University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

Point Of View In Thomas Hardy'S 'The Mayor Of Casterbridge' And 'Tess Of The D'Urbervilles'

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Point Of View In Thomas Hardy'S 'The Mayor Of Casterbridge' And 'Tess Of The D'Urbervilles'

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Content This dissertation has been
microfilmed exactly as received 67-8019 /
PETERSON, Audrey Charlotte, 1921- I
POINT OF VIEW IN THOMAS HARDY’S THE MAYOR OF
CASTERBRIDGE AND TESS OF THE D'URBERVILEES. I
University of Southern California, Ph.D., 1967
Language and Literature, modern
University Microfilms, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan
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POINT OF VIEW IN THOMAS HARDY'S
THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE AND ^SS OF THE D'URBERVILLES
by
Audrey Charlotte Peterson
A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
in Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirement s for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(English)
January 1957
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UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY PARK
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90007
This dissertation, w ritten by
Audr^ ...............
under the direction of h ^ ....D iss erta tio n Com
m ittee, and approved by a ll its members, has
been presented to and accepted by the G raduate
School, in p a rtia l fu lfillm e n t of requirem ents
fo r the degree o f
D O C T O R O F P H IL O S O P H Y
Dean
[SSERTATIC^ ^ ^ M I T T E E
Chairman
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
Chapter
I. THOMAS HARDY AND THE OMNISCIENT AUTHOR
CONVENTION .........................
Critical Attitudes Toward Authorial
Omniscience .....................
Hardy and Some Contemporaries . . .
Problems in Hardy's Prose Style
The Question of Intention ........
II. THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE:
DISTANCE .............
A STUDY IN
Page
1
PART I. DETACHMENT AND INSIDE VIEWS . .
Chapters 1-15: Sympathy and Judgment .
Chapter 16: First Sustained Inside
V i e w ................................
PART II. CHAPTERS 17-45: CLOSING THE
DISTANCE ..............................
Character vs. F a t e . . .
Increasing Identification .............
Chapters 40-44: Extended Inside View .
Chapter 45: Reliable Reporting . . . .
10
10
18
27
31
35
43
43
64
72
73
87
98
108
XX
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Chapter Page
III. TES5 OF THE D'URBERVILLES: THE ROLE OF
THE OMNISCIENT AUTHOR AS NARRATOR...........113
Information Not Known to the Characters . 118
Commentary upon the Characters........... 136
Generalizations .......................... 159
CONCLUSION............................ ........... 166
BIBLIOGRAPHY................... 170
111
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INTRODUCTION
Critical studies of the novels of Thomas Hardy have
dealt extensively with such familiar matters as theme,
character^ setting, and structure, and more recently with
imagery and symbol, but almost no critical attention has
been directed to point of view as a technique in Hardy's
fiction. All of Hardy's novels are told by an omniscient
author who moves about freely and comments at will. This
convention has invited less scrutiny of point of view as
technique than have other narrative conventions. Point of
view in the restricted sense of the term is most readily
applied to novels which employ devices of limited narration;
Conrad's Marlowe as narrator; the "consciousness" of Stephen
in Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist; or any of Henry James's:
special "reflectors," like Strether in The Ambassadors.
Point of view may also be studied in a special or limited
sense in works where the same events are viewed by differenij:
characters in an overlapping time span, as in Joyce Cary's
Gulley Jimson trilogy, in Lawrence Durrell's Alexandria
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Quartet, or (in the poetic mode) in Browning's The Ring and
the Book,
In the twentieth century the trend in fiction has been
away from the traditional omniscient author convention and
toward the effacement of the author's presence, as Bradford
h. Booth points out:
It has been said that the most significant change in the
fiction of our time is the disappearance of the author.
Conversely, the trade mark of the Victorian novel is the
presence of the author, ever poised to intrude a comment,
to interpret the characters, or to write an essay on
cabbages and kings.^
The presence of the author in the narrative, however, is
only one aspect of point of view in fiction. The full value
of point of view as a critical term lies in its application
to the whole matter of the relationship of the author to the
narrative and to the reader. Used in this inclusive sense,
point of view is as valuable a tool for the analysis of
works told by an omniscient narrator as for those told
through any other narrative convention.
The standard categories of point of view include the
omniscient narrator, the limited narrator (either in the
first or third person), and the objective or effaced
"Form and Technique in the Novel," in The Reinterpre
tation of Victorian Literature, ed. Joseph E. Baker
(Princeton, 1950), p. 79.
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3
barrator. These distinctions can do no more than describe
bhe mechanics of how the narrative is transmitted. A fuller
definition of point of view, through a series of questions,
is suggested by Norman Friedman in his useful summary of the
2
development of point of view as a critical term;
1) Who talks to the reader? (author in third or first
person, character in first, or ostensibly no one);
2) From what position (angle) regarding the story does
he tell it? (above, periphery, center, front, or
shifting); 3) What channels of information does the
narrator use to convey the story to the reader? (author's
words, thoughts, perceptions, feelings; or character's
thoughts, perceptions, and feelings: through which of
these or combination of these three possible media does
information regarding mental states, setting, situation,
and character come?); and 4) At what distance does he
place the reader from the story? (near, far, or shifting).
(pp. 1168-69)
The answers to these questions include the techniques of the
giving and withholding of inside views of a character's
mind; the distinction between "telling" about the events
(summary narration) or "showing" the events (dramatic
scene); and the functions of the omniscient author as a
commentator.
Effective handling of point of view is an important
part of the artistic success or failure of a work of fic
tion. Certain characteristics of Hardy's uses of point of
2
"Point of View in Fiction: The Development of a Crit
ical Concept," PMLA, LXX (December 1955), 1160-84.
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/iew are common to all of his novels: he enters the minds
3f the characters with varying depth and frequency; he shows
a . marked preference for dramatic scene over summary narra
tion; and, as the omniscient narrator, he comments both
airectly and indirectly upon the narrative. Sometimes a
faulty use of point of view as technique contributes to the
weakness of the novel as a whole. In Hardy's minor novels,
a promising opening often trails off into a development too
thin to sustain the reader's credibility. For example, when
hie abandons his talent for the concrete dramatic scene in
favor of summary narration, the result may be ineffectual.
Mbert Guerard alludes briefly to this problem in his
The distinction between Hardy's "major" and "minor"
novels was clearly defined by Hardy himself when he classi
fied the novels for Macmillan's Wessex Edition of 1912.
The major novels are those he designated as "Novels of Char
acter and Environment": Tess of the d'Urbervilles (1891),
Far From the Madding Crowd (1874), Jude the Obscure (1895),
rhe Return of the Native (1878), The Mayor of Casterbridge
(1886), The Woodlanders (1887), Under the Greenwood Tree
(1872). The minor novels are those he designated as
"Romances and Fantasies": A Pair of Blue Eves (1873), The
rrumpet-Major (1880), Two on a Tower (1882), The Well-Be
loved (1897); and as "Novels of Ingenuity"; Desperate
Remedies (1871), The Hand of Ethelberta (1876), and A Laodi
cean (1881). (I have preserved Hardy's order in each cate
gory, instead of using a chronological order.) As the dates
of publication indicate, Hardy's production was surprisingly
uneven, but his classification reveals that he was fully
aware of the relative merits of the novels.
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aiscussion of A Laodicean, pointing out that with
its animating impulses abandoned, the book collapses
completely. The symptom of collapse is, as nearly
always with Hardy, woolly abstract summarizing, and
in addition the appearance of a grotesquely theoretical
psychology. Captain De Stancy, remorseful because he
had abandoned Dare's mother, had become a monster of
self-discipline. But a drink and the sight of Paula in
her pink flannel gymnasium suit awaken the old Adam
at once. Confronted by such an implausible human
being, the interesting Paula becomes a model of
Victorian prudence. . . .^
The major cause for failure in the novel is, as Guerard
rightly suggests, the lack of a convincing psychology. But
it is significant that he notes as a "symptom of collapse"
Hardy's use of "woolly abstract summarizing." Furthermore,
it is not summary in itself that is at fault but the fact
that the summary is "woolly" and "abstract." Hardy's inef
fectual use of "telling" rather than "showing" signals, in
this case, the larger failure of the novel as a whole.
One of the distinguishing marks of Hardy's best novels
is the success with which he blends concrete dramatic scene
with author's commentary and with inside views of the minds
of the characters to produce a work of artistic coherence.
The purpose of the present study is to examine Hardy's use
of the techniques of point of view through an analysis of
4
Thomas Hardy (New York, 1964) , p. 54.
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6
two of his major novels, The Mayor of Casterbridge and Tess
of the d'Urbervilles. These novels represent not only the
characteristics common to Hardy's best fiction; each also
illustrates a particular technique: the control of distance
in The Mayor of Casterbridge, and the role of the narrator
in Tess of the d'Urbervilles.
In Chapter I, I shall discuss Hardy's relationship to
the omniscient author convention, dealing with (1) the trend
in critical attitudes toward authorial omniscience, (2) a
brief comparison of Hardy's practice with that of some of
his contemporaries, (3) some problems in the relationship
etween Hardy's prose style and his authorial commentary,
and (4) the question of intention in his use of the tech
niques of point of view.
In Chapter II, I shall consider the question of dis
tance as a technique of point of view in The Mayor of
Casterbridge. The major problem in the novel is that of
creating sympathy^ for a central character whose traits are
5
I use the term "sympathy" not in the sense of senti
mental feeling but in the ordinary sense of causing the
reader to feel concerned in the ultimate destiny of the
character. It is easy enough to see that we feel "sympathy"
for David Copperfield and not for Uriah Heep. In a more
complex way we feel sympathy for characters like Lord Jim or
the protagonist of Camus' L 'Etranger. This use of the term
"sympathy" has nothing in common with what Wimsatt calls
"the affective fallacy," in which concern for the emotive
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6
two of his major novels. The Mayor of Casterbridge and Tess
of the d'Urbervilles. These novels represent not only the
characteristics common to Hardy's best fiction; each also
illustrates a particular technique: the control of distance
in The Mayor of Casterbridge, and the role of the narrator
in Tess of the d'Urbervilles.
In Chapter I, I shall discuss Hardy's relationship to
the omniscient author convention, dealing with (1) the trend
in critical attitudes toward authorial omniscience, (2) a
brief comparison of Hardy's practice with that of some of
his contemporaries, (3) some problems in the relationship
between Hardy's prose style and his authorial commentary,
and (4) the question of intention in his use of the tech
niques of point of view.
In Chapter II, I shall consider the question of dis
tance as a technique of point of view in The Mayor of
Casterbridge. The major problem in the novel is that of
creating sympathy^ for a central character whose traits are
I use the term "sympathy" not in the sense of senti
mental feeling but in the ordinary sense of causing the
reader to feel concerned in the ultimate destiny of the
character. It is easy enough to see that we feel "sympathy"
for David Copperfield and not for Uriah Heep. In a more
complex way we feel sympathy for characters like Lord Jim or
the protagonist of Camus' L'Etranger. This use of the term
"sympathy" has nothing in common with what Wimsatt calls
"the affective fallacy," in which concern for the emotive
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' 1
unprepossessing. Hardy treats the problem of sympathy in
other novels with varying degrees of success. Coquettish
heroines like Fancy Day in Under the Greenwood Tree and
Elfride Swancourt in A Pair of Blue Eyes are often more
exasperating than endearing to the reader. Indecisive
characters offer similar problems. Anne Garland in The
Trumpet"Maior is almost too colorless to merit much concern
over which of her suitors she chooses. In Far From the
Madding Crowd Bathsheba Everdene is equally indecisive.
but she ultimately enlists the reader's sympathy as she
grows in maturity. The most complex of such characters—
Sue Bridehead in Jude the Obscure— is a brilliant creation
of a confused and neurotic young woman, but there is at
times a lack of detachment in Hardy's handling of her char
acter which leaves the reader with an uneasy sense of dis
cord. In the character of Michael Henchard, in The Mayor of
Casterbridge, Hardy makes the most successful resolution of
the problem of sympathy, a resolution which I believe de
pends in large part upon his effective use of distance to
responses of the reader (of poetry in this case) leads to
impressionistic criticism (W. K. Wimsatt, Jr., The Verbal
Icon, University of Kentucky, 1954). My concern in the
present discussion is entirely with the success of Hardy's
narrative technique, not with the aesthetics of reader
response.
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8
control the reader's sympathy and judgment. Through a
skillful blending of detachment^ concrete scene, and
author's commentary. Hardy achieves tragic dignity for the
protagonist of the novel.
In Chapter III, I shall discuss Hardy's use of the
omniscient author as narrator in Tess of the d'Urbervilles.
Some of the characteristics of Hardy's role as narrator wil]
be noted in the chapter on Mayor, chiefly as they contribute
to the control of distance. In the discussion of Tess I
shall expand the analysis of author's commentary to show
how it functions on three levels: (1) supplying informatior
not known to the characters; (2) commenting upon the charac
ters; and (3) generalizing in relation to the narrative.
There is no problem of sympathy with Tess as the central
character, as there is with Henchard in Mayor. Perhaps onl]
in Jude the Obscure does the protagonist receive from the
reader the same degree of identifying sympathy as Tess re
ceives. The principal function of the narrator in Tess is
to supplement the limited views of the characters, relating
the narrative to a broader context of universal values.
The reader feels the presence of an authorial personality
who observes and reports his own unique view of the immedi
ate scene and its relation to a larger world. Hardy uses
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receives its fullest and most poignant expression in Tess.
The techniques of point of view are not in themselves
important; what matters is how effectively they are used.
My purpose is to evaluate the ways in which point of view
functions to shape Hardy's vision of his fictional world.
the same technique with marked success in other novels,
particularly in The Return of the Native, Mayor, The Wood-
landers, and Jude the Obscure; but the voice of the narrator
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CHAPTER I
THOMAS HARDY AND THE OMNISCIENT AUTHOR CONVENTION
Critical Attitudes Toward Authorial Omniscience
I have said that there has been to date very little
iiscussion of point of view in Hardy's novels, nor for that
natter in any novels which use the traditional omniscient
author convention. Most such discussion is confined to com
plaints about authorial "intrusions." Perhaps the princi
pal reason for this critical attitude is that in the twen
tieth century the convention of the omniscient author who
uses a shifting point of view has come to have pejorative
connotations. The vogue for consistency in point of view
began with Henry James's prefaces, in which he explored the
exclusion of the author's presence through the use of
characters serving as restricted centers of consciousness.^
James himself does not suggest that this is the best way or
Collected as The Art of the Novel, with Introduction
by Richard P. Blackmur (New York, 1934).
10
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11
ihe only way to write a novel; but what began with --
James as an analysis of his own method of writing fiction
became codified by his successors into evaluative standards.
Thus Percy Lubbock's The Craft of Fiction (1921)
applies James's theories brilliantly but with the clear im
plication that they are normative, not descriptive. Tolstoy,
for example, is praised by Lubbock when he approaches his
story "through the mind of an onlooker," but he is condemned
vhen he "chooses his onlooker at random and follows no con-
2
sistent method." Novelists and critics alike in the twen
tieth century have come to reject as inept or inartistic the
shifting points of view and the commentary of the omniscient
author, and to assume that the "best" fiction follows such
essentially Jamesian principles as consistency in point of
view, dramatic presentation, and the avoidance of the
"intrusion" of the author's voice. The problem, as W. J.
Harvey points out, is that James's principles have
undergone a subtle critical change into something like
dogma while his characteristic techniques have been
frequently considered as in some way inherently better
than the conventions and strategies of earlier
novelists.^
2
Reprinted (New York, 1957), p. 38.
3
"George Eliot and the Omniscient Author Convention,"
Nineteenth-Century Fiction, XIII (September 1958), 81.
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12
ico combat these assumptions the contemporary critic must
Eirst be aware that they exist.
The best reappraisal of current critical attitudes
toward the art of the novel is Wayne Booth's The Rhetoric
4
of Fiction. a comprehensive study of the techniques of
narration. Booth warns against an unquestioning adherence
to post-Jamesian principles:
At this point in the mid-twentieth century we can
see^ after all^ how easy it is to write a story that
tells itselfj freed of all authorial intrusion^ shown
with a consistent treatment of point of view. Even
untalented writers can be taught to observe this fourth
unity. But we also know by now that in the process they
have not necessarily learned to write good fiction. If
they know only this, they know how to write fiction that
will look modern— perhaps more 'early modern' than late^
but still modern. What they have yet to learn^ if they
know only this, is the art of choosing what to dramatize
fully and what to curtail, what to summarize and what to
heighten. And like any art, this one cannot be learned
from abstract rules. (p. 64)
3ooth does not intend to underrate the achievement of con-
bemporary novelists but rather to emphasize that the use of
such techniques as the effacement of the author's presence
neither guarantees good fiction nor excludes fiction which
smploys other conventions.
Like most Victorian novelists, Thomas Hardy has been
scored for permitting the presence of the author to intrude
4
University of Chicago, 1951.
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13
upon the narrative. More often than not such comments seem
to be based upon the critical assumption that the strategies
of the omniscient author are in themselves bad, rather than
upon an evaluation of the specific needs of the particular
novel that Hardy was writing. Two pairs of opposing views
will illustrate the critical dialectic on this point. In
his introduction to The Mayor of Casterbridge Harvey Webster
complains that Hardy "often intruded upon the narrative to
make explicit his philosophy or his judgments of the char-
5
acters and the events in which they were involved." On
the other hand, Wayne Booth maintains that the author's
voice makes a positive contribution:
The intensity of our tragic journey with the Mayor of
Casterbridge. Hardy's great, impetuous, stumbling hero,
depends partly upon the 'old-fashioned' narrator's
voice, telling us of complexities of which Henchard
and his fellow characters are unaware.^
Hardy's use of philosophical commentary is condemned by
Dorothy Van Ghent as "existing outside the novel and exist
ing there quite irrelevant to whatever body of particular-
7
ized life the novel itself might contain." But E. M.
5
Rinehart Edition (New York, 1962), p. vi.
^Rhetoric of Fiction, pp. 187-188.
7
The English Novel: Form and Function (New York,
1953), p. 197
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orster defends Hardy's philosophical commentary. Forster
objects to fiction which makes direct comments upon the
characters in the style of Fielding and Thackeray^ but he
adds :
To take the reader into your confidence about the
universe is a different thing. It is not dangerous
for a novelist to draw back from his characters^ as
Hardy and Conrad do, and to generalize about the condi
tions under which he thinks life is carried on.®
In the two examples given, Webster and Van Ghent do not
istinguish between good and bad commentary; in their ether
ise highly perceptive discussions of Hardy's fiction their
assumptions are that the author's commentary is simply dis
tasteful. Both Wayne Booth and Forster see positive values
in effective use of the author's voice. The case for the
defense, not only for Hardy, but for all Victorian fiction,
is summed up by Bradford A. Booth:
If the Victorian intrusive author failed, he failed on
a grand scale, for he attempted much. In the eyes of
many of us, however, he did not fail. It is charged
that he does not maintain a consistent point of view.
What matter, if his characters live? It is charged that
he sees human nature only from the outside. What matter,
if his view be not distorted?®
What I am suggesting, then, is that in order to explore
0
Aspects of the Novel (New York, [n.d.]), p. 82.
(First published, London, 1927.)
9
"Form and Technique in the Novel," p. 95.
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15
fully the techniques of Hardy's fictional method it is
necessary to discard the notion that all indications of the
author's presence are necessarily inartistic.
Another recent critical study of Hardy reflects the
post-Jamesian bias against his use of authorial intrusion;
The weakest part of his writing is that where he indulges
in solemn, discursive speculation without transmuting
ideas imaginatively into symbol and incident. Like lumps
of uncooked porridge, his concepts hang suspended in
the novel or poem, indigestible and tasteless.
Certainly some of the finest passages in Hardy's novels are
those in which ideas are "transmuted" into "symbol and inci
dent. " It is also true that some of the most awkward and
least appealing passages occur in the author's commentary.
But this does not mean that all use of commentary is bad.
The critical assumption in the quotation above is that
"solemn, discursive speculation" ought to be either elimi
nated or transmuted into symbol. However, symbol itself
may become tiresome, as Wayne Booth points out:
To my taste many of the symbols employed in modern
fiction as a substitute for commentary are fully as
obtrusive as the most direct commentary might be. One's
Richard C. Carpenter, Thomas Hardy (New York, 1954),
pp. 22-23. The same analogy was used earlier by Desmond
Hawkins. Speaking of Hardy's "unmitigated solemnity," he
remarks that "the result is often lumpy, like badly cooked
porridge" (Thomas Hardy [London, 1950], p. 88).
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16
taste changes in such matters^ of course. At one time
the invention of the turtle, heading southwest across
the highway in The Grapes of Wrath (1939), paralleling
in his direction, his helplessness, his determination,
and his pace the Joads' hopeless, dogged lives, may
seem brilliant, while Tolstoy's interchapters seem
heavy and lumbering and obvious. But after twenty
years that turtle seems decidedly outmoded and obtru
sive, and Tolstoy's commentary, nearly a hundred years
old, has somehow taken on a new vitality. (p. 197)
Of course one may dismiss the distinction by pointing out
that Tolstoy is a better novelist than Steinbeck; or that
Tolstoy is great in spite of his disgressive chapters in
War and Peace, as Percy Lubbock maintains.Similarly,
Hardy's fiction may be admired in spite of, rather than be
cause of, his commentary. One may courageously gulp down
the "lumps of uncooked porridge" in order to enjoy the
plums of "symbol and incident" which abound in the novels.
But one may also approach Hardy's commentary as a part of
the total expression of the meaning of the novel. The
"solemn, discursive speculation" of the omniscient author,
when it is skilfully handled, is as much a part of the nar
rative as the characters themselves.
Almost all readers of fiction are aware of some kind of
relationship with the author, whether or not that relation
ship is clearly defined. The young protagonist of J. D.
^^The craft of Fiction. Chapters iii and iv.
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-------- ' ■ 17
Salinger's Catcher in the Rye expresses this corttfnon experi-
snce in colloquial terms:
What really knocks me out is a book that^ when you're
all done reading it^ you wish the author that wrote it
was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him
up on the phone whenever you felt like it.
h more sophisticated version of somewhat the same feeling
is quoted by Kathleen Ti Hot son:
Writing on George Eliot in 1877^ Dowden said that the
form that most persists in the mind after reading her
novels is not any of the characters, but 'one who, if
not the real George Eliot, is that second self who
writes her books, and lives and speaks through them.'
The "second self" is of course not George Eliot, the his
torical personage, but George Eliot—as—author, whose views
may or may not always coincide with the "real" George Eliot.
Commenting on this passage, Wayne Booth points out the lack
of a precise critical vocabulary for this aspect of fiction:
It is a curious fact that we have no terms either for
this created 'second self or for our relationship with
him. None of our terms for various aspects of the nar
rator is quite accurate. 'persona,' 'mask,' and 'nar
rator ' are sometimes used, but they more commonly refer
to the speaker in the work who is after all only one of
the elements created by the implied author and who may
be separated from him by large ironies. (p. 73)
12
13.
(New York, 1964), p. 18. (First published, 1951.)
The Tale and the Teller (London, 1959), p. 22.
Edward Dowden (1843-1913) was a poet, critic, and Professor
of English literature at Trinity College, Dublin.
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18
Booth's own term, as the last sentence suggests, is "implied
author." He points out that such terms as "style," "tone,"
and "technique" have variously been used to attempt to de
scribe the function of the implied author, but such terms
are too limiting:
We can be satisfied only with a term that is as broad
as the work itself but still capable of calling attention
to that work as the product of a choosing, evaluating
person rather than as a self-existing thing. The 'im
plied author* chooses, consciously or unconsciously, what
we read; we infer him as an ideal, literary, created
version of the real man; he is the sum of his own
choices. (pp. 74-75)
Booth's implied author separates the biographical author
from the personality who writes the novel, and the term is
broad enough to include the full spectrum from Fielding's
lengthy chats with the reader to the effaced author who
creates Joyce's Portrait of the Artist or Hemingway's
The Killers. The reader knows that he is in the presence
of a creating mind and a controlling personality whose
unique vision of the world shapes the work that he produces.
