0401 | The Mayor of Casterbridge | Thomas Hardy

by John on December 8, 2012

Context: Finished this off in Argyle Sqaure, Bloomsbury, London while I was in London for my brother-in-law’s wedding.

REVIEW

Haven’t tackled Hardy for a while. I found the last effort (The Return of the Native) a bit of a tough read so I was glad to find that this was far from difficult. In fact, this has an opening chapter that even Ian McEwan would find hard to match.

From the outset and throughout the novel, you are presented with a captivating portrait of Michael Henchard. It’s a Hardy novel, so you know that he’s doomed from the start. But he starts off so rashly that you are left wondering if he’ll actually make it to the end of the novel. He makes it, and on the way actually does quite well, but you know that the downward spiral is inevitable. And so it proves.

This is a great novel. Packed with great characters and deep insight into the flawed and often contradictory human psyche. No wonder it ranks among Brit Lit’s finest works and arguably Hardy’s best. The character of Henchard you both love and hate. And you see so much of yourself in him. That’s always the sign of a good character because, once you realise this, it’s hard to condemn failings that you plainly see in yourself.

I also liked the way Hardy interwove various storylines so that, like Henchard, you were in the dark until fairly late on in the story about who was actually related to whom. All in all, this is a very good read and one that, once I’ve finished Hardy’s canon, I might well return to.

OPENING LINE	One evening of late summer, before the nineteenth century had reached one-third of its span, a young man and woman, the latter carrying a child, were approaching the large village of Weydon-Priors, in Upper Wessex, on foot.
99TH PAGE QUOTE	This far into the book, some of the plot might be revealed. If you want to see the quote, click show The poor woman smiled faintly; she did not enjoy pleasantries on a situation into which she had entered solely for the sake of her girl’s reputation. She liked them so little, indeed, that there was room for wonder why she had countenanced deception at all, and had not bravely let the girl know her history. But the flesh is weak; and the true explanation came in due course. “O Michael!” she said, “I am afraid all this is taking up your time and giving trouble—when I did not expect any such thing!” And she looked at him and at his dress as a man of affluence, and at the furniture he had provided for the room—ornate and lavish to her eyes. “Not at all,” said Henchard, in rough benignity. “This is only a cottage—it costs me next to nothing. And as to taking up my time”—here his red and black visage kindled with satisfaction—”I’ve a splendid fellow to superintend my business now—a man whose like I’ve never been able to lay hands on before. I shall soon be able to leave everything to him, and have more time to call my own than I’ve had for these last twenty years.”
CLOSING LINE	And in being forced to class herself among the fortunate she did not cease to wonder at the persistence of the unforeseen, when the one to whom such unbroken tranquility had been accorded in the adult stage was she whose youth had seemed to teach that happiness was but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain.