their white scuts flash at their vanishing heels,
And swallows abandon the hamlet-roofs.

The mole's tunnelled chambers are crushed by wheels,
The lark's eggs scattered, their owners fled;
And the hedgehog's household the sapper unseals.

The snail draws in at the terrible tread,
But in vain; he is crushed by the felloe-rim
The worm asks what can be overhead,

And wriggles deep from a scene so grim,
And guesses him safe; for he does not know
What a foul red flood will be soaking him!

Beaten about by the heel and toe
Are butterflies, sick of the day's long rheum,
To die of a worse than the weather-foe.

Trodden and bruised to a miry tomb
Are ears that have greened but will never be gold,
And flowers in the bud that will never bloom.
CHORUS OF THE PITIES
So the season's intent, ere its fruit unfold,
Is frustrate, and mangled, and made succumb,
Like a youth of promise struck stark and cold!...

And what of these who to-night have come?
CHORUS OF THE YEARS
The young sleep sound; but the weather awakes
In the veterans, pains from the past that numb;

Old stabs of Ind, old Peninsular aches,
Old Friedland chills, haunt their moist mud bed,
Cramps from Austerlitz; till their slumber breaks.
CHORUS OF SINISTER SPIRITS
And each soul shivers as sinks his head
On the loam he's to lease with the other dead
From to-morrow's mist-fall till Time be sped!
- (Part 3, VI, viii)

[Preetam Chatterjee · Rating 5 out of 5]

Thomas Hardy’s ‘The Dynasts’ is basically that moment when a novelist suddenly decides, “You know what? I’m tired of writing about doomed lovers in Wessex — let me stage the ENTIRE Napoleonic Wars, plus cosmic metaphysics, plus chorus-like spirits who gossip about human destiny like they’re on a cosmic group chat.” And somehow the man ‘pulls it off’. Like, audaciously.

This is Hardy going full blockbuster-cinema. He gives you a panoramic, drone-shot view of Europe burning, starving, marching, scheming — but with the weird little Hardy touches that remind you he’s still the king of emotional micro-details.

One moment you’re with Napoleon being peak Napoleon (equal parts swagger and existential dread), and the next you’re with random soldiers shivering in fields, or peasants overhearing rumours that will define their lives.

It’s human-scale tragedy blended with world-historical disaster — a vibe Hardy was ‘born’ to write, honestly.

And then — oh, then — he tosses in the Spirits: the Spirit of the Years, the Spirit of the Pities, the Will, the all-seeing cosmic entities who look at human affairs with a mix of curiosity, boredom, and “babes what are you ‘doing’???” energy.

They’re basically the Greek chorus if the Greek chorus were interdimensional analysts doing play-by-play commentary on geopolitical chaos.

This is Hardy at his most philosophical, wrestling with determinism, chance, the cruelty of history, and the bizarre resilience of the human species.

The text itself? It’s not a ‘play’ in the way we normally think of plays. It’s a “closet drama,” but honestly, it’s more like reading a hybrid of epic poem, historical documentary, and cosmic opera.

Hardy isn’t trying to be stageable — he’s trying to be ‘sublime’. Think Tolstoy’s ‘War and Peace’, but more lyrical.

Think Tennyson’s ‘Idylls’, but with artillery. Think Shakespearean history plays, but directed by an omniscient deity who occasionally sighs at humanity like a disappointed parent.

And yet — here’s the kicker — it’s deeply emotional. Hardy understands that historical forces are big and crushing and indifferent, but individuals still carry their tiny torches of hope, love, fear, pride.

The juxtaposition makes the whole thing feel like watching ants build and rebuild their little anthills during a monsoon — heartbreaking, brave, absurd, beautiful.

Reading ‘The Dynasts’ today feels surprisingly relevant. It reminds you that history isn’t made by Great Men alone (Napoleon practically gets roasted for his self-mythologizing), but by collective choices, accidents, and cosmic indifference.

And Hardy’s anti-war tone hits hard — he’s not glamorizing anything; he’s showing you the machinery of conflict grinding people down.

If you vibe with epic scale, philosophical commentary, theatrical experimentation, or simply Hardy’s signature brand of “life is pain but also kind of astonishing,” ‘The Dynasts’ is a trip worth taking.

It’s Hardy when he goes full multiverse mode — and honestly, I’m here for that energy.