Hardy and Some of His Contemporaries
The convention of the omniscient author is one mani
festation of the implied author who is present in all works
of imaginative literature, but the role of the omniscient
author is not everywhere the same. If we speak of the
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19
omniscient author in Thackeray; in Eliot^ in Hardy; or in
James; we are speaking of strategies very different from
each other. The use of omniscience in fiction varies con
siderably; not only from author to author but also among
novels by the same author. A brief look at the practice of
a few of his contemporaries will help to define Hardy's
particular use of the role of the omniscient author.
In the opening scene of Vanity Fair, when Becky Sharp
contemptuously throws the dictionary back into the garden;
Thackeray makes a characteristic entry in his role as nar
rator:
Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the act of
defiance as Miss Jemima had been; for consider; it was
but one minute that she had left school; and the im
pressions of six years are not got Over in that space
of time. Nay; with some persons those awes and terrors
of youth last for ever and ever. I knoW; for instance;
an old gentleman of sixty-eight; who said to me one
morning at breakfast; with a very agitated countenance;
'I dreamed last night that I was flogged by Dr. Raine.'
Fancy had carried him back five and fifty years in the
course of that evening. Dr. Raine and his rod were
just as awful to him in his heart, then, at sixty-eight
as they had been at thirteen. If the Doctor, with a
large birch, had appeared bodily to him, even at the
age of threescore and eight, and had said in awful voice,
'Boy, take down your pant * *?' Well, well. Miss Sedley
was exceedingly alarmed at this act of insubordination.
In this passage Thackeray moves from the immediate scene to
] 4
(New York; 1911), I, 12-13.
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20
a direct address to the reader— "for^ consider, it was but
one minute that she had left school . . . then to a gene
ralization— "with some persons those awes and terrors of
youth last for ever and ever . . then to the authorial
"I" who tells the anecdote of the old gentleman and Dr.
Raine; and finally returns to the narrative with the chatty
tone of "Well, well. Miss Sedley was exceedingly alarmed. .
. ." He takes the reader by the arm and the reader is de
lighted to accompany this charming and witty companion,
sharing his view of whatever tale he has to tell. The omni
scient author of Henry Esmond, with its tone of gentle ro
manticism, is not, however, at all the same personality as
the narrator of Vanity Fair. Thackeray uses a series of
multiple masks for the narrator of Esmond. The title page
treads :
The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., A Colonel in the
Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne. Written by himself.
Edited by William Makepeace Thackeray.
STot only is Thackeray merely the "editor" ; there is a pre
face by Esmond's "daughter"; the body of the noyel consists
3f Esmond's "memoirs" as told by himself, but in the third
person; and finally an authorial "I" intrudes occasionally
into the memoirs themselves;
I
I And so it is— a pair of bright eyes with a dozen
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^
glances suffice to subdue a man; to enslave him^ and
inflame him; . . . Is memory as strong as expectancy?
fruition, as hunger? gratitude, as desire? I have
looked at royal diamonds in the jewel-rooms in Europe,
and thought how wars have been made about 'em; . . . and
daring lives lost in digging out the little shining toys
that I value no more than the button in my hat. . . .
ÿhe actual personality of the authorial "I" in Esmond seems
to be that of Harry himself, occasionally slipping into
the first person when he wants to philosophize to the
reader. But behind all of the masks is Thackeray the im
plied author, who adopts what has been described as his
"particular tone of pastness, of reminiscence, of disengage
ment."^^ It would' be as impossible as it would be unde
sirable to separate the elements of commentary from the
fabric of Thackeray's narratives, for this very quality
produces a large part of the pleasure of reading Thackeray,
jls Geoffrey Tillotson points out:
The interest of [Thackeray's] personality lies in every
sentence of the fiction. Its interest is so strong that
we are pleased to have the world of Thackeray's imagina
tion come to us through his literary personality. . . .^^
(New York, 1911), p. 293.
^^Myron Taube, "Thackeray and the Reminiscential
Vision," Nineteenth-Century Fiction, XVIII (December 1963),
247.
17
Thackeray the Novelist (Cambridge University Press,
L954), p. 112.
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22
The implied author^ then, is ultimately as engaging to the
reader as the characters and events of the novel.
The same principle functions in the novels of George
Eliot, taut filtered through a very different personality.
In The Mill on the Floss, for example, Eliot's commentary
is characteristically serious and intellectual. She ad
dresses the reader directly and discusses with him the na
ture of the story she is telling;
Perhaps something akin to this oppressive feeling may
have weighed upon you in watching this old-fashioned
family life on the taanks of the Floss, which even sorrow
hardly suffices to lift ataove the level of the tragi-comic
It is a sordid life, you say, this of the Tullivers and
Dodsons--irradiated tay no sutalime principles, no romantic
visions, no active, self-renouncing faith— moved tay none
of those wild, uncontrollatale passions which create the
dark shadows of misery and crime. . . .
Not only does Eliot address the reader as "you"; she sets
up a dialectic with him tay vertaalizing his thoughts— "it is
a sordid life, you say, this of the Tullivers and Dodsons"—
and tay developing an analysis of the reader's assumptions
about the nature of tragedy. The narrator of Mill on the
Floss is in a limited sense a dramatized character. In the
prologue of the novel "she" (or "he") has corporeal sub
stance: "I have been pressing my elbows on the arm of my
18
(New York, 1963), p. 288,
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23
chair and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in
front of Dorlcote Mill ..." (p. 3). In the brief epilogue
the narrator is a disembodied voice commenting upon events
five years after the close of the novel. The precise iden
tity of this narrator is obscure; in the body of the novel
"she" often seems to be closely identified with Maggie
Tulliver^ so that she may be Maggie's spirit returning to
recount the events of the story. But she is also George
Eliot the implied author^ commenting upon moral values of
English provincial society:
These narrow notions about debt, held by the old-
fashioned Tullivers, may perhaps excite a smile on the
faces of many readers in these days of wide commercial
views and wide philosophy. . . . I am telling the his
tory of very simple people, who had never had any
illuminating doubtis as to personal integrity and honour.
(p. 296)
The authorial "I" here refers directly to "readers" and
announces that she is "telling the history" of simple
people, the word "history" echoing an earlier tradition in
the development of the novel.
Henry James attempted to eliminate the direct intrusioiji
of the author by focusing on the point of view of a drama
tized narrator, but the omniscient author is often present
even in the late novels. it has been amply demonstrated,
for example, that in The Ambassadors there is an authorial
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' 24 '
19
"I" who views and comments upon Lambert Strether. Fur
thermore, with or without the authorial "I", James as im
plied author is always present to the reader in all of the
novels. Although Strether's shock at the revelation of the
true relationship between Chad and Mme. de Vionnet is trans
mitted in terms of the dramatized character of Strether
himself, the same theme recurs so often in James's fiction
that it becomes a part of the characteristic view of James
as omniscient author. Hyacinth Robinson learns of the inti
macy of the Princess Cassamassima and the young anarchist;
Esabel Archer learns the truth about Madame Merle and Gil
bert Osmond; Maggie Verver learns of the affair between her
husband and Charlotte Stant; and so on. In each novel the
revelation is beautifully worked into the figure on the car
pet, but the controlling interest for the reader is engen
dered by James's own intricate view of the moral complexi
ties of the situation, whether this view is expressed di
rectly or indirectly. The reader inhabits with pleasure the
special world created by James-as-author, just as the reader
of Dickens enters delightedly into a very different kind of
imaginative world.
19
John E. Tilford, Jr., "James the Old Intruder,"
Modern Fiction Studies, IV (Summer 1958), 157-154.
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25
All of this does not lead to the simplistic reduction
that each novelist places the stamp of his personality upon
his work. What it does mean is that we must not dismiss too
hastily the very real contribution of the nineteenth century
omniscient author as a role-player in the novel. The role
which Hardy plays in his best fiction is that of a recorder
of events who shares his unique appraisal of those events
with the reader. He is not at all like the witty and
satiric "Thackeray" of Vanity Fair nor the reminiscent
romancer of Henry Esmond; he never achieves the polished
urbanity of Henry James; he shares the high seriousness of
George Eliot without the asset of her powerful intellect
and with less didacticism. He speaks to the reader through
a kind of ponderous gloom^ groping for the emotional heart
of the matterj seeking rather than explaining the meaning oi
life^ conveying poetically a feeling of immense compassion
for the human condition.
The specific nature of Hardy's role as narrator can be
further defined in relation to how much the author is
"present" in his fiction. On the spectrum from the fully
omniscient author on the one side to the effaced author on
|the other, Hardy's novels fall not only chronologically but
technically between those of Eliot and James; he is more
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26
present than James and less present than Eliot. Hardy rare
ly uses an authorial "I" in his commentary^ although an edi
torial "we" occasionally appears, a mode less intimate than
the first person. His commentary is usually brief— a sen
tence or two for the most part, only occasionally extending
to a paragraph in length. He does not address the reader
lirectly as "you" in the manner of Eliot in the passage
guoted above. He almost never comments in his "own" voice
upon the story he is telling or upon his own role in telling
20
it. Hardy uses the word "story" rather than the "history"
of earlier fiction, implying a different concept of the role
of the narrator. The author of the "history" of Tom Jones
or of Henry Esmond, even of George Eliot's "history of
simple people," adopts the stance of one who is recounting
actual facts and who must therefore have some kind of
concrete existence in order to have knowledge of those
facts. Hardy's novels are closer to the story told by the
20
An exception notable for its rarity occurs in
Jude the Obscure in the opening sentence of Chapter v. Part
V: "The purpose of a chronicler of moods and deeds does not
require him to express his personal views upon the grave
controversy above given." The "controversy" is the subject
of marriage, and Hardy is explicitly attempting to deny
that he is expressing his "own" views, thus significantly
separating his historical self from his role as author.
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27
21
teller of a tale or a ballad. The Mayor of Casterbridge,
for examplej is sub-titled the "story^" not the history^
of a "man of character." The story-teller is that omni
scient being whom Henry James sometimes tried to obliterate
by handing over his task to a dramatized narrator. In
Hardy's fiction the omniscient author is neither James's
dramatized character nor Thackeray's chatty personal friend
of the reader; but he has not, in Beach's term, disappeared.
He remains present to the reader and that presence is a
vital part of the art of his fiction.
Problems in Hardy's Prose Style
While some critics may condemn Hardy's use of authorial
comment because of their own general distaste for the
"intrusive" author in any fiction, such condemnation may
arise in part from certain weaknesses in Hardy's prose
style. When such weaknesses coincide, as they sometimes do,
with passages of commentary, the critical reader may be led
to condemn commentary when he is in fact put off by stylis
tic lapses. T. S. Eliot once aptly remarked that Hardy's
21
See Donald Davidson, "The Traditional Basis of
Thomas Hardy's Fiction," Southern Review, VI (Summer 1940),
152-178, for an excellent discussion of the ballad traditio^
in Hardy's novels.
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as a
28
"style touches sublimity without ever having passed through
22
the stage of being good." Desmond Hawkins describes Hardy
wordy writer, moving slowly and needing plenty of
elbow-room. He writes a stiff and ungainly sentence
every so often. He is sometimes flat-footed, and
sometimes fatally attracted by jargon.
The unevenness of Hardy's style is universally acknowledged,
as Robert B. Heilman points out:
Sighing about Hardy's style is a fairly old game
among critics of the novel, and one could make quite
an anthology of despairing and witty observations about
Hardy's verbal manners.
Heilman contrasts Hardy's occasional use of ungainly syntac
tical arrangements, and of stilted or abstract words, with
his more frequent use of direct expression and concrete
diction. Some readers are more sensitive than others to
imperfections of prose style, and there is common agreement
that Hardy's merits far outweigh his minor flaws, Neverthe
less it is useful to be alert to the possibility of confu
sion between bad style and bad use of authorial comment.
22
After Strancre Gods: A Primer of Modern Heresy
(New York, 1933), p. 59.
23
Thomas Hardy (London, 1950), p. 87.
24
"Hardy's Mayor: Notes on Style," Nineteenth-Century
Fiction. XVIII (March 1964), 307.
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2 9
A passage from an article by Langdon Elsbree on folk
tradition in Tess will illustrate what I mean. Describing
Tess at the club-walking ceremony, Elsbree remarks in pass
ing on Hardy's use of the author's voice:
Angel . . . overlooks Tess as a partner, and stimulates
Hardy's portentous and somewhat intrusive comment,
'Predigree, ancestral skeletons, monumental record, the
D'Urberville [sic] lineaments, did not help Tess in
her life's battle as yet, even to the extent of attract
ing to her a dancing partner over the heads of the com
monest peasantry. So much for Norman blood unaided by
Victorian lucre.
The description of Hardy's comment'as "intrusive" is mildly
pejorative and is characteristic of many such judgments
scattered throughout critical studies of Hardy. Actually
it is the last sentence in the passage above— "So much for
Norman blood unaided by Victorian lucre"— which does the
damage. The phrase is gauche and, in Hawkins' words,
"flat-footed." Hardy's style lapses momentarily into an
inept phrase which grates upon the reader and causes the
whole passage to seem intrusive. Without the last sentence
the passage seems perfectly acceptable. The point is not
that we can go through Hardy's fiction blue-pencilling out
the phrases which strike us as awkward, but that the
"Tess and the Local Cerealia," Philological
Quarterly, XL (October 1951), 609-610.
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30
bccasional awkwardness should not lead to a blanket condem
nation of commentary in the novel. As Heilman points out,
îardy's commentary"may be obtrusive or unobtrusive (just
as he may be awkward or fluent)" (p. 323). It is not the
omniscient author convention that is in question but only
bhe particular instances of its use.
An excellent case for the merits of Hardy's prose style
is developed in a recent essay by Benjamin Sankey, in which
the function of the omniscient author is fully recognized:
The clarity and breadth of perspective which mark
Hardy's style are possible precisely because he sees
things in general terms; indeed, much of its freshness
is due to the surprise and force of the principles at
work.
Hardy develops these principles mainly by implication;
they may appear simply in his way of presenting an event.
But his method allows for direct thematic statement, and
his usual practice is to accompany the narrative with
comments defining the relations between particular events
and general forces. Brief or extensive, these comments
are seldom digressive; rather, they are a necessary
part of the structure of the argument. Hardy followed
accepted Victorian conventions in allowing such commen
tary a prominent place, but it is likely that his read
ing of Greek tragedy counted for a great deal here, and
that he sensed his own relation to the events, as nar
rator, to be comparable to that of a sympathetic chorus.
His tone, certainly, resembles that of Thackeray or
Trollope less than it does that of a Sophoclean chorus.
Here we have not only a refreshing absence of the bias
^^"Hardy's Prose Style," Twentieth Century Literature,
XI (April 1965), 12-13.
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31
against authorial "intrusion^" but a valid analysis of
bhe role of the narrator as a "sympathetic chorus." Sankey
finds that Hardy's comments are "seldom digressive" but
rather a "necessary part of the structure of the argument."
This is the view of the role of the omniscient author which
E wish to develop more fully through an analysis of its
function in The Mayor of Casterbridge and Tess of the
a 'XJrbervilles.
The Question of Intention
Before turning to an analysis of the novels^ I should
like to point out that there is no way in which to measure
the extent of conscious intent on Hardy's part to use the
techniques examined here. Since Hardy was not often com
municative about his writing^ we simply do not know the
degree of his awareness of method. The question of the
author's "intention" is not ordinarily crucial to a critical
study of his work. In Hardy's case^ however^ his own depre-
atory remarks about the writing of novels, made chiefly
after the public furor over Tess and Jude the Obscure,
create the general question about the consciousness of his
artistry.
The kind of detailed analysis of his own methods which
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----------
Henry James did so brilliantly in the prefaces to the New
york editions of his novels is totally antipathetic to
Hardy's nature. Hardy's prefaces to later editions of his
novels are modest, brief, and restrained. At the same time
there is no reason to suppose that Hardy was either merely
a primitive genius or a commercial hack. There is ample
evidence that he regarded the writing of fiction as a
serious art form. The phrase so often quoted against him,
that his only desire was "to be a good hand at a serial,"
is misleading unless the circumstances are understood. The
statement was made in a letter to Leslie Stephen in 1874,
early in Hardy's career as a novelist. The full context
of the statement is illuminating;
The truth is that I am willing, and indeed anxious,
to give up any points which may be desirable in a story
when read as a whole, for the sake of others which
shall please those who read it in numbers. Perhaps I
may have higher aims some day, and be a great stickler
for the proper artistic balance of the completed work,
but for the present circumstances lead me to wish
merely to be considered a good hand at a serial.
The "present circumstances" were quite simply that he was
27 --
Florence Emily Hardy, The Life of Thomas Hardy, 1840-
1928 (London, 1962), p. 100. This edition combines in one
volume the original two-volume biography: The Early Years
of Thomas Hardy, 1840-1891, and The Later Years of Thomas
Hardy, 1892-1928 (London, 1928, 1930). The work is now
generally conceded to be largely composed by Hardy himself.
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33
anxious to earn enough money to be married, and the conces
sions that he was willing to make to "those who read it in
numbers" referred to serial publication, which always re
quired the novels to be modified to the taste of Mrs.
Grundy. For book publication Hardy carefully revised the
texts, and the quality of his finest novels leaves no doubt
that he did "have higher aims" later on. Only three years
later, a journal entry indicates his growing regard for the
art of fiction:
So, then, if Nature's defects must be looked in the
face and transcribed, whence arises the art in poetry
and novel-writing? which must certainly show art, or it
becomes merely mechanical reporting. (Life, p. 114)
Writing during the year before the publication of The Return
of the Native (1878), Hardy here accords "art" to fiction
as well as to poetry. In any case, his careful revisions
of the novels for the collected edition of Osgood and
Mcllvaine in 1895 and for Macmillan's definitive Wessex
edition of 1912 show his genuine concern for the craft of
his fiction.
Nevertheless, Hardy's concern for the art of the novel
does not clearly imply that he was consciously using the
techniques of point of view to be analyzed in this study,
but it does suggest that he wrote with serious artistic
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34
intention. The result is^ of course^ what finally matters,
as Wayne Booth points out in relation to Jane Austen;
So far as we know, Jane Austen never formulated any
theory to cover her own practice. . . . But whether she
was inclined to speculate about her method scarcely
matters; her solution was clearly a brilliant one.
(p. 245)
It is probable that Hardy, like Austen and other pre-James
ian novelists, selected intuitively the modes of presenting
his material which best served his artistic purpose.
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CHAPTER II
THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE: A STUDY IN DISTANCE
Michael Henchard^ the central character of Hardy's
The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886)^ is a paradoxical figure.
He is by ordinary standards a thoroughly reprehensible per
son: he sells his wife Susan for five guineas while in a
drunken rage; he ruins Lucetta's reputation by living with
her in intimacy; he dismisses Donald Farfrae as his business
partner because he is jealous of the younger man's accom
plishments; he turns against Elizabeth-Jane when he learns
that she is not his own daughter; and finally, when her real,
father returns, Henchard falsely tells him that Elizabeth isi
dead. He is hot-tempered, obstinate, and often cruel to
those who love him. Yet this is the man who is described in
Hardy's sub-title as "A Man of Character" and who unques
tionably retains the reader's sympathy as the hero of the
novel.
Henchard's good qualities partly compensate for his
35
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36
shortcomings. He is immensely energetic; he sometimes per
forms acts of kindness in a rough and off-hand way; he keeps
is oath not to drink for twenty-one years; and he is con
sistently honest except for the rash and impulsive lie to
STewson near the close of the novel. However^ even the most
ambitious list of favorable traits for Henchard will not
yield sufficient justification for his transgressions. It
requires skillful rhetoric on the part of the author to
transform Henchard into a hero, and this is precisely what
Hardy does.
To make a hero out of an unpleasant character requires
control of the distance between the author and his material,
and hence between the narrative and the reader. In The
Mayor of Casterbridge Hardy uses an unusual but effective
technique by withholding from the reader frequent and sus
tained inside views of Henchard*s mind in the early part of
the novel, gradually moving into closer identification in
the closing chapters. The usual practice of novelists
using an omniscient author as narrator is to create sympathy
for a character by participating frequently in that charac
ter 's point of view, as Hardy does with characters like
Tess and Jude. But in Mayor the device of withholding ex
tensive inside views of the central character acts to
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37
prevent the reader from inquiring too closely into those
thoughts and feelings which would reflect unfavorably upon
the hero.
In an illuminating discussion of Jane Austen's Emma,
'iJa.ynG Booth shows how Austen, despite the obvious defects of
bhe heroine's character, maintains sympathy for Emma by
showing most of the narrative through Emma's eyes and with-
iolding the views of other characters who would condemn her.
The reader's judgment is balanced by the irony of the
author-narrator, and by the "reliable" commentary of Knight-
ley.^ In The Mayor of Casterbridge this method is in a
sense turned inside out. Both novels make a hero or heroine
out of faulty characters; both Emma and Henchard grow in
self-awareness by the end of each novel; and both retain
the sympathy of the reader, Emma in the comic mode and
Henchard in the tragic. But Henchard, unlike Emma, is often
revealed through the eyes of other characters, whose actions
or comments upon him serve to mitigate some of his undesir
able traits. To follow most of the events of the novel
through Henchard's point of view would require that the
reader share his attempts to rationalize his actions and
^The Rhetoric of Fiction (University of Chicago, 1961),
pp. 243-266.
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38
would thus result in lowering his stature^ an effect which
loes occur briefly near the close of the novel. Much of
the fun in Emma lies in the reader's knowledge of flaws in
her character of which she herself is unaware, as the read
er knows because he participates in her view of events. But
Henchard is an inarticulate individual^ incapable of sensi
tive self-analysis. Much of his appeal arises from his
dogged and silent endurance of pain and adversity. His
locked and inaccessible personality is often better viewed
from without than from within, until the closing chapters of
the novel when sympathy has been firmly established.
Hardy controls distance in The Mayor of Casterbridge
not only through the giving and withholding of Henchard's
point of view but also through effective use of dramatic
scene and of author's commentary. One of the strengths of
Hardy's fictional method is his use of the economy of
dramatic presentation. When there is a choice between
"telling" and "showing," Hardy prefers to "show," that is,
to present events through the speech and action of the
characters. In Mayor he often creates a tension between th^
sympathy and the judgment of the reader through a series of
concrete scenes which give alternate views of Henchard's
good and bad qualities. Sometimes an unfavorable view of
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39
Henchard is followed later on by a partial mitigation of
his acts; the delay in the compensating view keeps the
reader's judgment suspended and functions to avoid sentimen-
tality in the treatment of the character. The author's com
mentary also operates upon the reader's sympathy and judg
ment, sometimes through expanding the point of view from
the immediate scene to a universal perspective, and some
times through clarifying the moral values within the world
of the novel.
There is a discernible pattern of distance in The Mayoij'
of Casterbridge, and it is this pattern which I propose to
use as the basis of my discussion of the novel. In the
first third of the novel (Chapters 1 through 15) Henchard
is presented with considerable detachment on the part of
the narrator. In Chapter 16 the distance temporarily moves
closer through the first sustained inside view of events
through Henchard ' s eyes. In the remainder of the novel, de-j-
tachment still prevails for a time but gradually decreases
as the distance closes. In Chapters 17 through 39 two
patterns of point of view interact: the detachment of
assigning Henchard's downfall to his defects of character
rather than to Fate, and at the same time the increasing
emotional identification of the reader through more frequen^
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. . .
and. deeper insights into Henchard's mind. In Chapters 40
bhrough 44 most of the material is presented from Hen-
zhard's view^ first with a brief lapse of control^ then with
bhe effective achievement of full accord between hero and
reader. Finally, Chapter 45 closes the novel with the
successful shift in the point of view to the report of
Henchard's death by characters whose reliable judgments give
the final elevation to his moral stature.
Critical comment on Hardy's Mayor of Casterbridge
consistently accords heroic stature to the character of
ytichael Henchard. Some critics relate the novel to the
traditions of classical tragedy. John Paterson, for
example, suggests that in Mayor Hardy achieves "tragedy in
2
the heroical sense of a Sophocles or a Shakespeare."
Frederick R. Karl, while emphasizing the psychological im
pulses in the novel, also sees Henchard as being "of heroic
stature, a nineteenth century counterpart of an Aeschylean
or Euripidean protagonist,George Wing, on the other
hand, believes that comparisons of Mayor to dramatic tragedy
2
"The Mayor of Casterbridge as Tragedy," Victorian
Studies, III (December 1959), 152.
^"The Mayor of Casterbridge: A New Fiction Defined,"
Modern Fiction Studies, VI (Autumn 1950), 204.
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_ 41
are "forced," but he sees Henchard as a powerful hero, a
4
"drowning, battered giant" living in "terrible isolation."
])efending his choice of Mayor as Hardy's finest novel,
: Desmond Hawkins describes Henchard as a "man no longer young
but of elemental virility and crude power," with the "wild
5
nagnificent obstinacy of a bull," Whether Henchard is a
hero in the traditional or in the modern sense is immaterial
to the present discussion; the significant point is that he
is accorded admiration. Sympathy for Henchard leads Harvey
Curtis Webster to the statement that as readers we find
Henchard "more sinned against than sinning, . . . We feel
that even his character is not at fault.This is exces
sively generous indeed, for Henchard's character is clearly
responsible for much of his misery. The key to the problem
lies in Webster's use of the phrase "we feel." The fact is
that readers "feel" a degree of sympathy for Henchard which
is unwarranted by a dispassionate view of his actions. This
is the central paradox in the creation of his character.
' ^Thomas Hardy (New York and Edinburgh, 1963) , pp. 65,
67.
5
Thomas Hardy (London, 1950), pp. 39, 40.
bn a Darkling Plain;. The Art and Though
lardy (University of Chicago, 1947), p. 149.
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42
y[y purpose is to show how Hardy successfully resolves this
paradox through the control of distance^ combining effec
tively the techniques of detachment, dramatic scene, and
commentary.
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43
PART I . DETACHMENT AND INSIDE VIEWS
Chapters 1-15: Sympathy and Judgment
In the first third of The Mayor of Casterbridge
the sympathy and judgment of the reader toward Michael
Henchard are controlled by the distance of the narrator
from the narrative^ by the perspective of the author's com-
nentary, and by the revelation of Henchard through dramatic
pre sentation.
In the opening chapter of the novels in which Michael
Henchard "sells" his wife at a fair^ the reader is at once
made aware of the detached position of the narrator. He
"observes" the scene^ at first from a distance, then moving
to a somewhat closer view, but the voice of the narrator
denies full omniscience:
What was really peculiar, however, in this couple's
progress, and would have attracted the attention of
any casual observer otherwise disposed to overlook
them, was the perfect silence they preserved. They
walked side by side in such a way as to suggest afar
off the low, easy, confidential chat of people full of
reciprocity; but on closer view it could be discerned
that the man was reading, or pretending to read, a
ballad sheet which he kept before his eyes with some
difficulty by the hand that was passed through the
basket strap. Whether this apparent cause were the
real cause, or whether it were an assumed one to escape
an intercourse that would have been irksome to him.
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----------------- — -- ----* ------------44-
nobody but himself could have said precisely; but his
taciturnity was unbroken, and the woman enjoyed no
society whatever from his presence. Virtually she ^
walked the highway alone, save for the child she bore.
The view here is that of "any casual observer,” Hardy tells
us; and it is that of an observer who is not fully informed.
The man walking along the road is reading— or is he "pre
tending to read"?— a ballad sheet. He is silent, but the
cause of his silence could be known by "nobody but himself.'
The narrator "suggests" that the couple are uncongenial—
that the woman's conversation "would have been unwelcome" tC'
the man, but the tone is that of conjecture, not of positivé
statement, supporting the effect of distance from the
characters.
That the man and woman were husband and wife, and
the parents of the girl in arms, there could be little
doubt. No other than such relationship would have
accounted for the atmosphere of stale familiarity which
the trio carried along with them like a nimbus as they
moved down the road. (pp. 2-3)
rhe narrator, cast in the role of any passer-by, observes
the scene from a middle distance and with the detached air
of one who is in no way involved in the lives of the
7
The Life and Death of the Mayor of Casterbridge; A
Story of a Man of Character (London, 1954), pp. 1-2. For
this reprint, now called "The Greenwood Edition" (formerly
"The Library Edition") Macmillan & Co. use the plates of
the standard Wessex Edition of 1912. All quotations from
the text will be from this edition.
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45
characters. But this is an observer with opinions on human
relationships. He assumes that only marriage could account
for the "atmosphere of stale familiarity" which he deduces
from the manner of the couple. Hardy is using his narrator
to establish an attitude of boredom with life on the part oi:
the "man" who is to become the central character of the
novel. Another observer might equally well have noted a
"comfortable" rather than a "stale" familiarity in the
couple's mannerj but the assumption of staleness is needed
to support the motivation for the act of wife-selling which
is to come. The distance of the narrator from the charac
ters also functions to support the motivation. Since he is
a detached observer, the narrator's comment on marriage and
its inevitable boredom has the effect of a generally ac
cepted opinion, not one merely advanced by the narrator of
this particular story. The generalization acts upon the
reader's judgment by its implicit suggestion that, of
course, this is what everyone thinks, giving an air of re
liability to the statement.
Distance is also created in the opening chapter of the
novel through Hardy's characteristic device of expanding
the point of view to place the s/ents of the narrative in
broad perspectives of space and time. The narrator moves
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46
back from the immediate scene to generalize upon the charac
ters. The couple and child walking along the road, he says,
might have been matched at almost any spot in any
county in England at this time of the year; a road
neither straight nor crooked, neither level nor hilly,
bordered by hedges, trees, and other vegetation, which
had entered the blackened-green stage of colour that
the doomed leaves pass through on their way to dingy,
and yellow, and red. (p. 3)
The microcosm of the immediate scene is related spatially
here to a macrocosm, in this case to the geographical
boundaries of England. Sometimes the view is broader than
this, taking in a universal perspective. The effect of
this technique in Hardy's fiction is never to dwarf the
characters but rather to lend a kind of dignity to their
situation through the contemplative, often nostalgic, tone
of the narrator's voice. In the passage quoted above the
expanded perspective suggests that the persons described
might be any persons in "any county of England at this time
of year." The implication is that what happens to them
might happen anywhere— as Henchard himself declares later
on. The subsequent dramatic crisis of the auction is given
a broader frame of reference by the expanded perspective.
The tone of coming tragedy is underscored by the "blackened--
green" color of the "doomed" leaves, and by the monotony of
the road which is "neither straight nor crooked, neither
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47
level nor hilly," reflecting the monotony of the marriage.
In addition to spatial perspective. Hardy also widens
the view in this passage to a characteristic perspective in
time. As the couple walk along in silence, the only sound
to be heard is
the voice of a weak bird singing a trite old evening
song that might doubtless have been heard on the hill
at the same hour, and with the self-same trills, quavers,
and breves, at any sunset of that season for centuries
untold. (p. 3)
The contemplative, nostalgic voice of the narrator reminds
the reader of the remote past which is never very far from
the surface in Hardy's Wessex. The barrows on Egdon Heath,
the Roman relics in every field and village, the ancient
structures of Stonehenge are used by Hardy not merely as
picturesque reminders of the past; they give to the events
of the present a relationship to the permanence of the
human condition. In the passage above, the bird's song,
which might have been heard "at any sunset of that season
for centuries untold," places the immediate scene in a
larger context of a distant past which is yet unchanging.
The sudden expansion of the angle of vision to create
spatial and temporal perspective characteristically closes
at once and returns to a focus on the immediate scene. The
!
jentire central episode in the furmity tent is presented
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— - - - 48^
dramaticallyj with the narrator giving little more than
stage directions. The powerful climax is made believable
to the reader by the careful building up of Henchard's
drunken state, his muttered sense of frustration that his
early marriage has deprived him of the opportunity to get
on in the world, and the revelation through dialogue that
he has often before threatened to auction his wife to the
g
highest bidder. The narrator stands back from the events,
observing and reporting but not judging.
This withholding of moral judgment is significant in
Hardy's technique. If we object to the liberal scattering
of direct moral comment by Victorian novelists, then we must
be alert to the occasions like the present one in which the
circumstances seem to invite moral comment and none is giv
en. Instead, Hardy makes effective use of concrete detail
to render the scene dramatically.
Up to this moment it could not positively have been
asserted that the man, in spite of his tantalizing
declaration, was really in earnest. The spectators
had indeed taken the proceedings throughout as a piece
of mirthful irony carried to extremes. . . . But with
g
Morton Dauwen Zabel cites this incident as an example
of an "assault on credulity" ("Hardy in Defense of His Art:
The Aesthetic of Incongruity," in Hardy: A Collection of
Critical Essays, ed. Albert J. Guerard [New Jersey, 1963],
p. 39). Zabel's is a minority view, however; most readers
find the scene dramatically convincing.
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49
the demand and response of real cash the jovial frivolity
of the scene departed. A lurid colour seemed to fill
the tent, and change the aspect of all therein. The
mirth-wrinkles left the listeners' faces, and they waited
with parting lips. (pp. 11-12)
The narrator remains detached, even denying full omniscience
. . it could not positively have been asserted" that
the man was in earnest. The point of view moves briefly to
inhabit the minds of the spectators as a group— ". . . they
had taken the proceedings throughout as a piece of mirthful
irony," and now the situation has become disturbingly real.
The "lurid colour" which "seemed to fill the tent" is per
ceived by the spectators. How tempting, then, to generalize
about their feelings, perhaps to moralize or comment. Hard];
does neither. He simply observes that the "mirth-wrinkles
left the listeners' faces,” a concrete detail which conveys
with admirable economy the seriousness of the moral conflict
enacted in the furmity tent.
The same economy prevails in the dialogue which marks
the conclusion of the sale:
'Now,' said the woman, breaking the silence, so
that her low dry voice sounded quite loud, 'before you
go further, Michael, listen to me. If you touch that
money, I and this girl go with the man. Mind, it is a
joke no longer.'
'A joke? Of course it is not a joke :' shouted her
husband, his resentment rising at her suggestion. 'I
take the money: the sailor takes you. That's plain
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50
enough. It has been done elsewhere— and why not here?'
(p. 12)
One of the dominant traits of Henchard's nature is revealed
here economically through dialogue. He cannot resist react
ing violently to a direct challenge, even when the result is
against his own interests. The moment Susan threatens that
the matter is no longer a joke, his compulsive defiance
sweeps away his reason and he angrily rejects her. This
behavior recurs throughout the novel at moments of crisis;
sometimes the narrator comments directly upon Henchard's
impulsiveness; often Henchard's words and actions speak for
themselves, as in the passage above.
So far the scene has been all drama, with the reader
sharing the position of one of the spectators in the tent.
Now the point of view broadens to incorporate a contrast
between nature and mankind:
A stolid look of concern filled the husband's face,
as if, after all, he had not quite anticipated this
ending; and some of the guests laughed.
'Is she gone?' he said.
'Faith, ay; she's gone clane enough,' said some
rustics near the door.
He rose and walked to the entrance with the careful
tread of one conscious of his alcoholic load. Some
others followed, and they stood looking into the twi
light. The difference between the peacefulness of
inferior nature and the wilful hostilities of mankind
was very apparent at this place. In contrast with the
harshness of the act just ended within the tent was the
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51
sight of several horses crossing their necks and rubbing
each other lovingly as they waited in patience to be
harnessed for the homeward journey. Outside the fair^
in the valleys and woods, all was quiet. The sun had
recently set, and the west heaven was hung with rosy
cloud, which seemed permanent, yet slowly changed. To
watch it was like looking at some grand feat of stagery
from a darkened auditorium. (p. 13)
The point of view is that of Henchard and some of the
country folk standing at the door of the tent "looking out
into the twilight." But what they see is expressed in the
voice of the narrator. The "difference between the peace
fulness of inferior nature and the wilful hostilities of
mankind" may be vaguely "felt" by the characters, but it is
not a transcription of their thoughts. The words are those
of the narrator acting as commentator. The philosophy ex
pressed here is not profound; Hardy's impulses are invari
ably more poetic than intellectual. The implications of th^
"philosophical" comment are developed through concrete
images: the "harshness of the act just ended within the
tent" is contrasted with the "horses crossing their necks
and rubbing each other lovingly"; light and darkness are
contrasted in the "heaven hung with rosy cloud" and in the
metaphor of the tent as a "darkened auditorium." When
Hardy's commentary is merged, as it is here, with the poeticj:
texture of the narrative, it makes a positive contribution
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52
to the total artistic effect. Certainly the story could be
conveyed to the reader without the "intrusion," but some
thing would be lost if we dispense with the contemplative
contrast between man and nature. The expanded perspective
heightens the immediate scene by placing it in a universal
context.
When the focus returns to the scene within the tent,
the rustic characters are used as a kind of Greek chorus
commenting upon the action, a technique which Hardy uses
effectively throughout his fiction.
'Serves the husband well be-right,' said the stay-lace
vendor. 'A comely respectable body like her— what can
a man want more? I glory in the woman's sperrit. I'd
ha' done it myself— od send if I wouldn't, if a husband
had behaved so to me.' I'd go, and 'a might call, and
call, till his keacorn was raw; but I'd never come
back— no, not till the great trumpet, would I.’’
'Well, the woman will be better off,' said another
of a more deliberative turn. 'For seafaring natures
be very good shelter for shorn lambs. . . .' (p. 14)
Like the narrator, the rustics make no clear-cut moral judg
ment. They express sympathy for the wife, but they do not
turn upon Henchard with moral indignation. Conventional
attitudes would call for condemnation of all three parties
concerned in the "auction." But Hardy's country folk live
in a world where hardship and elemental necessity have
created a wider tolerance for human vagaries. As the
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53
i^hapter closes^ they slowly leave the tent, feeling at most
an uneasiness at having witnessed a startling transaction.
The opening chapter of the novel has presented a
decidedly unpromising view of Michael Henchard. He is
shown to be drunken, quarrelsome, hot-tempered, and cruel.
En the second of the two chapters of the prologue Hardy be
gins to suggest some compensating traits, but still with
some detachment on the part of the narrator. This method of
alternating favorable and unfavorable views of Henchard cre
ates in the reader a tension between sympathy and judgment.
Albert Guerard suggests that part of the greatness of Mayor
arises from the reader's "secret identifying sympathy for
9
the outlaw." I believe this effect is achieved in part by
the technique of leaving in suspension Henchard's undesir
able acts and delaying their partial mitigation until
a later time. Not only, then, does the reader feel
Guerard's identification with the "outlaw"; he also feels
that perhaps his condemnation of Henchard has been too harst
— he may not be such a bad fellow after all. For .example,
when Henchard awakens from his drunken stupor and realizes
that his wife and child are gone, he determines at once
9
Introduction, Hardy; A Collection of Critical
Essays, p. 5.
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54
that "he must somehow find her and his little ElizabefhKhne^
and put up with the shame as best he could. It was of his
own makingj and he ought to bear it" (p. 17). His pride re
bels at the thought of confessing that he had been wrong^
but he feels that he must.endure whatever self-punishment
is necessary. He enters a church and takes a solemn oath
to "avoid all strong liquors for the space of twenty-one
years to come^ being a year for every year that l have
lived" (p. 18). Then, in two brief paragraphs. Hardy sum
marizes the period of many months in which Henchard searches
bhe countryside for his wife and child, finally learning
that the sailor has taken them abroad. His actions make
it clear that Henchard condemns himself unequivocally for
his rash abandonment of his wife, but the narrator remains
detached and objective, allowing the events to speak for
themselves.
After the first two prologue chapters, the narrative
resumes eighteen years later in the town of Casterbridge.
The presentation of Henchard continues to be relatively de
tached throughout the first third of the novel. Henchard is
gradually "revealed" from the outside rather than analyzed
from the inside. He first reappears in the famous set
I
[scene in which he presides as Mayor over the dining table
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55
at the King's Arms Hotel. The angle of vision is again that
of the spectator, as it was in the scene in the furmity
tent. The reader simply joins with Susan, Elizabeth-Jane,
and the poorer townsfolk as they stand outside, gazing
through the bow-windows at the dignitaries of the town. The
point of view shifts freely, and it is difficult to see that
anything is lost by this technique so deplored by the post-
Jamesian critics. The reader is often interested in knowing
the thoughts and feelings of more than one character, and
the omniscient author can move readily from one conscious
ness to another without necessarily destroying the fictional
illusion. Thus Susan is surprised to note that while the
others at the table drink wine and spirits, Henchard drinks
only water. Elizabeth-Jane is impressed by Henchard's evi
dent prosperity and importance. The townsfolk discuss
Henchard's success as a corn merchant. Yet with all the
shifts into the minds of other characters there is no entry
into Henchard's mind. He is seen and heard, and his actions
are presented with objectivity.
The polarity of favorable and unfavorable views of
Henchard is developed as a part of this detachment. The
diners at the King's Arms are convivial until someone shouts
a challenge to Henchard to explain about the bad wheat whicTn
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55
tie had recently sold in the town:
Henchard's face darkened. There was temper under
the thin bland surface— the temper which artificially
intensified^ had banished a wife nearly a score of
years before.
'You must make allowances for the accidents of a
large business,' he said. 'You must bear in mind that
the weather just at the harvest of that corn was worse
than we have known it for years. . . .' (p. 41)
Henchard's reply is neither gracious nor conciliatory. This
and his suppressed anger can be observed by the onlookers.
But only the reader hears the voice of the narrator entering
briefly to comment that Henchard's temper had "banished a
wife nearly a score of years before." The whole scene
leaves the reader with an unpleasant picture of Henchard
until the occasion (two chapters later) when Susan and
Elizabeth overhear his conversation with Donald Farfrae.
How Henchard shows an attitude of genuine concern:
'. . . This row about my grown wheat, which I declare
to Heaven I didn't know to.be bad till the people came
complaining, has put me to my wits' end.' (p. 53)
If Henchard could have spoken with this kind of frank sin
cerity to the gathering at the King's Arms he might have
created a more favorable impression. But his quick temper,
rising at even the most trivial challenge, betrayed him intc
jhasty defiance. The reader, like the spectators at the
King's Arms, sees in the first scene only Henchard's
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57
arrogance. The revelation of his real concern about the bad
bread is delayed until his conversation with Farfrae, and
then it is presented without comment or emphasis. If the
narrator could enter (albeit briefly) in the first scene to
comment upon the anger that "banished a wife," his voice
could equally well have entered in that scene to correct or
modify the unfavorable impression of Henchard. Instead the
information is delayed, so that when it comes the reader is
almost relieved to learn that Henchard is not altogether un
feeling. The omniscient author may "know" everything about
his character, but it is still his prerogative to choose
what to tell and when to reveal it.
A similar tension between sympathy and judgment is
created later on in the incident of Abel Whittle, the simple
minded laborer who is chronically late to work. Henchard
decides to make an example of him by forcing him to come
to work without his breeches. Farfrae, as manager, counter
mands the order, and the two men openly disagree for the
first time. The reader does not take with full seriousness
Whittle's gibbering protest:
'Yes— I'll go to Blackmoor Vale half naked as I be,
since he do command; but I shall kill myself afterwards;
I can't outlive the disgrace. . . .' (p. 113)
I
iNevertheless Farfrae's sensible handling of the matter is
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58
zlearly preferable to Henchard's rough "justice."
'Come^ ' said Donald quietly, 'a man o' your position
should ken better, sir I It is tyrannical and no worthy
of you.'
' 'Tis not tyrannical.' ' murmured Henchard, like a
sullen boy. 'It is to make him remember!' (p. 114)
Donald speaks "quietly," but Henchard behaves like "a sullen
boy." The author's rhetoric here underscores the reader's
approval of Donald's attitude. Yet a kind of mitigation of
enchard's character follows. "During the day Farfrae
learnt from the men that Henchard had kept Abel's old mother
in coals and snuff all the previous winter . . ." (p. 114) .
The statement is made casually and without elaboration, thus
ziaking it all the more effective in swaying the reader's
sympathy toward Henchard. The full moral implication of
this scene, however, does not come until the final chapter
of the novel, when it is Abel Whittle, like Lear's fool, whc
alone cares for Henchard and attends him at his death.
Although in the first third of the novel there are no
lengthy passages seen from Henchard's point of view, there
are partial inside views of his thoughts in the comments
which he makes upon himself. These sometimes take the form
of brief soliloquies, so that the effect is still that of
dramatic presentation. The narrator does not fully enter
Henchard's mind, following his perceptions over an extended
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59
period; Henchard is simply speaking aloud. For example^
after his first meeting with Donald Farfrae, Henchard says
to himself,
'To be sure, to be sure, how that fellow does draw
me! . . . I suppose 'tis because I'm so lonely. I'd
have given him a third share in the business to have
stayed.' ' (p. 64)
Henchard also comments upon himself directly in speaking to
other characters. When he has finally persuaded Farfrae
to remain and be his manager, his face
beamed forth a satisfaction that was almost fierce in
its strength. 'Now you are my friendI' he exclaimed. .
'I am the most distant fellow in the world when I
don't care for a man. . . . But when a man takes my
fancy he takes it strong.' (p. 73)
After Henchard's admission of his loneliness, there is a
strong appeal in the childlike simplicity of his exclama
tion, "Now you are my friend!" When he tells Farfrae about
his affair with Lucetta on the Isle of Jersey, he begins
with the self-deprecating statement that "it is almost im
possible that a man of my sort should have the good fortune
to tide through twenty years o' life without making more
blunders than one" (p. 90). He adds that the young lady
"got to have a foolish liking for me. Heaven knows why,
for I wasn't worth it" (p. 90). His self-condemnation is
genuine, and the tone suggests the limitations of his
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60
understanding. He has a dogged conviction that his actions
have been "wrong^" but he is incapable of spinning webs of
self-analysis.
When Susan returns he steadfastly adheres to his plan
to "remarry" her. The narrator makes a rare entry into
Henchard's mind to express his motives:
. . . There was no amatory fire or pulse of romance
acting as stimulant to the bustle going on in his
gaunt^ great house; nothing but three large resolves—
onej to make amends to his neglected Susan; another^
to provide a comfortable home for Elizabeth-Jane under
his paternal eye; and a thirds to castigate himself
with the thorns which these restitutory acts brought in
their train; among them the lowering of his dignity in
public opinion by marrying so comparatively humble a
woman. (p. 95)
His sense of duty is clear. He does not consult his own
preferencej nor try to find a justification for marrying
Lucetta, as he had intended to do before Susan's return.
But more significant than his adherence to obligation is his
feeling that he must "castigate himself." The impulse to
seIf-punishment which first took the form of his oath
against drinking becomes an increasing obsession with
Henchard. His sense of guilt requires expiation, and self-
inflicted punishment is the only means available to his
tortured soul. That this reaction is instinctive with
Henchard, not carefully reasoned, is evident in the inside
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51
iriew of his thoughts in the passage above. He does not
analyze in any depth the causes of his emotions; he simply
knows that this is the way it must be.