[Keith · Rating 3 out of 5]

Strange book this. It’s neither novel nor poem, nor fish nor fowl. It is, I guess, what you’d call an epic drama – a sweeping and unperformable chronicle of history. And it’s in verse.

Although in verse, the dialogue is rather plain except for the spirits (or “supernatural spectators”) that float in and out of the story. They represent time and pity and irony, etc. Their verses and interludes are very formal and the wording archaic, but sometimes moving.

These “supernatural spectators” speak of Fate and Will as the supreme power of the universe. That adds a compassionate and fatalistic feel to the whole work, but Hardy’s almost singular focus on the “great men doing great things” – his laudatory treatment of Pitt and Nelson and, of course, Napoleon – belies this overall message.

The dialogue is mostly in blank verse. It is workable, but I don’t know if I’d call it poetry. It follows all the rules of blank verse, but lacks the energy, verve and rhythmic sweep of what I’d call poetry. It primarily appears to be prose broken into alternating stresses.

Even more strangely, in the preface Hardy says that “in this chronicle-piece, no attempt has been made to create that completely organic structure of action, and closely webbed development of character and motive which are demanded in a drama strictly self-contained.” (p. ix)

What else is the author’s purpose, the artist’s mission? How is any creative work not self-contained? Why else does one pick up a creative work? Sadly, one can say Hardy succeeds at this rather quizzical goal. The characters are stiffly representational rather than alive. Napoleon has a bit more vivacity, simply because his profile is painted by all the speakers.

The remarkable things about this work are the stage directions. They have a cinematic quality. It’s as if you are watching a movie as Hardy describes panoramic landscapes, and fades from one scene to another.

One wonders, though, what this could have been if Hardy had tried to develop character and action. Coming out of the French Revolution, Napoleon represented much to the European artists and thinkers – the hope for a new world based on rule of law and the principles of freedom, equality and liberty. Emperor Bonaparte soon dashed those hopes, but what an intriguing work this might have been.

Overall, this is a glistening oddity, but unless you have some stubborn devotion to the dramatic verse form that you feel foolishly compelled to read a novel-length play because your life has reached such a low point that …. Hey, what am I saying?

The Dynast is a failure as a work of art, but admirable failure. One must give the Hardy credit for not playing it safe. Were we all to fail like this, we should be glad.

Part First

The fact that this is called “Part First” tells you a lot. But to move on, this covers the threat of Napoleon’s invasion of Britain to Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar, via the battles at Ulm and Austerlitz, culminating in Pitt’s death. I really don’t know much of the history, but this appears to be a relatively straightforward telling of events with little embellishment.

The section includes, I’d estimate, more than 100 speaking characters, as well as Parliamentary debate, Napoleon’s crowning as king of Italy, battles on seas, battles on land, a suicide, and more. One though never gets the sense of battle, for example. This is not Tennyson’s vivid description of Arthur’s army fighting Mordred's. There is the distant feel of a chronicler.

And, in case you’re wondering, the sailors did not drink the burgundy in which the “onehandled adulterer’s” body was stored. I had to make sure that wasn’t correct. In fact, according to atlasobscura.com, “Two weeks into the journey, gaseous pressures [of Nelson’s rotting body] burst the lid of the cask, startling one of the watchmen so much he thought Nelson had returned to life and was trying to climb out.” Ha! There's got to be a poem or short play there.
https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles... (05/19)

[Andrew Noselli · Rating 3 out of 5]

I think because I read this historical drama just after reading Will Durant's "The Age of Napoleon" that I wasn't fooled by Thomas Hardy's revisionism; it was in fact a British blockade that drove the French emperor to seek to conquer Europe, the French were starving because of British expansionism and Bonaparte was forced to seek to colonies for France's economic well-being. Hardy misleads his British reader still comfortably installed within an empire that, as the leading world-power, could not tolerate alternate ways of reading history. Hardy thought his poetic talents exceeded his talent as a novelist, but I feel I am unable to confirm this evaluation based on reading this poetic drama; it's still a question of "Happenstance."

[David C Ward · Rating 3 out of 5]

I’ll give this four stars for ambition but a three for the outcome. Hardy is a great novelist and a fine (shorter!) poet, I thought this epic on the Napoleonie Wars was odd and not particularly interesting. I could be wrong! Interesting that both Melville and Hardy, who are not too dissimilar as novelists, should write not particularly successful but incredibly long “epic” poems towards the ends of their careers.

[Emma Cam]

pg 439