The foregoing glimpses into Henchard's thoughts are
Illuminating^ especially because they do not occur frequent
ly in this first segment of the novel. But even more sig
nificant are the occasions when the narration is presented
through dramatic scene and Henchard's thoughts are withheld
from the reader except for what is revealed through the dia
logue. The marvelous economy of Henchard's first meeting
with Susan after her return to Casterbridge illustrates
this technique. The point of view is reminiscent of the
opening chapter of the novel, with an expanded perspective
of time and setting acting as a prelude to the immediate
scene. The meeting-place n^ed by Henchard is the old Roman
Amphitheatre known locally as the Ring. The narrator sets
the events of the present against the distant past;
Casterbridge announced old Rome in every street,
alley, and precinct. It looked Roman, bespoke the art
of Rome, concealed dead men of Rome. It was impossible
to dig more than a foot or two deep about the town
fields and gardens without coming upon some tall soldier
or other of the Empire, who had lain there in his silent
unobtrusive rest for a space of fifteen hundred years.
(p. 80)
| f t . s always with Hardy the perspective of time does not dwarf
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62
the characters and events of the novel. The effect is not
to show that the present is trivial and insignificant in re
lation to the past but rather to suggest the contemplation
of a permanence in the nature of human life. The soldier
i f ho has "lain there in his silent unobtrusive rest for a
space of fifteen hundred years" is a reminder of the con
tinuity of human affairs. The Ring itself, in its isolated
setting associated with past deeds of violence and with foll<
tales of supernatural visions, is an appropriate meeting
place for the couple who had parted in a scene of violence.
Dramatic presentation controls the immediate action.
Susan and Henchard enter from opposite sides of the Amphi
theatre:
They met in the middle of the arena, Neither spoke
just at first— there was no necessity for speech— and
the poor woman leant against Henchard, who supported
her in his arms.
'I don't drink,' he said in a low, halting, apologetic
voice. 'You hear, Susan?— I don't drink now— I haven't
since that night.' (p. 83)
For a man of Henchard' s pride, his "low, halting, apologeticp
voice" is a rare betrayal of emotion, suggested with an
economy of narration. In the ensuing dialogue Henchard
controls his irritation at Susan's simplicity and meekness,
the qualities in her which had annoyed him in the past. As
they part for the evening he attempts to modify his
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63
peremptory manner. She insists upon going back to her lodg
ings alone :
'Rightj ' said Henchard. 'But just one word. Do you
forgive me, Susan?'
She murmured something; but seemed to find it difficult
to frame her answer.
'Never mind— all in good time,' said he. (pp. 85-86)
The entire scene gives no direct access to Henchard's
inner thoughts. Only the two statements at the beginning
and the end of the dialogue— "'I don't drink, now,'" and
"'Do you forgive me, Susan?'"— reveal the depth of his
regret for his past actions. How does he feel when Susan
cannot "frame her answer" of forgiveness? The reader is not
told. The objectivity of the scene renders it all the more
moving at this point in the novel. A sustained view of
lenchard's mind would add nothing to his stature. The read
er knows that Henchard must regret the return of Susan, but
sharing his thoughts would create less sympathy for him than
this detached view of the courage with which he meets an unH
expected situation. The withholding of extended inside
views in this portion of the novel supports the vision of
Henchard as a lonely figure, isolated by his own obstinate
mature from the warmth and affection of his fellow
breatures.
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64
Chapter 16: First Sustained Inside View
In Chapter 16 the distance maintained between the
narrator and the central character in the first third of the
novel is temporarily altered. Almost the entire chapter is
from Henchard's point of view^ giving the reader the first
sustained insight into Henchard's thoughts and feelings.
The chapter is pivotal in the events of the narrative, re
counting Henchard's open break with Donald Farfrae which
leads to the subsequent decline of his fortunes. It is also
pivotal in the pattern of point of view in the novel, mark
ing a point at which the reader's sympathy is engaged by a
closer view of the events as they appear to Henchard rather
than to a detached observer.
At the opening of the chapter Henchard's affairs seem
to have arrived at a time of equilibrium. His already
thriving corn and hay business has become even more prosper
ous with the help of the efficient and genial young Farfrae.
Henchard has dutifully married Susan and provided a home foi
Elizabeth-Jane. He has successfully disposed of Lucetta by
sending her a sum of money and informing her of the unex
pected return of his wife. He is still the Mayor of Caster
bridge, outwardly respected by the townsfolk. But content
ment is not to be looked for in Henchard's restless and
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65
incertain nature. A series of minor incidents has shown him
that both customers and workmen prefer Farfrae's mild and
pleasant manner to Henchard's unpolished severity, and he
begins to feel a violent resentment of Farfrae's popularity
Slow, in celebration of a national event, Farfrae proposes a
local entertainment, and Henchard, instead of cooperating
)fith him, is propelled by his own compulsive jealousy to try
to compete:
When his manager had gone about the business Henchard
was fired with emulation. It had certainly been very
remiss of him, as Mayor, he thought, to call no meeting
ere this, to discuss what should be done on this holiday.
But Farfrae had been so cursed quick in his movements
as to give old-fashioned people in authority no chance
of the initiative. However, it was not too late; and on
second thoughts he determined to take on his own shoul
ders the responsibility of organizing some amusements. .
So Henchard set about his preparations for a really
brilliant thing— such as should be worthy of the venerable
town. As for Farfrae's little affair, Henchard nearly
forgot it; except once now and then when, on it coming
into his mind, he said to himself, 'Charge admission at
so much a head— just like a Scotchman]—-who is going to
pay anything a head?' The diversions which the Mayor
intended to provide were to be entirely free.
He had grown so dependent upon Donald that he could
scarcely resist calling him in to consult. But by sheer
self-coercion he refrained. No, he thought, Farfrae
would be suggesting such improvements in his damned
luminous way that in spite of himself he, Henchard,
would sink to the position of second fiddle, and only
scrape harmonies to his manager's talents. (pp. 117-118}
The voice here is not simply that of the omniscient
narrator. The material is expressed in Henchard's own
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66
terms, following his thoughts through both direct and in-
iirect quotation. In the phrase "Farfrae had been so cursed
guick in his movements . . ." the word "cursed" clearly
places the phrase as a record of Henchard's thoughts. The
narrator might have said that "Farfrae had been quick in his
movements," but "cursed" establishes at once that the angle
of vision is Henchard's. The reader now begins to see the
admirable Donald as Henchard sees him, as a representative
of the new ways against the old. Farfrae had been so
"cursed quick" that "old-fashioned people" had no chance
of the initiative. Farfrae is young and intelligent, with
capabilities Henchard values. He first caught Henchard's
attention with his formula for restoring bad wheat to usablei
condition. His cleverness in keeping books has brought
order to Henchard's business records, although Henchard was
"not without a dash of pity for the tastes of any one who
could care to give his mind to such finnikin details"
(p. 87). He classes himself with the "old-fashioned" peopl^
who feel an instinctive resistance to changing ways.
In the second paragraph of the passage quoted above
Henchard plans "a really brilliant thing— such as would be
worthy of the venerable town." Farfrae, Henchard's thought^
i
{imply, is a newcomer, a young upstart who does not
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67
appreciate^ as Henchard does^ the traditions of the "vener
able town." In his rash self-confidence Henchard believes
bhat he has nearly forgotten "Farfrae's little affair^"
except to feel scorn for the Scotchman's plan to charge
admission in contrast to his own generosity in providing
entertainment "entirely free." But in the third paragraph
of the passage the reader senses the self-deception behind
Henchard's bravado. "He had grown so dependent upon Donald
that he could scarcely resist calling him in to consult."
Now dramatic irony shows the fallacy in Henchard's thinking.
Both author and reader know that Henchard has not really
"forgotten" Farfrae's plans^ for he dares not risk getting
those "damned luminous" suggestions which would remind him
of Farfrae's superiority. The reader senses Henchard's
frustration at Donald's unfailing efficiency. Judgment dic-j-
tates that Henchard is merely vain and obstinate, but the
participation in Henchard's point of view here tends to en
gender sympathy.
As plans for the celebration go forward, the point of
view continues to be Henchard's. He is confident that his
own arrangements for the entertainment are superior to
îFarfrae's. And when the day arrives and the rain begins to
i
fall, the reader shares with him his bitter disappointment
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68
at the failure of his project. The people, he learns, have
all gone to the pavilion which Farfrae had had the foresight
to enclose in case of bad weather. The reader travels with
Henchard to the pavilion, feels his jealousy flare at seeing
Donald's popularity with the dancers, and overhears with him
the remarks of two unidentified townspeople:
'Mr. Henchard's rejoicings couldn't say good morning
to this,' said one. 'A man must be a headstrong stunpoll
to think folk would go up to that bleak place to-day.'
The other answered that people said it was not only
in such things as those that the Mayor was wanting.
'Where would his business be if it were not for this
young fellow? 'Twas verily Fortune sent him to Henchard.
His accounts were like a bramblewood when Mr. Farfrae
came. He used to reckon his sacks by chalk strokes all
in a row like garden-palings, measure' his ricks by
stretching with his arms, weigh his trusses by a lift,
judge his hay by a chaw, and settle the price with a
curse. But now this accomplished young man does it all
by ciphering and mensuration. Then the wheat— that some
times used to taste so strong o' mice when made into
bread that people could fairly tell the breed— Farfrae
has a plan for purifying, so that nobody would dream the
smallest four-legged beast had walked over it once.
O yes, everybody is full of him, and the care Mr. Hencharc^
has to keep him, to be sure!' concluded this gentleman.
'But he won't do it for long, good-now,' said the
other.
'No!' said Henchard to himself behind the tree. 'Or
if he do, he'll be honeycombed clean out of all the
character and standing that he's built up in these
eighteen year!' (p. 122)
The angle of vision here is entirely Henchard's. The read
er is standing with him "behind the tree," hearing the word^
spoken as he hears them. Since in this chapter the reader
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69
las travelled with Henchard through the whole experience of
the failure of his plans for the celebration, the foundation
is laid for a close identification now with his feelings on
learning that people are openly discussing his dependence
upon Farfrae's talents. The reader shares his humiliation
at losing eighteen years' "character and standing" to a
newcomer like Farfrae. This effect is supported in the
passage by Hardy's unique gift for the series of concrete
details which accomplish more than any amount of summary
narration. There is an irresistible appeal in the man who
would "reckon his sacks by chalk strokes" or "measure his
ricks by stretching with his arms." The rough, large integ
rity of the old methods of Henchard makes Farfrae's "modern*
methods of proper measurement seem somehow petty and dull.
Yet this effect is conveyed only by implication. The speak
er is himself expressing admiration for Farfrae's abilities,
but the reader, hearing the remarks as Henchard hears them,
is inclined to share his view of them.
Henchard's growing antagonism toward Farfrae finally
breaks into open rejection at the gibes of other townsfolk.
Henchard can never refrain from making a rash response to a
direct challenge:
. . . 'What's this, Henchard,' said Alderman Tubber,
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70
applying his thumb to the corn-factor like a cheese-
taster. 'An opposition randy to yours, eh? Jack's
as good as his master, eh? Cut ye out quite, hasn't
he? '
'You see, Mr. Henchard,' said the lawyer, another
good-natured friend, 'where you made the mistake was
in going so far afield. You should have taken a leaf out
of his book, and have had your sports in a sheltered
place like this. But you didn't think of it, you see;
and he did, and that's where he's beat you.'
'He'll be top-sawyer soon of you two, and carry all
afore him,' added jocular Mr. Tubber.
'No,' said Henchard gloomily. 'He won't be that,
because he's shortly going to leave me.' He looked
towards Donald, who had again come near. 'Mr. Farfrae's
time as my manager is drawing to a close— isn't it,
Farfrae?' (p. 123)
The only suggestion of the narrator's voice here is the milcl
irony in the adjectives "good-natured" for the lawyer and
"jocular" for Mr. Tubber. The gibes at Henchard are spoken
not so much from malice as from careless insensitivity, but
there is no doubt that they are lacerating to Henchard's
pride. His quick anger rises at the suggestion that Farfra^
will soon be "top-sawyer," causing him to publicly announce
his dismissal. Later, of course, he regrets his impulsive
action. When "his jealous temper had passed away, his heart
sank within him at what he had said and done" (p. 124). The
recurring pattern in Henchard's nature of rash action
followed by regret is by now familiar enough to the reader
A part of the sympathy felt for Henchard in the novel ariseè
from a growing sense of compassion for a man whose very
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71
nature is so constituted. Once the reader begins to feel
that, imperfect as he is, Henchard cannot quite help him
self, a long step has been taken toward the reader's will
ingness to withhold condemnation of the central character.
I believe that the shift in point of view from relative de
tachment in the first third of the novel to the long, sus
tained inside view of Henchard's mind in Chapter 15 oper
ates significantly to shift the balance of sympathy in
Henchard's favor.
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72
PART II. CHAPTERS 17-45: CLOSING THE DISTANCE
The movement in the last two-thirds of the novel is
boward a gradual building up of emotional intensity so that
bhe reader is prepared to view Henchard's death as a tragic
conclusion to his lonely and isolated life. Inside views of
Henchard's mind are not only more frequent but sometimes
leepër and less superficial than the entries in the earlier
part of the novel. Until Chapters 40 through 44,however,
the views are never as extensive as those of the central
characters in Hardy's other major fiction.
At the same time that the distance closes through in
creasing identification with Henchard, Hardy avoids senti
mentality by plainly assigning the moral responsibility for
Henchard's decline to the faults of the hero's own charac
ter. In the much debated question of causality in Hardy's
fiction— are the characters mere "puppets in the hand of
Fate?"^^— a close examination of the text shows that in
Hayor the weight of judgment falls upon character rather
than upon fate. Both Henchard's comments upon himself, and
the author's comments upon him, reveal a frank recognition
^^David Cecil, Hardy the Novelist: An Essay in
Criticism (London, 1943), p. 27.
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73
of his culpability. Ultimately this judgment acts more
favorably upon the reader's sympathy than would the apolo
getics of presenting Henchard as a victim of destiny.
There is thus a counterpoint in the development of dis
tance in the novel: the emotional intensity generated by
the increasing use of Henchard's point of view is balanced
by the detachment of the rhetoric which places responsibil
ity upon character rather than upon fate. I should like novjr
to trace in turn these two patterns of distance, beginning
with the question of "character vs. fate."
Character vs. Fate
Critical opinion is divided on the issue of the role
played by fate or destiny in The Mayor of Casterbridge, as
a few examples will show. Among Hardy critics, David
Cecil represents those who strongly emphasize the action of
fate :
Henchard . . . seems, on the face of it, faulty enough—
violent, vindictive, and uncontrolled. From that first
chapter in which he sells his wife at the Fair, until
the end of the story, when he deliberately conceals from
Elizabeth-Jane the news of her father's arrival, lest
she should wish to leave him, he acts in such a way as
to justify an old-fashioned orthodox moralist in con
demning him as the architect of his own misfortunes.
But Hardy does not look at him in this way. Henchard,
as he sees him, is a pathetic figure, born with an
unfortunate disposition but genuinely longing to do
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74
rightj tortured by remorse when he does wrong^ and
always defeated by some unlucky stroke of Fate. (p. 27)
Henchard is indeed "born with an unfortunate disposition"
and "tortured by remorse," as we have already seen, but to
conclude that Hardy regards Henchard as "always defeated by
some unlucky stroke of Fate" is to sidestep the central
question of moral responsibility in the novel. Certainly
Henchard does not live in a world in which Fortune smiles or
good luck comes his way; but the evidence of the text con
tradicts Cecil's statement that Hardy sees Henchard largely
as a victim of Fate.
The middle ground of the issue of character vs. fate
is represented by Harvey Curtis Webster, who recognizes the
causality of both character and fate in Mayor. He suggests
that "Henchard's impulsiveness sometimes seems the primary
cause for the disasters that overtake him"; yet Henchard
lives in a "Chance-ridden universe" in which all the "forcesi
11
of Fate are combined against him." It is Henchard's
struggle against these forces which gives him his tragic
stature:
We may be struck by terror at his fate, but we are also
aroused to admiration by his dogged courage. We feel
^^On a Darkling Plain, p. 149.
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75
that it is an honor to belong to the same race with a
man who so courageously resists an implacable and
sinister Fate. (p. 150)
ffebster concedes some of the faults in Henchard's nature,
but like Cecil he sees the operation of an "implacable and
sinister Fate." Actually it is Henchard's struggle against
his own nature, rather than his struggle against fate, which
"gives him tragic stature."
The predominance of the action of character over fate,
at the far end of the spectrum from Cecil's view, is ex
pressed by Samuel Chew, who sees the key to Henchard's
character as the conflict of "reason and impulse":
The tragedy of Henchard's life does not lie in combina
tions of external circumstances, though they play their
part. . . . He carries his fate with him and had opposi
tion arisen it would have worked itself out in much the
T2
same manner elsewhere as in Casterbridge.
Chew's interpretation is more accurate, I believe, than
either of the others. When he recognizes that Henchard
"carries his fate with him" he is approximating Hardy's
view of Henchard's ultimate responsibility, a view in which
Henchard himself concurs.
Albert Guerard carries further the emphasis on the
causality of character rather than fate by pointing out the
12
Thomas Hardy; Poet and Novelist (New York, 1928),
pp. 46-47.
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r ..■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ' “ ■ ■ ...... '..... . " 76
psychological implications of Henchard's self-destructive
impulses:
. . . Hardy recognized, intuitively at least, that the
guilty may also punish themselves unconsciously and
cause their own 'bad luck.' The man who repeatedly
cuts and burns himself is no mere victim of absurd mis
chance; he is compelled to cut and burn himself, though
he may not understand his compulsion. Freud has docu
mented the hidden psychology of errors. . . .
Henchard is such a man, for whom everything 'goes^^
wrong' once he has begun to struggle with his guilt.
Guerard is careful here to suggest that Hardy's recognition
of psychological principles was "intuitive," not derived
from a knowledge of Freudian psychology; and that Freud him
self merely "documented" certain kinds of behavior which
have always been observable in human nature. Within these
limits psychological criticism like that in the passage
above can be useful and illuminating. Guerard's view of
the self-destructive impulse in Henchard's nature is closer
to the truth than Cecil's picture of a man "always defeated
by some unlucky stroke of Fate." However, it borders upon
apologetics— that feeling on the part of the reader, as I
suggested earlier, which makes him feel that Henchard is nolf:
really to blame because he cannot quite help himself. The
distinction I wish to make is that neither Hardy-as-author
13
Thomas Hardy (New York, 1964), p. 150.
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77
:ior Henchard-as-character hesitates to place the hlame upon
character in preference to fate^ although Henchard sometimes
indulges in vague thoughts that he is somehow the victim of
svil spirits^ until his common sense forces him to recognize
reality.
Hardy would seem to have settled the question by his
often quoted explicit statement in Mayor that "Character is
Fate," but the context of the statement makes it seem to be
more conjecture than assertion. The narrator is reporting
that Farfrae's rival business is thriving:
. . . Whether it were that his northern energy was an
Over-mastering force among the easy-going Wessex
worthies, or whether it was sheer luck, the fact re
mained that whatever he touched he prospered in. . . .
But most probably luck had little to do with it.
Character is Fate, said Novalis, and Farfrae's
character was just the reverse of Henchard's. . . .
The voice of the narrator here has the contemplative tone
so characteristic in Hardy's fiction. Full commitment is
withheld— whether it were "northern energy" or "sheer luck"
is not certain, but "most probably luck had little to do
with it." The key phrase, "Character is Fate," is presentee[
as a quotation from a German poet rather than as a positive
assertion in the author's voice. Certainly the weight of
^‘ ^Mayor, p. 131. "Novalis" is the pen name of the
Prussian romantic poet,Friedrich von Hardenberg (1772-1801)
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p
78
judgment seems to accord with the statement^ but for a
fuller substantiation of the argument we need to look close
ly at those incidents in the novel in which chance or coin
cidence appears to affect the outcome of events.
On two occasions in the novel the unexpected fall of
rain adversely affects Henchard's fortunes. Rainfall would
certainly appear to be a force beyond his control; yet the
circumstances in each case are more positively the result of
enchard's character than of the rain itself. In the first
instance, the rain which spoils his plans for the celebra
tion results, as we have already seen, in Henchard*s open
break with Farfrae. Not only has Henchard's character
failed him in the superficial matter of not providing against
the possibility of rain, as Farfrae had had the foresight tc
do; more important is his failure to control his irrational
jealousy of Farfrae. It is plain that his resentment is
ready to ignite at any provocation. If the rain had not
come, another incident would inevitably have arisen to toucli
off his anger. As Samuel Chew suggested, Henchard "carries
his fate with him." The second occasion involving rainfall
is the incident in which rain spoils the harvest, leaving
Henchard facing financial disaster. At first he had specu
lated on the possibility of rain as predicted by the
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79
/feather-prophet; then he had panicked and sold at a loss^ so
that when the rain did come after all it was too late for
tiim to recover.
If Henchard had only waited long enough he might at
least have avoided loss though he had not made a profit.
But the momentum of his character knew no patience. At
this turn of the scales lie remained silent. The move
ments of his mind seemed to tend to the thought that
some power was working against him. (pp. 218-219)
It is important to distinguish here between the "reliable"
information in the narrator's voice and the "unreliable" be-
15
liefs of Henchard. The narrator tells us that "the momen
tum of his character knew no patience^" a direct statement
of judgment^ placing the responsibility for the disaster
upon Henchard's rashness. However^ it "seems" to Henchard
that "some power was working against him." His somewhat
superstitious nature causes him to feel a vague uneasiness
that he is the victim of misfortune, but this is clearly de
nied in the passage above by the reliable comment in the
author's voice.
15
The distinction between "reliable" and "unreliable"
narration is one of the most valuable of Wayne Booth's con
tributions to the critical vocabulary for the discussion of
fiction. He defines the terms as follows; "For lack of
better terms, I have called a narrator reliable when he
speaks for or acts in accordance with the norms of the work
(which is to say, the implied author's norms), unreliable
when he does not(Rhetoric of Fiction, pp. 158-159) .
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80
Another incident in the novel in which fate or coin
cidence appears to control the action is the scene in which
Henchard at last reveals to Elizabeth-Jane that he is her
real father, only to discover immediately afterward the
letter from Susan disclosing that Elizabeth is in fact the
daughter of the sailor Newson. This may seem at first
glance to be one of those artificial manipulations of plot
which some contemporaries regard as the blight of nineteentl
century fiction. But Hardy carefully develops the whole in
cident in terms of Henchard's character. In the paragraph
following his reading of Susan's letter, the point of view
moves on three levels: objective use of concrete detail,
then a generalization, and finally an entry into Henchard's
mind. He looks at the letter
as if it were a window-pane through which he saw for
miles. His lip twitched, and he seemed to compress his
frame, as if to bear better. His usual habit was not
to consider whether destiny were hard upon him or not—
the shape of his ideas in cases of affliction being simply
a moody 'I am to suffer, I perceive.' 'This much scourg
ing, then, is it for me?' But now through his passion
ate head there stormed this thought— that the blasting
disclosure was what he had deserved. (pp. 143-144)
Henchard's shock is conveyed with admirable economy in the
metaphor of the "window-pane through which he saw for
miles." At first the narrator only observes: his lip
I
I "twitched," and he "seemed to compress his frame. ..."
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81
Then the view moves a step closer^ through the general com
ment about his "usual habit" of enduring whatever affliction
comes to him. KTow the view moves directly into his mind^ as
he feels that the "blasting disclosure was what he had de
served." Henchard regards his own past actions with moral
condemnation. He has never for a moment excused himself for
what he considers the unequivocal wrong he committed in
"selling" his wife. Like Lord Jim he cannot escape from
the sense of his own guilt. He may indulge in occasional
fantasies about a destiny that is working against him, but
his reason tells him that his fate is "what he had de
served. "
Misery had taught him nothing more than defiant
endurance of it. His wife was dead, and the first im
pulse for revenge died with the thought that she. was
beyond him. He looked out at the night as at a fiend.
Henchard, like all his kind, was superstitious, and he
could not help thinking that the concatenation of events
this evening had produced was the scheme of some sinister
intelligence bent on punishing him. Yet they had de
veloped naturally. If he had not revealed his past
history to Elizabeth he would not have searched the
drawer for papers, and so on. The mockery was, that he
should have no sooner taught a girl to claim the shelter
of his paternity than he discovered her to have no
kinship with him. (pp. 144-145)
Henchard makes the distinction himself between his super
stitious half-belief that "some sinister intelligence" is
"bent on punishing him" and the plain fact that the
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82
circumstances "had developed naturally." In his haste to
offer Elizabeth proof of his paternity he came upon Susan's
letter; furthermore, if he had heeded the directions on the
letter— "not to be opened till Elizabeth-Jane's wedding-day"
— he could have avoided the painful knowledge until a time
when it would have been easier to accept. The circumstances
of the case are ironic, to be sure, but the cause of
Henchard's misery arises largely out of his own impulsive
nature rather than out of the machinations of a sinister
Fate. Henchard may not be altogether to blame, in the sense
that the actual circumstances of Elizabeth's birth were out
side his control; but another man, without Henchard*s fierce
pride, would not have turned against the girl, as Henchard
does after the discovery that she is not his own daughter.
Another man might well have accepted the girl's affection
as his step-daughter, as Henchard does at last after his
pride has been humbled. But at this point in the novel he
brings much of his suffering upon himself.
Perhaps the most significant incident in Mayor pertain
ing to the issue of character vs. fate is the reappearance
jof the furmity woman in the courtroom where Henchard is
'sitting as magistrate. The "coincidence" operating here hasi
been both condemned and praised. Joseph Warren Beach
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83
deplores what he regards as a series of improbabilities in
yiayor, of which this scene is a major offender. While
Henchard
is sitting in dignity to pronounce judgment upon malefac
tors ^ a wretched old woman is brought before the court
for some low offense. And who should she be, of all per
sons in the world, but a witness of Henchard's crime of
many years before, the very woman who had sold him the
drink that had made him reckless in wrongdoing? And what
should she do, in her envious hatred of worldly respecta
bilities, but denounce the judge for his own crimes?
Albert Guerard suggests that this kind of objection to lack
of plausibility in Hardy's fiction is characteristic of an
earlier generation of Hardy critics who disliked his "delib
erate anti-realism (his juxtaposition of implausible inci
dent and plausible human character) ..." (Thomas Hardy,
p. 3). Guerard believes that one of Hardy's strongest
appeals to contemporary readers is his use of "extreme con
junctions, in the best novels at least, as highly convincinc
foreshortenings of the actual and absurd world" (p. 3) .
Thus he sees the furmity woman as a part of the convention
of tragedy in which
every ghost of our past life must return to confront
us at last. . . . The furmity-woman is a real woman, but
she is also an ineradicable part of Henchard's mind.
(pp. 57-58)
16
The Technique of Thomas Hardy (University of Chicago.
1922), p. 138.
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84
Essentially these two critical views differ in their
assessment of the nature of reality in fiction. Beach's un
stated assumption, that reality is fidelity to "real" life,
is perhaps less appealing to modern readers than Guerard's
view of an illusion of reality created within the world of
the novel and not necessarily subject to the laws of ex
ternal reality. Nevertheless, whether we accept or reject
the coincidence of the return of the furmity woman is imma
terial; it is not the mere fact of her return but Henchard'si
voluntary confession of his guilt that shapes the dramatic
force of the scene and shifts the causality from "fate" to
"character." The woman recognizes Henchard and publicly
announces that he is the man who sold his wife twenty years
before in her furmity tent, but it is plain that the spec
tators in the courtroom do not believe her story:
Everybody looked at Henchard. His face seemed
strange, and in tint as if it had been powdered over
with ashes. 'We don't want to hear your life and ad
ventures, ' said the second magistrate sharply, filling
the pause which followed. 'You've been asked if you've
anything to say bearing on the case.'
'That bears on the case. It proves that he's no
better than I, and has no right to sit there in judgment
upon me.'
''Tis a concocted story,' said the clerk. 'So hold
your tongue.' '
'No— 'tis true.' The words came from Henchard.
'Tis as true as the light,' he said slowly. 'And upon
my soul it does prove that I'm no better than she.'
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' "8 5
And to keep out of any temptation to treat her hard
for her revenge^ I'll leave her to you. ' (p. 232)
lirhe second magistrate and the clerk plainly believe that the
disreputable old woman has "concocted" the story in order to
svade punishment for her own offense. Henchard could easily
lave taken advantage of this and remained silent. No one
youId have taken the old woman's word against his. Instead,
tie openly confesses that the story is true. The unquestion
ing moral judgment with which he condemns his own trans
gression causes him to state his spontaneous agreement that
tie is "no better than she," Certainly his act reflects what
Suerard describes above as his psychological need for
seIf-punishment. He feels his own sense of guilt so strong
ly that public exposure offers him the only means of expia
tion. The presentation is entirely objective in this power
ful scene. No comment by the author, no entry into Hen
chard 's mind, is needed to supplement the effect of his
17
dramatic revelation. The action itself is an authentic
17
Guerard notes Hardy's economy here: "This is, I sup
pose, the big moment of the book, and the average novelist
would give it twenty pages or more: would perhaps go into
Henchard's mind, and into the woman's, and would doubtless
describe at length the hubbub in the courtroom. Hardy gets
over the scene in four pages" (Introduction to The Mayor of
Casterbridcre [New York, 1956], pp. vii-viii) . This is the
only allusion I have found to the fact that Hardy sometimes
withholds entries into Henchard's mind. However, Guerard
does not develop the implications of this technique, as I
have attempted to do in the present study.
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86
expression of the equation that "character is fate." It is
not the "fateful" return of the furmity woman, with her dis
closure of Henchard's past^ that adds a devastating stroke
J
to his declining prestige. It is the inner compulsion of
his characterj the need to admit his own culpability, that
motivates his action.
Hardy's emphasis on the causality of character over
fate in Mayor functions in part as a means of avoiding sen
timentality in the creation of Henchard's character. If he
is simply a poor fellow who is the victim of untimely rain
fall or of fateful coincidences beyond his control, he woulc
be a pathetic rather than a tragic figure. When, on the
other hand, his own impetuous actions are objectively recog
nized as contributing to his downfall, the complexities of
his character heighten his stature. It is not his struggle
against a sinister Pate but rather his bitter struggle to
subdue his own violent and passionate nature which generate
a tragic intensity in the novel. The reliable commentary
of the author combines with Henchard's own thoughts and
actions to clarify the moral values which Hardy-as-author
wishes to establish.
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87
Increasing Identification
The detachment implied in placing moral responsibility
upon Henchard's character rather than upon fate is balanced
by the gradual increase in the reader's identification with
Henchard in the latter part of the novel. In Chapters 17
through 39, objective presentation still prevails at sig
nificant moments in the novel, moving slowly toward deeper
plunges into Henchard's consciousness. Henchard's decline
is characterized by his loss of self-esteem. Yet the au
thor's rhetoric achieves a paradoxical effect; in spite of
Henchard's often outrageous conduct, the reader does not
feel satisfaction at his downfall. His compassion for the
central character of the novel increases as Henchard's cir
cumstances decline, not out of mere pity for him but with
respect for his struggle against the exigencies of his un
ruly nature. A series of examples will illustrate how the
techniques of point of view affect the reader's judgment, as
iramatic scene and the reliable views of other characters
gradually give way to increasing inside views. Henchard's
pride is still at its height after his discovery of
]3lizabeth-Jane's paternity. The girl is bewildered by his
sudden hostility toward her. Henchard himself is only part
ly aware of the injustice of his attitude, which shows
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88
itself in a series of minor irritations. He complains of
Elizabeth's use of dialect words— "those terrible marks of
the beast to the truly genteel" (p. 148)— although his own
speech is far from cultivated. When she performs small
duties to avoid ringing for the parlour-maid, or expresses
thanks to the servants, Henchard exclaims;
'Good God, why dostn't leave off thanking that girl
as if she were a goddess-bornJ Don't I pay her a
dozen pound a year to do things for 'ee?' (p. 150)
Hardy does not comment upon Henchard's own lapses of speech,
nor upon the fact that a man who began life as a simple
hay-trusser is little more accustomed to having servants
than is Elizabeth-Jane. The presentation is objective, ex
cept for the irony of the comment above that dialect is
"the mark of the beast" to the genteel.
A moral evaluation of Henchard by Elizabeth and
Lucetta provides a partial compensation for the unfavorable
picture of him in the preceding scene. At the first meet
ing of the two young women, Lucetta learns that Elizabeth
and her father are somewhat estranged:
'Perhaps you were to blame,' suggested the stranger.
'I was— in many ways,' sighed the meek Elizabeth.
'I swept up the coals when the servants ought to
have done it; and I said I was leery;— and he was angry
with me. . . .'
'Do you know the impression your words give me?' . . .
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89
'That he is a hot-tempered man— a little proud— perhaps
ambitious; but not a bad man.' Her anxiety not to con
demn Henchard while siding with Elizabeth was curious.
'O no; certainly not bad,' agreed the honest girl.
'And he has not even been unkind to me till lately— since
mother died. But it has been very much to bear while it
has lasted.' (p. 157)
The judgment by both characters that Henchard is not a "bad"
man is significant in terms of the characters of the two
women. Lucetta's judgment may be somewhat suspect because
she is attempting at this time to be reunited with Henchard.
Although she has suffered considerably on his account, she
is still willing to concede that he is not "bad." Eliza
beth 's judgment is more important, for her view of events
within the world of the novel is always "reliable." She is
one of that group in Hardy's fiction who patiently endure
the vicissitudes of life, like Thomasin Yeobright, Gabriel
Oak, Giles Winterbourne, and Marty South. The reader does
not need the epithet "the honest girl" in the passage
above— admittedly an unnecessary Victorian intrusion— to
accept Elizabeth's evaluation of Henchard. In spite of his
irritability and unkindness to her she cannot fully condemn
him,. and her judgment helps to alleviate the reader's dis
approval.
Elizabeth's reliable judgment prevails again in the i n - j -
comparable scene at Lucetta's tea-table, where Hardy makes
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90
a rare use of ironic humor in relation to his central char
acters. The incident represents the wavering of Henchard's
pride at finding himself in an awkward situation. The point
of view shifts from Henchard's thoughts to Elizabeth-Jane as
observer:
He was well-nigh ferocious at the sense of the queer
situation in which he stood towards this woman. One
who had reproached him for deserting her when calum
niated, who had urged claims upon his consideration on
that account, who had lived waiting for him, who at the
first decent moment had come to ask him to rectify, by
making her his, the false position into which she had
placed herself for his sake; such she had been. And
now he sat at her tea-table eager to gain her attention,
and in his amatory rage feeling the other man present
to be a villain, just as any young fool of a lover
might feel.
They sat stiffly side by side at the darkening table,
like some Tuscan painting of the two disciples supping
at Emmaus. Lucetta, forming the third and haloed figure,
was opposite them; Elizabeth-Jane, being out of the game,
and out of the group, could observe all from afar, like
the evangelist who had to write it down. . . .
'More bread-and-butter?' said Lucetta to Henchard and
Farfrae equally, holding out between them a plateful of
long slices. Henchard took a slice by one end and
Donald by the other; each feeling certain he was the
man meant; neither let go, and the slice came in two. . .
'How ridiculous of all three of themJ' said Elizabeth
to herself. (pp. 208-209)
The first paragraph reveals Henchard's sense of loss of self
respect at being in a humiliating position. He is "fero
cious" in his "amatory rage," not so much because of affec-
i
tion for Lucetta as at being made to feel like a "young
Eool of a lover." It is characteristic of Henchard to
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91
regard love as a weakness, and his sensitive pride cannot
bear the presence of a rival. In the second paragraph of
the passage the ironic humor of the analogy of the scene to
a religious painting emphasizes the absurdity of the situa
tion, with its allusions to the "disciples," the "haloed"
Lucetta, the "evangelist," and even the breaking of the
bread. Finally, Elizabeth's judgment that all three actors
in the little drama are "ridiculous" acts again as reliable
commentary, in which the reader sees the implication that
Henchard is somehow, despite his many faults, too large a
person to engage in tea-table trivia. This is developed by
the narrator's comment that "to Elizabeth-Jane it was plain
as the town-pump that Donald and Lucetta were incipient
lovers," but "Henchard was constructed upon too large a
scale to discern such minutiae as these by an evening light,
which to him were as the notes of an insect that lie above
the compass of the human ear" (p. 209).
The gradual loss of Henchard's pride is reflected in
the circumstances surrounding his financial failure. Hardy
first suggests this in a passage of concise detail narrated
with fine economy:
He now gazed more at the pavements and less at the
house-fronts when he walked about; more at the feet and
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92
leggings of men^ and less into the pupils of their eyes
with the blazing regard which formerly had made them
blink. (pp. 251-252)
But Henchard still reasserts his self-respect. When the
creditors meet to divide his assets, they refuse his offer
to give them his gold watch. One says, "'We don't want
that. 'Tis honourable in ye; but keep it. What do you say,
neighbors— do ye agree?'" (p. 253) Henchard's reaction ex
hibits a rare display of emotion:
Henchard was more affected by this than he cared to
let them perceive, and he turned aside to the window
again. A general murmur of agreement followed the
Commissioner's words; and the meeting dispersed. When
they were gone Henchard regarded the watch they had
returned to him. ''Tisn't mine by rights,' he said to
himself. 'Why the devil didn't they take it?— I don't
want what don't belong to me!' Moved by a recollection
he took the watch to the maker's just opposite, sold
it there and then for what the tradesman offered, and
went with the proceeds to one among the smaller of his
creditors, a cottager of Durnover in straitened circum
stances, to whom he handed the money. (pp. 253-254)
Henchard's action itself is an inherent expression of his
integrity and as such acts favorably upon the reader's
judgment. More important, however, is the emotional effect
of the statement that he was "more affected by this than he
cared to let them perceive. ..." For characters like
Tess and Jude, who almost continuously engage the emotional
identification of the reader, such a comment would go un
noticed. But for Henchard to feel deeply moved by an act
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93
of kindness is so rare that it reaches a level of sympathy
not yet explored in the development of the narrative.
As Henchard feels the gradual loss of his pride and
self-respect, his attitude becomes defiant. The incident of
the visit of a "Royal person" to Casterbridge epitomizes
Henchard's state of mind at this point. The self-destructive
impulses noted by Guerard become increasingly evident. First
he asks the town CounciImen if he may participate in the
official welcome. Since he is no longer a member of the
Council, and his place as Mayor has been taken by Donald
Farfrae, he knows quite well that the request will be re
fused. He is deliberately courting rebuke. His defiance i^
symbolized not only by his actions but by his clothing.
He comes before the Council "in clothes of frayed and threat^
bare shabbiness, the very clothes which he had used to
wear in the primal days when he had sat among them"
(p. 303). Even on the day when the royal carriage passes
through the town and the townspeople are dressed in their
best apparel, "Henchard had doggedly retained the fretted
and weather-beaten garments of bygone years" (p. 306) . His
futile and absurd gesture of welcome to Royalty (fortified
by drink now that the term of his oath has expired) is one
of the memorable moments of the novel;
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94
There were a few clear yards in front of the Royal
carriage, sanded] and into this space a man stepped
before any one could prevent him. It was Henchard,
He had unrolled his private flag, and removing his hat
he staggered to the side of the slowing vehicle, waving
the Union Jack to and fro with his left hand, while he
blandly held out his right to the Illustrious
Personage. . . .
Farfrae, with Mayoral authority, immediately rose
to the occasion. He seized Henchard by the shoulder,
dragged him back, and told him roughly to be off.
(pp. 306-307)
Henchard's act of defiance here has both social and personal
implications. Hardy's ironic capitalization of "Illustrious
Personage" suggests a mockery of the whole event on the part
of the narrator, supporting Henchard's flouting of conven
tion. But the social comment is merely a hint, submerged ir
the significance of the incident on the personal level.
Henchard deliberately exposes himself to public ridicule in
a desire to show defiance of his fellow townsmen] yet he is
never able to escape from the values imposed by the social
order of which he is a part. He has reached an equivocal
point between pride and humility where only absurd defiance
can give him the momentary illusion that he is still an
individual to be reckoned with.
The point of view in the foregoing scene shifts to
various characters: Elizabeth-Jane observes the incident
with concern for Henchard] Lucetta watches with smug satis-
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95
I
faction that her husbandFarfrae^ has triumphed over
Henchardj and the "chorus" of rustics comment upon the re
versal in the fortunes of Farfrae and Henchard. But a view
of Henchard's own reaction is delayed until the beginning of
the following chapter;
After the collision with the Mayor^ Henchard had
withdrawn behind the ladies' stand; and there he stood,
regarding with a stare of abstraction the spot on the
1appel [sic] of his coat where Farfrae's hand had
seized it. He put his own hand there, as if he could
hardly realize such an outrage from one whom it had
once been his wont to treat with ardent generosity.
(p. 310)
Again Hardy's use of concrete detail operates more strongly
upon the reader's sympathy than a long passage of summary
narration would do. All of Henchard's accumulated resent
ment of Farfrae, who now possesses Henchard's business, his
lome, even the woman who would have been his wife, is fo
cused in that single moment when he stares at the lapel of
tiis coat where Farfrae has touched it. The distance between
narrator and hero is closing. There is no longer the de-
bachment of the earlier portions of the novel, where approv
al and condemnation of Henchard alternated. The reader now
feels the full force of identification with Henchard as he
stares at the lapel of his coat and suffers the humiliation
of Farfrae's superiority.
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96
Henchard's hatred of Farfrae culminates in his physical
attack upon him in the grain loft, in a scene of emotional
intensity which marks the breaking point in Henchard's
self-esteem. With his characteristic sense of rude justice
Henchard fights with one arm bound to his side to compensate
for his greater size and strength. He nevertheless manages
to win the advantage, holding Farfrae at the edge of the
opening of the loft:
'NOW,' said Henchard between his gasps, 'this is the
end of what you began this morning. Your life is in
my hands.'
'Then take it, take it.'' said Farfrae. 'Ye've
wished to long enough.' '
Henchard looked down upon him in silence, and their
eyes met. 'O Farfrae.'— that's not trueJ ' he said
bitterly. 'God is my witness that no man ever loved
another as I did thee at one time.... And now—
though I came here to kill 'ee, I cannot hurt thee I Go
and give me in charge— do what you will— I care nothing
for what comes of me. ' '
He withdrew to the back part of the loft, loosened
his arm, and flung himself into a corner upon some
sacks, in the abandonment of remorse. Farfrae regarded
him in silence; then went to the hatch and descended
through it. Henchard would fain have recalled him;
but his tongue failed in its task, and the young man's
step died on his ear.
Henchard took his full measure of shame and
self-reproach. The scenes of his first acquaintance
with Farfrae rushed back upon him— that time when the
curious mixture of romance and thrift in the young man's
composition so commanded his heart that Farfrae could
play upon him as on an instrument. So thoroughly sub
dued was he that he remained on the sacks in a crouching
attitude, unusual for a man, and for such a man. Its
womanliness sat tragically on the figure of so stern a
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■ ' " '97
piece of virility. He heard a conversation below, the
opening of the coach-house door, and the putting in of
a horse, but took ho notice.
Here he stayed till the thin shades thickened to
opaque obscurity, and the loft-door became an oblong
of gray light— the only visible shape around. At
length he arose, shook the dust from his clothes wearily,
felt his way to the hatch, and gropingly descended his
way to. the steps till he stood in the yard. (pp. 315-315)
Although I have quoted the climax of the scene at some
length no excerpt can give the full effect of the passage in
the total context of the narrative, Henchard has acted
rashly before and regretted his actions, but this time his
spirit is completely broken. He feels the "full measure of
shame and self-reproach" as he crouches on the sacks in a
18
"womanly" posture. It is "tragic" in a man of such "stern
virility, " the passage tells us, because it is a representa-
hion of what the Victorians popularly regarded as the weaker
sex. It is also associated with Henchard's own tendency to
relate love to weakness, whether love of a mistress, a
friend, or a daughter. When he recalls the "scenes of his
first acquaintance with Farfrae," when the younger man could
18
Contemporary readers might see what seem to be homo
sexual implications in this scene, but I believe that such a
^iew is inconsistent both with the character of Henchard and
vith nineteenth century conventions. This was an age in
which men could express "love" for another man without the
inevitable suspicions of the post-Freudian era. The woman
liness of Henchard's posture here is for Hardy a symbol of
weakness.
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98
"play upon him as upon an instrument^" he is moving toward a
painful recognition of his own need for human affection.
The impact of the incident upon Henchard is the realization
that he has almost killed a human being for whom he once
felt a deep affection and who would have continued to return
that affection if Henchard had not rejected him. For the
reader the scene represents a full and unhesitating exposure
of Henchard's deepest feelings. The narrator withholds
nothing in his penetration of Henchard's consciousness.
Chapters 40-44; Extended Inside View
Most of the narrative in Chapters 40 through 44 is
transmitted from Henchard's point of view. This long and
sustained inside view illustrates both the advantages and
the pitfalls of this mode of presentation in Mayor. The
incident of the return of Newson exhibits briefly an un
favorable picture of Henchard, Except for this lapse in
controlj however, the technique of the inside view is used
effectively to close the distance and secure the reader's
full identification with the protagonist.
At this point in the novel Henchard's decline from the
pride of his former days to stubborn defiance and finally
to humility is now complete. Just as he is willing at last
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99
to accept Elizabeth's affaction^ the unexpected return of
Newson threatens to take away his last hope of security.
His hasty lie to Newson that Elizabeth is dead^ and Newson's
unquestioning acceptance of Henchard's word, have been fre
quently deplored as unconvincing. There is little doubt
that Hardy's artistry falters here more markedly than at
any other point in the novel. This is particularly true, I
believe, because the entries into Henchard's mind reveal his
attempts to rationalize his actions. Hardy's use of inside
views is ineffective here because he permits Henchard to ex
press the kind of excuses and self-pity which were wisely
withheld earlier in the novel. For example, when Newson
leaves,
. . . Henchard, scarcely believing the evidence of his
senses, rose from his seat amazed at what he had done.
It had been the impulse of a moment. The regard he had
lately acquired for Elizabeth, the new-sprung hope of
his loneliness that she would be to him a daughter of
whom he could feel as proud as of the actual daughter
she still believed herself to be, had been stimulated
by the unexpected coming of Newson to a greedy exclusive
ness in relation to her; so that the sudden prospect of
her loss had caused him to speak mad lies like a child,
in pure mockery of consequences. (p. 338)
There is nothing new about Henchard acting on "the impulse
of a moment," or in "pure mockery of consequences." Even
telling "mad lies like a child" might be overlooked if, in
[his usual fashion, he at once regretted his action. Instead
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100
le continues to seek excuses for his behavior^ as revealed
through the transmission of his thoughts;
His [Newson's] griefI— what was it, after all, to
that which he, Henchard, would feel at the loss of her?
Newson's affection, cooled by years, could not equal
his who had been constantly in her presence. And thus
his jealous soul speciously argued to excuse the separa
tion of father and child. (p. 339)
In the last sentence the narrator enters to comment upon
Henchard's thoughts, making a clear value judgment in the
adverb "speciously" to describe Henchard's arguments.
By revealing Henchard's rationalizations and expres
sions of self-pity. Hardy comes perilously close to losing
the reader's sympathy for his hero at this point in the
novel. The mode of narration falls briefly into the very
trap which was successfully avoided earlier in the novel,
that of permitting the kind of lengthy inside views of
Henchard's thoughts which serve only to reflect unfavorably
upon the reader's judgment.
In the remainder of this section of the novel, however
the sustained inside view of Henchard's mind is used effec
tively to increase the sympathy of the reader. As Henchard
becomes dependent upon Elizabeth-Jane's affection, he loses
all of his former haughtiness. His decline has been related
to the use of animal imagery: whereas he was once compared
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101
to a "bull breaking fence" be now behaves like a "netted
19
lion." Actually such references are too fragmentary to
be more than suggestive in Mayor. A more consistent con
trolling theme for Henchard's decline, it seems to me, is
that of weakness. We have already seen Henchard's "womanly
posture" after the fight with Farfrae as a representation of
what Henchard regards as weakness. This theme recurs
throughout his relationship with Elizabeth in the closing
chapters of the novel. When she falls asleep in the adjoin
ing room, he
had set the breakfast in readiness; but finding that she
dozed he would not call her; he waited on, looking into
the fire and keeping the kettle boiling with house-wifely
care, as if it were an honour to have her in his house,
(pp. 334-335)
Again the feminine image, this time "with house-wifely
care," emphasizes the weakness of his position now in con
trast with the days when he contemptuously criticized her
dialect words and her meekness with the servants. For her
sake he has "fettered his pride," for "the sympathy of the
girl seemed necessary to his very existence; and on her
account pride itself wore the garments of humility" (p.347).
The contrast between Henchard's view of his own
19
John Holloway, "Hardy's Major Fiction," in Hardy; A
Collection of Critical Essays, p. 59.
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102
weakness and the moral judgment of the reader is suggested
by a brief entry of the author's voice:
. . . the dependence upon Elizabeth's regard into which
he had declined (or, in another sense, to which he had
advanced)— denaturalized him. He would often weigh and
consider for hours together the meaning of such and such
a deed or phrase of hers, when a blunt settling question
would formerly have been his first instinct. (p. 351)
Henchard believes that he has "declined" because of his
affection for Elizabeth, a view which is consistent with
his change from "blunt questioning" to the timidity (as it
seems to him) of weighing and considering "a deed or phrase
of hers." But the voice of the narrator suggests the alter
native that his dependence upon her is an "advance" rather
than a "decline." Humanity in general, the authorial com
ment implies, would not share Henchard's view that depen
dence upon another human being for affection is necessarily
a weakness. When Elizabeth plans to marry Farfrae, Henchard
pictures himself with anguish as
an inoffensive old man, tenderly smiled on by Elizabeth,
and good-naturedly tolerated by her husband. It was
terrible to his pride to think of descending so low;
and yet, for the girl's sake he might put up with any
thing; even from Farfrae; . . . The privilege of being
in the house she occupied would almost outweigh the
personal humiliation. (p. 357)
To Henchard, such weakness and loss of pride are unbearable,
ibut to the reader his whole relationship to Elizabeth at
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103
this time represents the final acknowledgement of a rebelli
ous and reluctant spirit that human warmth is a necessary
part of existence. Henchard has never been able to love
before. Susan was too meek to arouse his admiration. He
was intensely fond of Donald Farfrae so long as Donald re
mained a protégéj but his jealousy of Donald's talents drove
them apart. He was attracted to Lucetta, but he only
"wanted" her when she no longer wanted him. He began by
rejecting Elizabeth too, but her quiet devotion finally
reached through his intense and self-inflicted loneliness.
The fact that in loving Elizabeth he has at last been able
bo feel genuine affection for another human being lays the
foundation for the reader's emotional identification with
Henchard's defeat when the return of Newson forces him to
leave Casterbridge:
'If I had only got her with me— if I only had.' ' he
said. 'Hard work would be nothing to me then.' But that
was not to be. I— Cain— go alone as X deserve— an out
cast and a vagabond. But my punishment is not greater
than I can bear.' ' (p. 361)
STOW the reader does not feel the mild exasperation which
Henchard's earlier rationalizations produced. The tone here
is that of genuine suffering, faced with courage.
The point of view shifts briefly to record the reunion
Df Elizabeth-Jane with Newson, a scene that invites a kind
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104
of sentimentality which Hardy neatly avoids. The goodna-
bured Newson does not share Elizabeth's indignation at
]îenchard's lie of the previous year:
Newsonj like a good many rovers and sojourners among
strange men and strange moralities, failed to perceive
the enormity of Henchard's crime, notwithstanding that
he himself had been the chief sufferer therefrom.
Indeed, the attack upon the absent culprit waxing serious,
he began to take Henchard's part.
'Well, 'twas not ten words that he said, after all,'
Newson pleaded. 'And how could he know that I should
be such a simpleton as to believe him? 'Twas as much
my fault as his, poor fellow!' (pp. 354-365)
The voice of the narrator unmistakably expresses moral
judgment in the phrase, "the enormity of Henchard's crime."
Newson may think, in his tolerant way, that Henchard, "poor
fellow, " could be pitied or excused. But the direct commen
tary supports Henchard's own judgment that his act was
morally reprehensible. The reliable voice of the narrator
reinforces the norms of the world of the novel.
The point of view returns to Henchard's consciousness
in Chapter 44, the last of the five chapters preceding the
final chapter of the novel. Hardy makes a brilliant use of
spatial development in this chapter to link Henchard's deep
sense of isolation to the total pattern of the novel. The
reader moves not only through Henchard's mind but travels
yfith him as he shoulders his rush-basket and walks away from
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105
a s terbr idge. The movement at the beginning of the novel,
from the fair at Weydon Priors to the town of Casterbridge
as the center of activity, is now reversed. Henchard re
turns to Weydon Priors and to the empty hill where the fair
had been held so many years before:
'Yes, we came up that way,’ he said, after ascertain
ing his bearings. 'She was carrying the baby, and I
was reading a ballet-sheet. Then we crossed about here—
she so sad and weary, and I speaking to her hardly at
all, because of my cursed pride and mortification at
being poor. Then we saw the tent— that must have stood
more this way.' He walked to another spot; it was not
really where the tent had stood but it seemed so to him.
'Here we went in, and here we sat down. I faced this
way. Then I drank, and committed my crime. It must
have been just on that very pixy-ring that she was
standing when she said her last words to me before going
off with him. . , .' (p. 367)
His remorse is unmistakable in the simplicity of his recol
lections— "Then I drank, and committed my crime." The voic^
of the narrator is tender and compassionate: "It was not
really where the tent had stood but it seemed so to him. "
This kind of authorial comment beautifully supports the
tone of the passage. It suggests that there is a "real"
world where the tent once stood, but that the reality insid^
the novel is a far more important kind of reality. It is
not where the tent "really" stood that matters, but how it
"seemed" to Henchard. Then the spatial development returns
to the image of Casterbridge as the magnetic center, around
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106
Æich Henchard revolves, at first on the periphery, then j
!
:noving finally in to the center and away again in his final !
return and departure.
He intended to go on from this place— visited as an
act of penance— into another part of the country alto
gether. But he could not help thinking of Elizabeth,
and the quarter of the horizon in which she lived. . . .
As a consequence, instead of following a straight course
yet further away from Casterbridge, Henchard gradually,
almost unconsciously, deflected from that right line of
his first intention; till, by degrees, his wandering
. . . became part of a circle of which Casterbridge
formed the center. In ascending any particular hill he
ascertained the bearings as nearly as he could by means
of the sun, moon, or stars, and settled in his mind the
exact direction in which Casterbridge and Elizabeth-Jane
lay. Sneering at himself for his weakness he yet every
hour— nay, every few minutes—-conjectured her actions
for the time being— her sitting down and rising up, her
goings and comings. . . . (p. 368)
In the spatial image of the "circle of which Caster
bridge formed the centre" Hardy has used a poetic means for
accomplishing the task of summary narration. I have pointed
out Hardy's preference in his fiction for the concrete
dramatic scene, sometimes punctuated by an expansion to a
cosmic view followed by a return to the specific moment.
Similarly, in passages where the narrative requires that a
span of time be accounted for. Hardy usually disposes of the
material as economically as possible. In the passage above
he accounts for Henchard's wanderings in the last weeks of
[his life by focusing upon the image of Casterbridge as the
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107
center of Henchard's universej expanding the image with his
bearings by the "sun^ moon, or stars." Casterbridge now
represents to Henchard not pride, not material success, but
only his love for Elizabeth. The echoing theme— "sneering
at himself for his weakness"— adumbrates his ultimate recog
nition of his desperate need for love. The reader's sym
pathy is now totally engaged, so that when Henchard returns
to Elizabeth's wedding and encounters her rejection, his re
action is invested with tragic dignity;
Henchard's lips half parted to begin an explanation.
But he shut them up like a vice, and uttered not a
sound. How should he, there and then, set before her
with any effect the palliatives of his great faults. .
. . Among the many hindrances to such a pleading not
the least was this, that he did not sufficiently value
himself to lessen his sufferings by strenuous appeal
or elaborate argument.
Waiving, therefore, his privilege of self-defence,
he regarded only her discomposure. 'Don't ye distress
yourself on my account,' he said, with proud superiority.
'I would not wish it— at such a time, too, as this.
I have done wrong in coming to 'ee— I see my error. But
it is only for once, so forgive it. I'll never trouble
'ee again, Elizabeth-Jane— no, not to my dying day!
Good-night ' . Good-bye ! ' (p. 377)
All the anguish of his inarticulate nature is here ; he shut
his lips "like a vice, and uttered not a sound." Here too
is the familiar paradox of his tone of "proud superiority"
and his total self-condemnation: "he did not value himself"
sufficiently to resort to "elaborate argument." But the
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108
moral significance of the scene is rendered in the simple
statement that he regarded only her discomposure. Henchard
at last feels concern for another human being whom he values
above himself. In his ultimate humility he is not merely an
object of pity but a figure who has acquired dignity through
a final self-abnegation.
Chapter 45: Reliable Reporting
The account of the death of Henchard^ in the final
chapter of The Mayor of Casterbridge, is one of Hardy's
finest achievements in his fiction, and not the least of its
merits is the shift in point of view. The circumstances of
Henchard's death are heightened through the reliable report
ing of Abel Whittle and of Elizabeth-Jane. We have only to
imagine how this material would appear if Hardy had con
tinued to present the final scenes through Henchard's eyes^
sharing perhaps in his self-pity or his bitterness^ to see
how much more effective is the actual mode of narration.
^bel Whittle, the simple-minded laborer who was harshly
treated by Henchard earlier in the novel, now implies by his
faithfulness a moral evaluation of Henchard which transcends
tiis minor faults and elevates his stature:
'Yes, ma'am, he's gone.' He was kind-like to mother
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109
when she wer here below, sending her the best ship-coal,
and hardly any ashes from it at all; and taties, and
such-like that were very needful to her. I seed en go
down street on the night of your worshipful's wedding
to the lady at yer side, and I thought he looked low and
faltering. And I followed en over Grey's Bridge, and he
turned and zeed me, and said, "You go back!" But I
followed, and he turned again, and said, "Do you hear,
sir? Go back !" But I zeed that he was low, and I
followed on still. Then, a' said, "Whittle, what do ye
follow me for when I've told ye to go back all these
times?" And I said, "Because, sire, I see things be bad
with 'ee, and ye wer kind-like to mother if ye were
rough with me, and I would fain be kind-like to you."
Then he walked on, and I followed; and he never com
plained at me no more. We walked on like that all night;
and in the blue o' the morning, when 'twas hardly day,
I looked ahead o' me, and I zeed that he wambled, and
could hardly drag along. By that time we had got past
here, but I had seen that this house was empty as I
went by, and I got him to come back; and I took down the
boards from the windows, and helped him inside. "What,
Whittle," he said, "and can ye really be such a poor fond
fool as to care for such a wretch as I !" Then I went
on further, and some neighborly woodmen lent me a bed,
and a chair, and a few other traps, and we brought 'em
here, and made him as comfortable as we could. But he
didn't gain strength, for you see, ma'am, he couldn't
eat— no, no appetite at all— and he got weaker; and
to-day he died. One of the neighbors have gone to get
a man to measure him.' (pp. 383-384)
This whole passage illustrates Hardy's unique genius for
the genuine accents of rustic speech. His genteel charac
ters may sometimes converse in stilted and unconvincing Ian
guage, but his ear for the rhythm and tone of the rustic is
flawless. The language itself acts rhetorically upon the
reader to regard Whittle's judgment of Henchard as reliable
The simplicity of Whittle's character is reflected in his
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110
speech; the accent and tone are so palpably genuine that the
reader readily accepts Whittle's view. At the same time,
the reader "knows" more than the character himself does:
fflh.ittie knows only that although Henchard was "rough" to
him, he had been "kind-like to mother," but the reader
senses the implication that there are larger elements in
Henchard's nature which in some inexpressible way secure
Whittle's respect and devotion. Henchard's own judgment—
that Whittle is a "poor fond fool . . . to care for such a
wretch" as he— is submerged in the simple fact of Whittle's
unswerving determination to look after him. The presenta
tion of this scene in the words and through the view of
Abel Whittle is a masterful touch in the heightening of
Henchard's character.
The last point of view in the novel is that of
Elizabeth-Jane, whose understanding of the meaning of
Henchard's "will" emphasizes the dignity of his tragic end.
Whittle shows her the scrap of paper on which Henchard
had pencilled the words :
'MICHAEL HENCHARD'S WILL
‘That Elizabeth-Jane Farfrae be not told of my
death, or made to grieve on account of me.
'& that I be not bury'd in consecrated ground.
'& that no sexton be asked to toll the bell.
'& that nobody is wished to see my dead body.
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Ill
'& that no murners walk behind me at my funeral.
'& that no flours be planted on my grave.
'& that no man remember me.
'To this I put my name.
MICHAEL HENCHARD.' (p. 384)
Henchard's self-condemnation is so extreme that it could
be misunderstood as a piece of self-dramatization^ a last
bid for pity from a world that had treated him badly. But
Elizabeth's reliable judgment prohibits any ambiguity:
What Henchard had written in the anguish of his
dying was respected as far as practicable by Eliza
beth-Jane . . . from her independent knowledge that
the man who wrote them meant what he said. She knew
the directions to be a piece of the same stuff that
his whole life was made of, and hence were not to be
tampered with to give herself a mournful pleasure, or
her husband credit for large-heartedness. (pp. 384-385)
The matter of fact directness of her thoughts— she knew that
the man who wrote those words "meant what he said"— eschews
any sentimentality which would weaken the force of the
scene. Elizabeth's respect for Henchard's last wishes adds
he final approval to the reader's moral judgment of Hen-
zhard within the norms of the novel.
Thus the man who opens the novel by selling his wife
at a fair is transformed by Hardy's rhetoric into a figure
of dignity and stature. The "story" of Michael Henchard
might have been told in a number of ways, but the art of the
articular novel that Hardy wrote is shaped by the technique
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112
of narration through which the faulty character of Henchard
emerges as a tragic hero.
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CHAPTER III
TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES;
THE ROLE OF THE OMNISCIENT AUTHOR AS NARRATOR
In the discussion of The Mayor of Casterbridge I have
suggested that one of the techniques of point of view in
that novel is the control of inside views to establish sym
pathy for the central character. In Tess of the d'Urber-
villes (1891) the problem of sympathy does not exist; any
reader who accepts the novel at allwLll be sympathetically
engaged with Tess as heroine. In this chapter I wish to
focus the discussion on the role of the omniscient author
as narrator, as it functions on three levels: (1) to supply
information not known to the characters, (2) to comment
upon the characters, and (3) to generalize in relation to
the narrative. These categories are not, of course, mutual
ly exclusive. Many passages which supply information un
known to the characters may also contain some commentary
upon the characters and perhaps some generalization as well
113
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114
Similarly, all commentary on character tends to contain
information not directly perceived by the characters them
selves. I have made these rather arbitrary distinctions to
emphasize the fact that not all commentary is cast in the
form of generalizations, and that the omniscient author may
function in multiple ways to supplement the narrative. I
particularly wish to refute the assumptions of the
post-Jamesian critics that all evidence of the author's
presence in fiction is undesirable. When author's commen
tary, in its fullest sense, is effectively used, it contri
butes a positive dimension to the novel.
The techniques of author’s commentary are similar in
all of Hardy's fiction, varying in effectiveness with the
quality of the novel. Tess of the d'Urbervilles illustratesi
Hardy's use of the commenting author at its artistic best.
A.S in The Mayor of Casterbridge. the reader of Tess feels
the presence of the omniscient author as a unique personal
ity who expresses his vision of the immediate world of the
novel and who relates that vision to the macrocosm of a
larger world. But in Tess, where there is no problem in
the control of distance, the narrator is free to give full
expression to his role of supplementing the limited percep
tions of the characters. The reader is given frequent accès
Î
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115
•bo Tess's thoughts and feelings throughout the novel. It is
zlearj however^ that while Tess is not in any sense stupid^
she is limited in her powers of intellect and perception.
Her views as a reflecting consciousness are given broader
significance through the supplementing function of the
author's voice. Angel Clare^ whose point of view is pre
sented at considerable length in certain portions of the
novelj is more articulate than Tess, but Clare's own limita
tions are central to the development of the narrative and
hence are subject to marked correction by the omniscient
author. Other characters and events are similarly illumi
nated by the commentary throughout the novel.
Certainly one of the major contributions of the role oï
the narrator in Tess is the characteristic tone which he
adopts to suffuse the narrative with his sense of deep com
passion for human affairs. The reader's sense of the nar
rator's personality is a significant part of the total
effect produced by the novel. One of the central episodes,
the seduction of Tess by Alec d'Urberville, illustrates this
point:
Why it was that upon this beautiful feminine tissue,
sensitive as gossamer, and practically blank as snow as
yet, there should have been traced such a coarse pattern
as it was doomed to receive; why so often the coarse
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115
appropriates the finer thus, the wrong man the woman, the
wrong woman the man, many thousand years of analytical
philosophy have failed to explain to our sense of order.
One may, indeed, admit the possibility of a retribution
lurking in the present catastrophe. Doubtless some of
Tess d'Urbervilles' mailed ancestors rollicking home from
a fray had,dealt the same measure even more ruthlessly to
wards peasant girls of their time. But though to visit
the sins of the fathers upon the children may be a morali
ty good enough for divinities, it is scorned by average
human nature; and it therefore does not mend the matter.
As Tess's own people down in those retreats are never
tired of saying among each other in their fatalistic way;
'It was to be.' There lay the pity of it.^
The voice speaking here is characteristically tentative
rather than didactic. Philosophy has not explained why "so
often" in the events of human life "the coarse appropriates
the finer." It is not always this way, admittedly, but the
chances seem to favor the probability that the "wrong man"
will encounter the "wrong woman." Perhaps it is tradition— ■
the droit de seigneur— and here the author's voice takes
on a sharper edge, scorning a "morality good enough for
divinities." But the controlling tone of the passage is s e i } ;
with Othello's phrase, "the pity of it," gathering up as it
does all of the threads of compassion which Hardy-as-author
feels for Tess as a tragic victim and by extension for all
Tess of the d'Urbervilles: A Pure Woman (London,
1963) , p. 91. For this "Library Edition" reprint, Macmillaiji
& Co. use the plates of the standard Wessex Edition of 1912
All quotations from the text will be from this edition.
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117
of the simple folk who are pressed by circumstances into a
fatalistic acceptance of whatever comes. Certainly the in
cident itself could have been conveyed objectively without
the philosophizing comment of the author; a twentieth cen-
bury author might^ for example, speak of the "coarse pat
tern" traced upon flesh "sensitive as gossamer^" and the
rhetoric of his adjectives would direct the reader to com
passion without the intrusion of direct comment. What we
would have^ then^ would be not necessarily a better novel
out simply a different one. We would have the pleasures of
purely dramatic presentation^ but we would lose one of the
very real pleasures of earlier fiction, the direct communi
cation with the author. The reader of Tess is interested
not only in what happens to Tess herself but in the voice of
the author questioning the existence of a metaphysical pat-
bern behind what happens.
In emphasizing the positive qualities of the author's
commentary in Tess, I do not wish to ignore the existence of
those occasional lapses in stylistic tact which I have al
ready described in Chapter I and which justifiably invite
condemnation of authorial intrusion. Such passages are
happily rare, and a single example will suffice to illus-
brate the problem. After the wedding night confession.
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118
Angel points out to Tess that if they continue to live to
gether ^ they might have children who would some day suffer
if her past experience became known. The author comments:
Yet such is the vulpine slyness of Dame Nature, that,
till now, Tess had been hoodwinked by her love for Clare
into forgetting it might result in vitalizations that
would inflict upon others what she had bewailed as a
misfortune to herself. (p. 311)
The coyness of the phrase "vulpine slyness of Dame Nature"
and the inappropriate diction of "hoodwinked" are unfortu
nate; but the weakness of such usage pales beside the pre
tentiousness of the word "vitalizations" for"children."
The actual analysis, had it been directly expressed, is
important in showing Tess's genuine concern for the possi
bility of hurting children as yet unborn; but the stylistic
weakness makes the passage vulnerable to attacks upon the
intrusive author. It is a tribute to Hardy's power as a
novelist that most readers are able to pass over such pas
sages without damage to the total impression of the novel.
Information Not Known to the Characters
When the omniscient author of Tess supplies to the
reader information of which the characters are unaware, he
may do so by direct correction of the knowledge or belief of
the characters, or he may do so indirectly by adding details
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119
or perspective to the partial view of the characters. In
the first instance the reader is more aware of a direct con
tact with the author-as-narrator; in the second the effect
is more subtle and less explicit. The direct approach is
consequently more subject to adverse criticism. Let us be
gin with the passage in which Tess walks about the country
side at night during the time before the birth of her ille
gitimate child:
\
But this encompassment of her own characterization,
based on shreds of convention, peopled by phantoms and
voices antipathetic to her, was a sorry and mistaken
creation of Tess's fancy— a cloud of moral hobgoblins
by which she was terrified without reason. It was they
that were out of harmony with the actual world, not
she. Walking among the sleeping birds in the hedges,
watching the skipping rabbits on a moonlit warren, or
standing under a pheasant-laden bough, she looked upon
herself as a figure of Guilt intruding into the haunts
of Innocence. But all the while she was making a dis
tinction where there was no difference. Feeling herself
in antagonism she was quite in accord. She had been made
to break an accepted social law, but no law known to the
environment in which she fancied herself such an
anomaly, (p. 108)
The opening phrase, "this encompassment of her own charac
terization, " reflects Hardy's tendency toward pretentious
diction which causes many readers momentary distress and
may invite condemnation of his commentary. But once the
phrase has been translated into something like "her picture
of herself," the reader is swept along by the contrast
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—
between Tess's "mistaken . . . fancy" and the author's plain
statement that the "shreds of convention" which terrify Tess
are "out of harmony" with the natural world. With his in
comparable technique of blending the physical setting with
the emotional context. Hardy evokes the countryside at
night: the "sleeping birds in the hedges," the "skipping
rabbits on a moonlit warren," the "pheasant-laden bough," a
setting in which Tess sees herself mistakenly as a "figure
of Guilt." The author, in his role as narrator, explicitly
corrects Tess's view; she believes herself to be in "antag
onism" with nature when in fact it is she who is in accord
and it is society's laws which are discordant. The moral
evaluation of Tess's situation is supplied by the commen
tary, adding a dimension to Tess's own limited view.
Now let us see what happens to this passage in the
hands of a critic with a strongly post-Jamesian bias. In
his article tracing the development of point of view in
2
fiction as a critical concept, Norman Friedman analyzes
the functions of the narrator in terms of the gradual dis
appearance of the author, from editorial omniscience to the
camera-eye of dramatic presentation. But instead of merely
2
"Point of View in Fiction," PMLA, LXX (December
1955), 1160-84. (See above, p. 3.)
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describing the changes in fictional practice, Friedman im
plies that such changes involve improvement in the novel as
a form. Omniscience, he says,
signifies literally a completely unlimited— and hence
difficult to control— point of view. The story may be
seen from any or all angles at will; from a godlike
vantage point beyond time and place, from the center,
from the periphery,* or front. There is nothing to keep
the author from choosing any of them, or from shifting
from one to the other as often or rarely as he pleases.
(p. 1171}
At this point the reader may say, how splendid that the
writer of fiction has such freedom of choice in handling his
materials; isn't this precisely the advantage of the novel
3ver the drama as a form, or of third-person omniscience
3
over other modes of narration? But Friedman regards edito
rial omniscience as somehow intrinsically faulty. Using
Hardy as a convenient example, he declares that
it is a natural consequence of the editorial attitude
that the author will not only report what goes on in
the minds of his characters, but he will also criticize
it. Thus Hardy depicts poor Tess wandering disconsolately
about the countryside after her disastrous encounter with
Alex [sic], imagining natural sights and sounds as pro
claiming her guilt. He then overtly informs the reader
that the unfortunate girl was wrong in feeling this way.
3
As Ernest Hemingway once commented with characteristic
bluntness: "It's harder to write in the third person but
{the advantage is you move around better." (From A. E.
Hotchner, Papa Hemingway; A Personal Memoir [New York,
1966], p. 52.)
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122"
'But this encompassment of her own characterization^ based
upon shreds of convention^ peopled by phantoms and voices
antipathetic to her, was a sorry and mistaken creation of
Tess's fancy— a cloud of moral hobgoblins by which she was
terrified without reason' (end of Ch. XIII). Because she
never discovers this, all we can say is that it is just
too bad she has less perception than her creator, (p.1172)
Friedman is clearly opposed to the notion that the author
may "criticize" what goes on in the minds of his characters,
or that he may "overtly inform the reader" about anything at
all. By flippantly dismissing a character who "has less
perception than her creator," Friedman is surely throwing
out the baby with the bath. Emma Bovary, for example, has
less perception than Flaubert, and for that matter probably
less perception than Tess. Yet Flaubert, as Percy Lubbock
long ago pointed out, uses irony to "supersede Emma's limit-
4
ed vision whenever he pleases. ..." What Friedman really
objects to is the presence of the author's voice speaking
directly to the reader instead of conveying his information
indirectly through irony or drama or image. If Friedman's
preference for one kind of fiction over another were merely
a matter of taste, there would be no critical conflict; but
he explicitly denies that authorial presence is a matter of
changing fashion. He concludes his essay with a statement
4
The Craft of Fiction, p. 90.
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123
w'hicli could well serve as a credo for the post-Jamesian
school:
All this is merely to say, in effect, that when an
author surrenders in fiction, he does so in order to
conquer; he gives up certain privileges and imposes
certain limits in order the more effectively to render
his story-illusion, which constitutes artistic truth
in fiction. (p. 1184)
To return, then, to the passage from Tess, the question
becomes quite simply one of whether or not the presence of
the author-as-narrator does in fact destroy the "story-illu
sion " or violate the "artistic truth" of the fiction. I
submit that readers of fiction are on the whole a hardier
lot than such a critical view implies. The same reader who
savors the delicate perceptions of a Jamesian character may
equally well enjoy the directly expressed perceptions of
Hardy in his role of omniscient author. There is no reason
to assume that the reader's "illusion" is destroyed or even
damaged by Hardy's comments that Tess need not have felt so
guilty except for the unnatural restrictions of society. Or
the contrary the reader is perfectly aware that much of
Tess's charm lies in her simplicity and that her story is
being told to him by someone who has greater perception than
Tess has. Tess as a character is rendered with complete
conviction; the author's comments supplement rather than
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124 i
1
!
detract from the reader's full comprehension of her moral
dilemma.
Another passage in which the author provides informa
tion unknown to the characters will further illustrate the
supplementary function of the narrator in Tess. In a pas
sage of direct summary statement, tinged with irony. Hardy
recounts the annexation of the d'Urberville name by Alec's
father:
When old Mr. Simon Stoke, latterly deceased, had
made his fortune as an honest merchant (some said
money-lender) in the North, he decided to settle as
a county man in the South of England, out of hail of
his business district; and in doing this he felt the
necessity of recommencing with a name that would not
too readily identify him with the smart tradesman of
the past, and that would be less commonplace than the
original bald stark words. Conning for an hour in the
British Museum the pages of works devoted to extinct,
half-extinct, obscured, and ruined families appertaining
to the quarter of England in which he proposed to settle,
he considered that d'Urberville looked and sounded as
well as any of them. . . .
Of this work of imagination poor Tess and her parents
were naturally in ignorance— much to their discomfiture;
indeed, the very possibility of such annexations was
unknown to them; who supposed that, though to be
we11-favoured might be the gift of fortune, a family
name came by nature. '(pp. 44-45)
The omniscient author explicitly states that the informatiori
given about Mr. Stoke is unknown to Tess and her parents.
Yet the author's statement is neither a digression nor an
intrusion. The "half-extinct, obscured, and ruined
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1 2 5
families” constitute one of the major themes of the novel,
the post-Darwinian question of the confluent forces of
heredity and environment, a question which Hardy character
istically muses upon without offering a conclusive answer.
More important, the simple belief of Tess and her family
that "a family name came by nature" implies a moral evalua
tion of the hypocrisy of the Stoke "pedigree" contrasted
with the uncorrupted view of the Durbeyfields. It is per
fectly plain that the author and the reader share a more
sophisticated knowledge of the world and its ways than that
of simple country people like Tess and her family. The
validity of such an author-reader relationship depends upon
the tact with which it is handled. If Hardy adopted a
patronizing tone toward his characters, for example, the
"artistic truth" of the fiction would be violated. Or if
he sentimentalized about his characters' ignorance of the
ways of the world, the "fictional illusion" would be
damaged. But the actual effect of the author's supplement
ing information is to elevate the dignity of Tess in rela
tion to the artificial standards of society. The reader
feels the presence of an authorial personality who records
with compassion the knowledge of matters unknown to Tess.
The personality of this omniscient author in the novel
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1 2 6
is palpable enought at times to seem to have almost the full
existence of Thackeray's authorial "I" or George Eliot's
emi-dramatized narrator of her earlier novels. But in
lardy he never acquires that degree of corporeal substance.
3e is closest, perhaps, to the persona of a poem when the
speaker is neither the poet himself (in his historical per
son) nor a dramatized speaker of a dramatic monologue. He
is the disembodied voice who becomes a familiar presence to
the reader and whose views add both knowledge and dimension
to the views of the characters-themselves. For example, in
:he following passage describing Tess's attendance at church
before the birth of her child, the reader feels that the
narrator is present but not intrusive:
To be as much out of observation as possible for
reasons of her own, and to escape the gallantries of
the young men, she set out before the chiming began,
and took a back seat under the gallery, close to the
lumber, where only old men and women came, and where
the bier stood on end among the churchyard tools.
Parishioners dropped in by twos and threes, deposited
themselves in rows before her, rested three-quarters
of a minute on their foreheads as if they were praying,
though they were not; then sat up, and looked around.
When the chants came on one of her favourites happened
to be chosen among the rest— the old double chant
'Langdon'— but she did not know what it was called,
though She would much have liked to know. She thought,
without exactly wording the thought, how strange and
godlike was a composer's power, who from the grave could
lead through sequences of emotion . . . a girl like her
who had never heard of his name, and never would have a
clue to his personality. (p. 107)
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First Tess is placed among the "old men and women" at the
back of the churchy and near the “bier^ " a setting which
contrasts by implication with her youth and natural vital
ity. Then the parishioners come in and seem to be praying,
"though they were not." Only the omniscient author can sup
ply this kind of information; yet I believe that few readers
would object on the ground that Tess herself would be un
aware of whether or not they were "really" praying. The
phrase underscores the novel's recurring theme of the inade
quacy of conventional religious belief, and the reader
readily accepts the information supplied by the omniscient
author because it contributes to the whole question of the
moral conflict of Tess's situation. The very people who
only pretend to pray are those whose views cause her sense
of guilt. Finally, the omniscient author supplies informa
tion about the music which is unknown to Tess. When the
congregation sings "the old double chant 'Langdon,'" Tess
"did not know what it was called, though she would much have
liked to know." This appears to be an insignificant bit of
information in itself, but it contributes to the picture of
Tess as simple and somewhat passive. Her response to the
music is emotional rather than arising from an inquiring
intellect. She muses, rather passively, upon the character
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128
of the music and its unknown composer^ and she feels a
lumility before his "godlike" power, an image which appears
Later in her adoration of Angel Clare. The author's infor
mation supplements Tess's limited view of her own situation
Dy placing her in the expanded perspective of a larger world
beyond her comprehension.
The preceding examples have illustrated the relatively
direct use of author's commentary to supply information not
known to the characters. The same technique may function
indirectly in ways which are easily overlooked. Sometimes
a scene which appears to be rendered dramatically may con
tain indirect commentary. Two passages will illustrate this
pointj the first a dramatic scene objectively presented
through dialogue, the second a passage in which the author
subtly conveys impressions which are not perceived by either
character. Clare and Tess are in the garden:
He observed her dejection one day, when he had
casually mentioned something to her about pastoral
life in ancient Greece. She was gathering the buds
called 'lords and ladies' from the bank while he spoke.
'Why do you look so woebegone all of a sudden?' he
asked.
'Oh, 'tis only— about my own self,' she said, with a
frail laugh of sadness, fitfully beginning to peel 'a
lady' meanwhile. . . . 'When I see what you know, what
you have read, and seen, and thought, I feel what a
nothing I am! . . .'
'Bless my soul, don't go troubling about that! Why,'
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' ■ 1 2 9 “
he said with some enthusiasm^ 'I should be only too
glad, my dear Tess, to help you to anything in the way
of history, or any line of reading you would like to
take up— '
'It is a lady again,' she interrupted, holding out the
bud she had peeled.
'What?'
'I meant that there are always more ladies than lords
when you come to peel them.'
'Never mind about the lords and ladies. Would you like
to take up any course of study— history, for example?'
'Sometimes I feel I don't want to know anything more
about it than I know already.'
'Why not?'
'Because what's the use of learning that I am one of
a long row only— finding out that there is set down in
some old book somebody just like me, and to know that I
shall only act her part; making me sad, that's all. . . .'
She went on peeling the lords and ladies till Clare,
regarding for a moment the wave-like curl of her lashes
as they drooped with her bent gaze on her soft cheek,
lingeringly went away. (pp. 161-163)
3ere everything about the characters is dramatically ren
dered. Clare's naive enthusiasm about the value of educa
tion, Tess's instinctive resistance to intellectualism, her
smotional responses, even her physical beauty as she dreami
ly peels the lords and ladies, are all suggested through
dramatic scene. There is no authorial comment, only that
"particularized life" which Dorothy Van Ghent prefers to
5
any kind of authorial intrusion.
The second passage is one in which the omniscient
See above, p. 13
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1 3 0
author supplies to the reader information which is not
directly perceived by either character. When Tess reveals
to Angel her past experience with Alec^ the emotional inten
sity of the scene is rendered partly through dialogue and
partly through authorial "telling." The point of view
shifts rapidly back and forth between Tess and Angel. Even
their physical appearances change; she sees that "his face
had withered" (p. 291); he sees that "terror was upon her
Vhite face . . . ; her cheek was flaccid^ and her mouth had
almost the aspect of a round little hole" (p. 293). Some
times the view shifts within a single sentence:
The horrible sense of his view of her so deadened her
that she staggered; and he stepped forward, thinking
she was going to fall. (p. 293)
We are in Tess's mind sensing "his view of her," then in
\ngel's mind as he thinks that she is going to fall. Final
ly, Tess abjectly begs his forgiveness, exclaiming:
'I will obey you like your wretched slave, even if
it is to lie down and die.'
'You are very good. But it strikes me that there is
a want of harmony between your present mood of self-sacri
fice and your past mood of self-preservation.'
These were the first words of antagonism. To fling
elaborate sarcasms at Tess, however, was much like fling
ing them at a dog or cat. The charms of their subtlety
passed by her unappreciated, and she only received them
as inimical sounds which meant that anger ruled. She
remained mute, not knowing that he was smothering his
affection for her. She hardly observed that a tear
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— ------------------------------------- 1 3 1
descended slowly upon his cheek, a tear so large that
it magnified the pores of the skin over which it rolled,
like the object lens of a microscope. (pp. 294-295)
The last paragraph is not transmitted directly through the
minds of either Tess or Angel. It is the omniscient author
who tells us that it was useless to fling "elaborate sar
casms at Tess." She is too numb to feel anything except an
emotional sense that "anger ruled." There is no indication
that Angel perceives this; it is the omniscient author who
reports that she "hardly observed" the tear on Angel's face.
The image of the tear as a magnified lens is not directly
perceived by Tess, only by the reader. Yet it seems to me
that this passage is artistically as fully realized as the
passage of purely dramatic presentation in which Tess is
peeling the lords and ladies. The fact that the informa
tion is subtly conveyed by the omniscient author does not
in any way diminish its effectiveness.
Another way in which the omniscient author indirectly
supplements the view of the characters in Tess is pointed
out by Benjamin Sankey in one of the few critical discus
sions of point of view in Hardy's fiction.^ I have already
mentioned Sankey's acceptance of Hardy's commentary as
^"Hardy"s Prose Style," Twentieth Century Literature,
XI (April 1965) , 3-15._____ ____________________________
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1 3 2
"seldom digressive" and as having the quality of a sympa
thetic Greek chorus. He develops this point by showing the
expanded perspective created by the author's view in such
passages as the following, of which I shall quote only a
part. As Tess approaches Talbothays dairy Hardy introduces
the idyllic setting of the Great Dairies:
. . . These myriads of cows stretching under her eyes
from the far east to the far west outnumbered any she
had ever seen at one glance before. The green lea was
speckled as thickly with them as a canvas by Van Alsloot
or Sallaert with burghers. The ripe hue of the red and
dun kine absorbed the evening sunlight^ which the
white-coated animals returned to the eye in rays almost
dazzling, even at the distant elevation on which she
stood. (p. 133)
Commenting upon this section of a much longer passage,
Sankey observes:
For the present description Hardy adopts a 'point of
view' close to that of Tess herself. . . . But the prose
is not mimetic; there is no attempt to restrict the
report to what Tess sees and thinks. Tess's mind is
simply a definite point of reference for Hardy's own
presentation of the subject. In describing the color
of the cattle, for instance. Hardy uses the physics
of light; the effect is not only to produce some
vividly 'red and dun' and 'white-coated' animals, but
also to insist upon the regular structure of things
underlying experience. Hardy has more room to move in
than his character does. . . . Even the allusion to
burghers in paintings by 'Van Alsloot or Sallaert*
suggests momentarily a perspective— that of historical
time, the lives of other ordinary people in other times
and countries. (pp. 5-7)
Here is a specific refutation of the post-Jamesian
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1 3 3
assumptions of critics like Friedman who object to the
author's expressing "more perception" than the character.
Sankey concludes his analysis with a statement supporting
Hardy's method:
These details, convincingly specific in themselves,
translate readily into a state of mind. Their con
vincingness is largely due to the perspective Hardy
has maintained. He has established a larger context
for Tess's state of mind; and the strong momentary
sense of- freshness, hope and natural harmony does not
destroy the outlines of the large . . . world within
which these feelings occur. (p. 7)
The passage analyzed by Sankey also illustrates that
portion of commentary which I have designated as supplying
information not known to the characters, in this case by
indirect supplement rather than by direct correction of the
character's view, Tess herself does not perceive what
Sankey describes as "the physics of light"; she is certainly
not aware of analogies to paintings by "Van Alsloot or
Sallaert." Yet the scene is essentially presented through
Tess's eyes— the cows "outnumbered any she had ever seen at
a glance before"— and it is her feelings about her approach
to a new situation which dominate the reader's conscious
ness. The supplementing voice of the author adds a dimen
sion to Tess's consciousness without in any way intruding
upon the emotional context of the narrative.
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134
Sometimes the indirect function of the narrator occurs
in a single sentence within a scenic passage. For example,
when Clare returns from Brazil and finds Tess with Alec at
Sandbourne, her devotion to Angel is never questioned. Her
reaction is revealed in what is perhaps the most intensely
realized scene in the novel, a scene of powerful dramatic
presentation, heightened by a brief glimpse from the point
of view of the omniscient author. Tess remains in the door
way, talking to Angel across the room:
'I waited and waited for you,' she went on, her
tones suddenly resuming their old fluty pathos. 'But
you did not come.' And I wrote to you, and you did not
comeJ He kept saying you would never come any more,
and that I was a foolish woman. He was very kind to
me, and to mother, and to all of us after father's
death. He— '
'I don't understand.'
'He has won me back to him.'
Clare looked at her keenly, then, gathering her
meaning, flagged like one plague-stricken, and his glance
sank; it fell on her hands, which, once rosy, were now
white and more delicate.
She continued—
'He is upstairs. I hate him now, because he told me
a lie— that you would not come again; and you have come I
These clothes are what he's put upon me: I didn't care
what he did wi' me 1 But— will you go away, Angel, please
and never come any more?'
They stood fixed, their baffled hearts looking out of
their eyes with a joylessness pitiful to see. Both
seemed to implore something to shelter them from reality.
'Ah— it is my fault!' said Clare. (p. 484)
Tess's own statements provide the motives for her return to
Alec, and more important, the motive for the subsequent
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1 3 5
urder. She did not "hate" him before, but she does hate
lim "now, " because he told her that Clare would not come
back. This is an important distinction; her statement that
"he has won me back to him" indicates a complicity in her
physical relationship with Alec which, she implies, is some
thing altogether apart from the love that she feels for
Clare. She kills Alec not primarily because he debauched
her but because he deprived her of the one whom she genuine
ly loves. All of this is revealed through the bare simplic
ity of the dialogue. However, in one sentence of the pas
sage, the omniscient author ceases to be the objective re
corder of the scene and reveals his presence: "They stood
fixed, their .baffled hearts looking out of their eyes with
a joylessness pitiful to see." The reader is not merely
being shown a scene through the eye of a camera; he is con
scious that the author is present with him, commenting upon
the scene, especially in the adjective "pitiful." To whom
is the scene "pitiful" if not mutually to the author and thei
reader? The reader need not be aware of this relationship
as he reads the scene in the context of the novel, but I be
lieve that it is just such subtle manifestations of the
author's presence which add an elusive but unmistakable di
mension to the full aesthetic effect. The word "pitiful"
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picks up and reiterates the aura of pity and compassion
/fhich the author's voice has cast over the entire narrative^
that recurrence of a motif which E. K. Brown describes as
7
"rhythm" in the novel as a form. This kind of authorial
omniscience; far from being intrusive^ is fully as effective
as is metaphor, or symbol, or any other device at the dis
posal of the creator of fiction.
Commentary Upon the Characters
In the preceding section I have cited some examples of
the author's commentary in Tess as it directly and indirect
ly supplies to the reader information not perceived by the
characters. A closely related function of the omniscient
author as narrator is that of commenting upon the charac
ters, a technique which adds to the richness and complexity
of the narrative texture. Refuting the critical view that
characters should be revealed only through dramatic presen
tation, Wayne Booth points out the effectiveness of Conrad'si
analysis of the character of Decoud in Nostromo. Referring
to a passage of direct authorial judgment. Booth states:
No reader could ever infer such an intricate judgment
from the actions and speech of a man who has deceived
1963)
^Rhythm in the Novel (University of Toronto Press,
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1 3 7
everyone around him. Yet the judgment springs from and
is adequately supported by what is shown. The telling
has here revealed to us an almost inaccessible but indis
pensable part of the dramatic object itself.
(Rhetoric, p. 189)
Similarly, Hardy, like other novelists using the omniscient
author convention, supplements the dramatic revelation of
character with brief passages "telling" about the characters
in ways which illuminate the reader's views. In Tess these
comments are especially important in establishing and rein
forcing the moral norms of the novel.
The reader's understanding of Tess's character is en
riched by such commentary throughout the novel. That Tess
is somewhat more intelligent than her parents is suggested
in a number of ways through dialogue and scene. It is also
explicitly stated in terms of her contrast with her mother:
Between the mother, with her fast-perishing lumber of
superstitions, folk-lore, dialect, and orally transmitted
ballads, and the daughter, with her trained National
teachings and Standard knowledge under an infinitely
Revised Code, there was a gap of two hundred years as
ordinarily understood. When they were together the
Jacobean and the Victorian ages were juxtaposed.
(pp. 23-24)
More important than her slight educational advantage is
Tess's moral superiority. She regards life more seriously
and with a greater sense of responsibility than her parents
do, as evidenced in her bitter self-reproach over the death
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138
of the horse Prince. The author comments:
But the very shiftlessness of the household rendered
the misfortune a less terrifying one to them than it
would have been to a striving family, though in the
present case it meant ruin, and in the other it would
only have meant inconvenience. In the Durbeyfield coun
tenances there was nothing of the red wrath that would
have burnt upon the girl from parents more ambitious for
her welfare. Nobody blamed Tess as she blamed herself.
(p. 37)
Tess realizes that her mother is little more than "a happy
child" (p. 41) and as such is an addition to the brood for
whom Tess feels responsible.
Tess's relationship with Alec d'Urberville is given an
added dimension by the moral evaluation of the author's com
mentary. Hardy was surprisingly daring in publishing a
novel in 1891 in which the heroine was a "fallen woman" who
is accorded the full moral approval of the author. Hardy
further displayed a kind of dogged integrity by treating th^
situation with a frankness so delicately rendered that many
readers seem to miss its full significance. A close look
at the text indicates that, as one critic suggests, "rape
g
may be too strong a word for what happens in The Chase."
The slight but unmistakeable element of Tess's reluctant
g
Elliott B. Gose, Jr., "Psychic Evolution: Darwinism
and Initiation in Tess of the d'Urbervilles," Nineteenth-
Century Fiction, XVIII (December 1963), 265.
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1 3 9
half-consent makes words like "seduction" or "betrayal" more
accurate than "rape," and this distinction is vital to the
full comprehension of Tess as the "pure woman" of Hardy's
sub-title.
On the night of the seduction the scene is presented
dramatically, without commentary. Tess's actions and words
reveal that she is uneasy and fearful, but she exhibits
passive resignation rather than violent resistance. The
degree of her acquiescence to Alec is further indicated by
the fact that she afterward remains in Trantridge for a
period of several weeks, apparently on terms of at least
occasional intimacy with him, leaving not merely when she
learns that she is pregnant but also when she learns that
she cannot love him.
The first analysis of her situation is expressed in
Tess's words to Alec:
'. . . if I had ever sincerely loved you, if I loved
you still, I should not so loathe and hate myself for
my weakness as I do now] . . . My eyes were dazed by
you for a little, and that was all.' (p. 97)
Tess's admission of her weakness in having been "dazed" by
him for a little while is subsequently stated even more
explicitly in a passage of direct summary statement, pre
sented partially through Tess's mind but expressed in the
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terms of the commenting author:
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She had never wholly cared for him, she did not at all
care for him now. She had dreaded him, winced before
him, succumbed to adroit advantages he took of her help
lessness; then, temporarily blinded by his ardent manners,
had been stirred to confused surrender awhile; had sudden
ly despised and disliked him, and had run away. That was
all. Hate him she did not quite; but he was dust and
ashes to her, and even for her name's sake she scarcely
wished to marry him. (p. 104)
This explicit summary of Tess's feelings toward Alec makes
the moral evaluation of her "purity" richer and more mean
ingful. She retains her dignity and her sense of personal
integrity, so that her purity is of the mind and the heart,
9
undamaged by external circumstances.
Hardy makes further analysis of Tess's plight by using
rustic characters as a "chorus" to express the fatalistic
acceptance of misfortune by the countryfolk, adding an
authorial comment in the narrator's characteristic tone of
compassion. When Tess is nursing her child in the fields.
Alluding briefly to Tess's "confused surrendei;"
Desmond Hawkins maintains that "Hardy is not exactly eager
to assess the measure of her own contribution to her down
fall" (Thomas Hardy, p. 81). On the contrary, it seems to
me that Hardy was remarkably courageous in including the
explicit analysis of Tess's situation, in the light of con
temporary attitudes. Such frankness was possible only in
the book edition of Tess. The serial edition, which ran in
the Graphic from July to December, 1891, required Hardy to
introduce a sham marriage between Tess and Alec, the knowl
edge of which induced her instant return to home and mother
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one of the women remarks:
1 4 1
'Wellj a little more_, or a little lessj 'twas a
thousand pities that it should have happened to she^
of all others. But 'tis always the comeliestj The
plain ones be as safe as churches— hey^ Jenny?' The
speaker turned to one of the group who certainly was
not ill-defined as plain.
It was a thousand pities^ indeed; it was impossible
for even an enemy to feel otherwise on looking at Tess
as she sat there^ with her flower-like mouth and large
tender eyesj neither black nor blue nor gray nor violet;
rather all those shades together. . . . (p. 114)
iThe voice of the narrator enters directly in this passage,
picking up the phrase "a thousand pities" from the speech of
the field woman, and adding his comment upon Tess from his
own point of view. He invites the reader to share with him
the picture of Tess in her innocence and beauty. This pas
sage illustrates that kind of direct communication between
author and reader which the post-Jamesian purists would pre
fer to eliminate from fiction. Yet I belive that such com
munication, when it is effectively handled as in the passage
above, is a valid artistic experience which deserves criti
cal recognition.
The controlling presence of the author's voice supple
ments Tess's character in the whole episode of the Talboth
ays idyll. As she approaches the dairy, the narrator com
ments:
. . , some spirit within her rose automatically as the
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1 4 2
sap in the twigs. It was unexpended youth, surging up
anew after its temporary check, and bringing with it
hope, and the invincible instinct towards self-delight.
(p. 127)
less herself is not fully aware of this revival of spirit.
3he is, in fact, absorbed in solemn resolves that in her
lew life there shall be "no more d'Urberville air-castles"
(p. 125). It is the omniscient author who points out the
surge within her of that "invincible instinct towards
self-delight."
Tess's love for Angel Clare is illuminated by the com
mentary which emphasizes the quality of religious worship
in her adoration of him. "There was hardly a touch of earth
in her love for Clare" (p. 246); he was "godlike in her
syes" (p. 233); she saw him as having "the soul of a saint"
and would gaze at him "as if she saw something immortal be
fore her" (p. 246). Even after their parting she could
scarcely bear to spend the gold sovereigns he had given to
aer because "his touch had consecrated them" and "to dis
perse them was like giving away relics" (p. 348) . The thin
veneer of her conventional religious upbringing transfers
itself readily to her worship of Angel, emphasizing the
jirony of his rejection of her in the face of her absolute
Itrust in his perfection of character.
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143
As Tess struggles against her own conscience^ the com
mentary enlarges her limited perspective. She tries to re
sist her growing affection for Angela even to effacing her
self in favor of the trio of dairymaids who are hopelessly
infatuated with him. Her own analysis reveals her unques
tioning acceptance of conventional ethical standards:
. . . she who knew herself to be more impassioned in
nature^ cleverer^ more beautiful than they, was in the
eyes of propriety far less worthy of him. . . . (p. 189)
Tess herself feels that she is guilty "in the eyes of propri
ety," but the author's commentary suggests that her natural
feeling is superior to the artificial standards of society:
In reality, she was drifting into acquiescence. Every
see-saw of her breath, every wave of her blood, every
pulse singing in her ears, was a voice that joined with
nature in revolt against her scrupulousness. (p. 228)
The narrator clearly implies approval of those feelings
which "join with nature" against the "scrupulousness" of
conventional propriety, a moral evaluation broader in scope
than that of Tess herself.
Examples of commentary on Tess's character could be
multiplied endlessly, so I shall conclude with a passage
which is especially significant in lending moral perspectivé
to her character. The scene occurs as Tess parts from
Angel to return to her home in Marlott:
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144
If Tess had been artful, had she made a scene, fainted,
wept hysterically, in that lonely lane, notwithstanding
the fury of fastidiousness with which he was possessed, he
would probably not have withstood her. But her mood of
long-suffering made his way easy for him, and she herself
was his best advocate. pride, too, entered into her sub
mission . . . and the many effective chords which she
could have stirred by an appeal were left untouched.
(p. 324)
Neither Tess nor Angel is aware that she might have
"stirred" him if she "had made a scene." Only the omni
scient author can report this information. Tess is not
"artful" because, by implication, her nature is too deep and.
true; but more than that, "pride . . . entered into her sub
mission, " a pride which elevates her to a tragic dignity
beyond the status of a merely pitiful victim of misfortune.
The character of Angel Clare is second in importance
only to Tess in the novel. Like Clym and Eustacia, or Jude
10
and Sue, Tess and Angel are the "human pair" about whom
the novel is centered. Tess is the major figure, to be
sure, but Clare receives considerable attention, with large
portions of the narrative presented from his point of view.
Since he is educated and more articulate than Tess, his re
lationship with the omniscient author is somewhat different:
^^See Pierre d'Exideuil, The Human Pair in the Work of
Thomas Hardy, translated from the French by Felix W. Crosse
(London, 1930) , for an early psychological study of the re
lations between the sexes in Hardy's fiction.
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tie is an intellectual equal; but emotionally he is immature
and his moral attitudes are questioned. The contrast be
tween Alec d'Urberville as too sensual and Angel Clare as
lot sensual enough is fairly obvious. The significance of
this contrast is that Tess is equally betrayed by both.
Praising Hardy's achievement in the novel, Albert Guerard
suggests that Tess's
innocent and sensuous naturalism [is] corrupted by
Victorian nastiness; her purity, already violated by
Alec's selfish egoism, must now be violated by prudery.
(Thomas Hardy, p. 80)
Angel is indeed a prude, but his character is developed sym
pathetically and his weaknesses only gradually revealed, as
analysis of the commentary will show.
At first Clare sometimes takes on the role of a reli
able narrator, expressing ideas explicitly shared by Hardy-
as-author:
He held that education had as yet but little affected
the beats of emotion and impulse on which domestic
happiness depends. It was probable that, in the lapse
of ages, improved systems of moral and intellectual
training would appreciably, perhaps considerably, elevate
the involuntary and even the unconscious instincts of
human naturebut up to the present day culture, as far
as he could see, might be said to have affected only
the mental epiderm of those lives which had been brought
under its influence. (pp. 211-212)
This rather naive belief that somehow "education" and
"culture" would in some distant future eliminate man's
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grosser instincts is essentially an authorial comment which
is attributed to Clare by the phrase "as far as he could
see." Yet the comment is not intrusive as expressed by
Zlare; it is appropriate to his character as a man who tries
bo prefer reason over impulse. When he first declares his
love to Tess, for example^ he breathes "a curious sigh of
desperation^ signifying unconsciously that his heart had
Dutrun his judgment" (p. 194). Clare shares with
Hardy-as-author the hope that human nature will someday
improve from its present state of imperfection.
Clare's emotional immaturity is revealed through
dramatic presentation of his thoughts and statements^ with
the author's commentary showing a marked tolerance and com
passion for Clare's shortcomings. One manifestation of im
maturity is his obsession with physical purity in the con
ventional sense. His first comment to himself upon Tess,
"'What a fresh and virginal daughter of Nature that milkmaid
is.' '" (p. 155), suggests that a part of her appeal is that
she is "virginal." He tells her later that she is the "most
honest, spotless creature that ever lived" (p. 227), and he
precipitates Tess's confession on the wedding night by tell
ing her of his own experience with a woman in London, blam
ing himself because "I admired spotlessness, even though
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1 4 7
I could lay no claim to it . . ." (p. 285). When her corre
sponding confession betrays the narrowness of his outlook^
he exclaims with insufferable priggishness:
'I thought. . . that by giving up all ambition to win
a wife with social standing, with fortune, with knowledge
of the world, I should secure rustic innocence as surely
as I should secure pink cheeks. . . . (p. 304)
Meanwhile, however, the author's commentary upon
Clare's character prepares the reader for a more tolerant
view of Clare's limitations. Without the authorial analysis
his character would be thinner and less richly developed.
When Tess admires Angel because he is "chivalrous" and
"protective" toward her, the narrator supplements her view
with a direct analysis of Clare's character :
. . . he was, in truth, more spiritual than animal; he
had himself well in hand, and was singularly free from
grossness. Though not cold-natured, he was rather
bright than hot— less Byronic than Shelleyan; could love
desperately, but with a love more especially inclined
to the imaginative and ethereal. . . . (pp. 245-247)
The rhetoric in this passage implies that the narrator's
evaluation of Clare is on the whole sympathetic rather than
condemnatory. He is not scored fordoeing "imaginative and
ethereal"; the fact that he is "free from grossness" is
favorably expressed. Finally, he is more "Shelleyan" than
"Byronic," a statement which, for Hardy at least, is proba
bly complimentary. We can conjecture this from external
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148
ovidence^ because of Hardy's known admiration for Shelley.
:3ut we can also deduce it from the internal evidence of the
novels. Most of Hardy's heroes are "more spiritual than
animal." They exhibit^ often exasperatingly, what Guerard
calls "a curious unaggressiveness of character" (Thomas
lardy, pp. 41-42). As Hardy moves cautiously toward a less
favorable evaluation of Clare in the novel, he develops the
question of "animalism" in a comment which is characteris
tically tentative rather than didactic:
It was the third day of the estrangement. Some might
risk the odd paradox that with more animalism he would
have been the nobler man. We do not say it. Yet Clare's
love was doubtless ethereal to a fault, imaginative to
impracticability. (p. 312)
Today the concept that "with more animalism he might have
Deen the nobler man" has almost been transformed into dog
ma, so that we must recall that in 1891 the paradox was an
"odd" one, and a daring one at that. Although the omni
scient author (in a rare use of the editorial "we") explic
itly denies the proposition, he at once qualifies his denial
oy suggesting that Clare is more "ethereal" and "imagina
tive" than is desirable. The tentative tone of the commen-
ary does not disguise the implication that Clare's obses
sion with purity is excessive.
Another passage of commentary analyzing Clare's
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1 4 9
character illustrates what Wayne Booth describes as that
kind of "intricate judgment" which the reader could not so
conveniently infer from a character's "actions and speech."
(See above^ p. 136.) On the second day after the confes
sion, Tess
broke into sobs, and turned her back to him. It would
almost have won round any man but Angel Clare. Within
the remote depths of his constitution, so gentle and
affectionate as he was in general, there lay hidden a
hard logical deposit, like a vein of metal in a soft
loam, which turned the edge of everything that attempted
to traverse it. It had blocked his acceptance of the
Church; it blocked his acceptance of Tess. Moreover,
his affection itself was less fire than radiance, and
with regard to the other sex, when he ceased to believe
he ceased to follow. . . . (p. 308)
The metaphor of the "vein of metal in a soft loam" illumi
nates Clare's character through direct and explicit analy
sis. In this passage, Clare is neither condemned nor
praised; the rhetoric suggests that this is simply the way
he is, but the result of his particular nature is unfortu
nate, because it "blocked his acceptance of Tess."
Even when Clare's moral outlook is directly corrected
by the author's commentary, the condemnation is balanced
by the narrator's tone of tolerance and understanding towarcp
Clare's limitations :
With all his attempted independence of judgment this
advance4 ari'd well-meaning young man . . . was yet the
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1 5 0
slave to customs and conventionality when surprised back
into his early teachings. No prophet had told him, and
he was not prophet enough to tell himself, that essen
tially this young wife of his was as deserving of the
praise of King Lemuel as any other woman endowed with
the same dislike of evil, her moral value having to be
reckoned not by achievement but by tendency. (p. 338)
The psychological insight of Angel's having been "surprised
back into his early teachings" provides a fuller comprehen
sion of his character. He is less likely to be dismissed
as a mere prude, for he is himself the product of his own
"early teachings" from his clergyman father, and only time
and experience can develop his latent possibilities.
Referring to the passage I have just quoted, G. D.
Klingopulos believes that "Angel's obduracy . . . seemed un-
11
real even to Hardy." Similarly, Arnold Kettle finds
12
Angel's rejection of Tess "unconvincing." Such views, it
seems to me, tend to be somewhat subjective responses on the
part of otherwise perceptive critics whose own norms of be
havior are understandably less prudish than those of Angel
Clare. Within the context of the novel, the author's com
ments upon Clare's character fully support the complexity of
his reactions to the situation. One of the principal
"Hardy's Tales Ancient and Modern," in From Dickens
to Hardy, ed. Boris Ford (Maryland, 1953), p. 416.
12
An Introduction to the English Novel (London, 1953),
II, 60.
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contributions of the omniscient author is the opportunity to
clarify such distinctions concerning a character in the nar
rative. Judgments like those of Klingopulos and Kettle tend
to occur more readily in works where the reader is left to
deduce his evaluations from the dramatic revelation of char
acter. In the present case, the critic may object to Angel‘s
behaviorbut he cannot conclude that this behavior "seems
unreal to Hardy," because the commentary indicates Hardy's
willingness to provide a convincing framework for Angel's
actions.
The final moral evaluation of Clare comes with his de
veloping maturity of outlook during his stay in Brazil.
After many months away from Tess his attitude begins to
change :
During this time of absence he had mentally aged a
dozen years. What arrested him now as of value in life
was less its beauty than its pathos. Having long dis
credited the old systems of mysticism, he now began to
discredit the old appraisements of morality. He thought
they wanted readjusting. Who was the moral man? Still
more pertinently, who was the moral woman? The beauty
or ugliness of a character lay not only in its achieve
ments, but in its aims and impulses; its true history lay,
not among things done, but among things willed. (p. 433)
So the foundation is laid for Clare's acceptance of Tess,
not in terms of patronizing forgiveness, but in terms of
his own enlarged comprehension of moral values.
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The function of point of view to lend moral perspective
to Clare's enlightenment is demonstrated by Robert C.
Schweik in an essay maintaining that Hardy's comments in
13
Tess are not "structural excrescences." Schweik suggests
first that the stranger to whom Clare confides his story,
and who tells Angel plainly that he was wrong to leave Tess,
"sees the problem as if at a greater distance; from his more
inclusive point of view the details which trouble Clare
appear correspondingly less important ..." (p. 15). Then,
Schweik continues.
Hardy injects an authorial comment which further mini
mizes the problem by describing Clare's situation as if
from a still more inclusive point of view:
But the reasoning is somewhat musty; lovers and
husbands have gone over the ground before today.
Clare had been harsh towards her; there is no doubt
of it. Men are too often harsh with women they
love or have loved; women with men. And yet these
harshnesses are tenderness itself when compared with
the universal harshness out of which they grow. . . .
(Chapter XLIX)
In effect, the comments which follow Clare's question
function as devices of perspective; they present the
same situation from different points of view, and each
new viewpoint reveals a world of different dimensions
and different moral implications. (p. 15)
The critical assumption behind Schweik's analysis, like that
Df Benjamin Sankey discussed above, is that the role of the
13
"Moral Perspective in Tess of the d'Urbervilles."
College English, XXIV (October 1962), 14.
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1 5 3
omniscient author may function in positive ways to lend
depth and perspective to the narrative^ and that commentary
is not necessarily intrusive in prose fiction. The comments
upon the character of Angel Clare enlarge the reader's com
prehension of his moral growth and enlightenment.
Commentary upon the minor characters^ as well as upon
Tess and Angel, is also used effectively in the novel. For
example, the analysis of Tess's mother, joining her husband
at the tavern, conveys the narrator's attitude of broad
tolerance for the pleasures of simple country folk:
This going to hunt up her shiftless husband at the
inn was one of Mrs. Durbeyfield's still extant enjoyments
in the muck and muddle of rearing children. To discover
him at Rolliver's, to sit there for an hour or two by
his side and dismiss all thought and care of the children
during the interval, made her happy. A sort of halo,
an occidental glow, came over life then. Troubles and
other realities took on themselves a metaphysical impal
pability, sinking to mere mental phenomena for serene
contemplation, and no longer stood as pressing concre
tions which chafed body and soul. The youngsters, not
immediately within sight, seemed rather bright and de
sirable appurtenances than otherwise; the incidents of
daily life were not without humorousness and jollity in
their aspect there. (p. 23)
Although the passage is essentially a reflection of Joan
Durbeyfield's thoughts and feelings, the vocabulary and ex
pression are those of the omniscient author. The same pas
sage presented as a direct transmission of the character's
thoughts might be effective in a different way, but what
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1 5 4
vould be lost is the reader's perception of the narrator's
unique appraisal of Joan's easy-going acceptance of life's
vicissitudes.
In an excellent passage of analysis, Hardy adds a di-
Tiension to the understanding of Clare's parents. After Tess
leaves without asking for their help, the author comments;
Her present condition was precisely one which would have
enlisted the sympathies of old Mr. and Mrs. Clare. Their
hearts went out of them at a bound towards extreme cases,
when the subtle mental troubles of the less desperate
among mankind failed to win their interest or regard.
In jumping at Publicans and Sinners they would forget
that a word might be said for the worries of Scribes and
Pharisees; and this defect or limitation might have re
commended their own daughter-in-law to them at this
moment as a fairly choice sort of lost person for their
love. (p. 384)
!
In earlier passages in the novel. Hardy has already shown
that the Clares are limited in their religious and ethical
outlook, • but that they adhere to their principles out of
genuine and selfless integrity. The analysis in the pas
sage quoted gives the same sense of tolerance toward human
nature as did the commentary upon Mrs. Durbeyfield. The
narrator views without sentimentality, but with large com
passion, the limitations of both the shiftless and carefree
Joan Durbeyfield and the upright Reverend and Mrs. Clare.
The character of Alec d'Urberville presents a special
problem in the consideration of point of view in Tess.
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1 5 5
Mec is generally acknowledged to be a thinly developed,
melodramatic character, with his "swarthy complexion,"
"badly moulded" lips, and "bold rolling eye" (p. 44). As
Richard C. Carpenter remarks,
Alec acts his stereotyped role so mechanically that we
almost feel like hissing him when he strokes his mustache
and calls Tess, 'My Beauty.
Carpenter adds that later in the novel there is "something
in Alec which goes beyond the mere stock seducer, for he
does seem torn between his better and his worser selves"
(pp. 129-130). Even so, Alec's character is never drawn
with the conviction of Tess or Angel, nor even that of other
minor characters in the novel. Since Alec is presented to
the reader almost entirely through dramatic scene, the
entries into his mind are sparse and superficial, and there
is very little authorial comment upon him. Thus, it would
be easy enough to attribute the failure of the characteriza
tion solely to the absence of inside views and commentary,
but in truth the weakness in conception is equally present
in the dramatic scenes in which he appears. Possibly the
use of effective commentary might have strengthened the de
velopment of Alec's character, but it could not have wholly
14.
Thomas Hardy, p. 129.
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1 5 6
rescued it.
In relation to other villains in Hardy's fictionj Alec
Is less outrageously absurd than either Aeneas Manston in
Desperate Remedies or William Dare in A Laodicean, both of
vhom are ludicrously melodramatic. On the other hand, Alec
Is a less convincing villain than Sergeant Troy in Far From
bhe Maddincf Crowd. Troy_, with his flashing sword and his
masculine charm^ is believably wicked, while Alec remains a
VOOden stereotype. Neither dramatic presentation nor the
use of symbol improves the quality of his character^ as a
few examples will show.
Alec is "revealed" dramatically in most of his appear
ances in the novel; the problem is that what is revealed
about him is largely stilted and artificial. The dramatic
revelations about Henchard in The Mayor of Casterbridge, as
we have seen in the preceding chapter^ provide the reader
vith multiple and enriching views of his character. But
Alec's appearances are marked by rather crude devices of re
petition, such as his "loud laugh" and his ever présent
zigar. After his first meeting with Tess, for example, he
goes back to the tent where he had given her lunch, and
sat down astride on a chair reflecting, with a pleased
gleam in his face. Thanhe broke into a loud laugh.
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?^nd again:
1 5 7
A loud laugh from behind Tess's back, in the shade
of the gardenj united with the titter within the room.
She looked round, and saw the red coal of a cigar: Alec
d'Urberville was standing there alone. He beckoned to
her, and she reluctantly retreated towards him. (p. 79)
The "loud laugh" and the cigar are too artificial to suggest
anything beyond the stock villain of the stage melodrama.
Even the use of Satanic imagery to suggest a symbolic
association does not bolster the quality of Alec's character
in the novel. When Alec appears before Tess at the bonfire,
holding a pitchfork. Hardy negates whatever evocative quali
ty the symbol might have contained by allowing Alec to state
the relationship explicitly:
'A jester might say this is just like Paradise.
You are Eve, and I am the old Other One come to tempt
you in the disguise of an inferior animali . . .' (p. 44^)
Such open avowal of his Satanic role by Alec himself re
duces the potential effect of the symbol to a crude and ob
vious device.
The only extended passage in which the narrator makes
any significant comments upon Alec in the novel indicates
that if Hardy had used judicious commentary more frequently
he might have produced a richer characterization of Alec.
This passage occurs when Alec abandons his religious conver-
I
sion because of the words of doubt which Tess has innocently
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reported to him as she learned them from Angel Clare;
1 5 8
Though d'Urberville had declared that this breach of
his engagement to-day was the simple backsliding of a
believerj Tess's words, as echoed from Angel Clare, had
made a deep impression upon him, and continued to do so
after he had left her. He moved on in silence, as if his
energies were benumbed by the hitherto undreamt-of possi
bility that his position was untenable. Reason had had
nothing to do with his whimsical conversion, which was
perhaps the mere freak of a careless man in search of a
new sensation, and temporarily impressed by his mother's
death.
The drops of logic Tess had let fall into the sea of
his enthusiasm served to chill its effervescence to stag
nation. He said to himself, as he pondered again and
again over the crystallized phrases that she had handed
on to him, 'That clever fellow little thought that, by
telling her those things, he might be paving my way
back to her!' (pp. 412-413)
In the first paragraph of the passage, the narrator enters
with a direct analysis of Alec's "whimsical conversion,
which was perhaps the mere freak of a careless man in searct
of a new sensation. ..." This is precisely the kind of
insight which is missing in most of Alec's appearances in
the novel, and unfortunately it is only fragmentary here.
En the second paragraph of the passage, the commentary
trails off into the confusing metaphor of the 'drops of
logic" chilling to "stagnation" the "sea of his enthusiasm,"
an analogy which tends to chill the reader's enthusiasm as
well. And the passage ends with the melodramatic suggestion
that the "clever fellow" was inadvertently "paving [Alec's]
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1 5 9
way back to her.'"— a markedly unconvincing chain of circum
stances.
Ultimately the plain fact seems to be that Hardy's
creative impulse^ for whatever reason^ failed to function
successfully in the creation of the character of Alec
d'Urberville. Whether the technique used is dramatic scenej
inside view, commentary, symbol, or metaphor, the develop
ment of the character lacks full conviction. Alec stands
as an unhappy reminder that techniques of narration have no
value in themselves but only in the effectiveness with whicl{i
they are used.
Generalizations
In the Chapter on The Mayor of Casterbridge I have
pointed out the effect of generalizing commentary to expand
the perspective of the immediate scene, especially as it
contributes in that novel to the control of distance. Now
I shall consider briefly Hardy's use of generalizations in
Tess of the d'Urbervilles, where such comments reflect the
moral perspective of the omniscient narrator. Generaliza
tions differ from the commentary in the two preceding cate
gories— information not known to the characters, and com
ments upon the characters— by being more detached from the
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_—
Immediate episode of the narrative. This is the technique
described approvingly by E. M. Forster as drawing back from
the narrative "to generalize about the conditions under
which he thinks life is carried on. When the omniscient
author makes this kind of generalizing statement^ he is most
vulnerable to accusations of intrusion. At the same time,
he may accomplish certain effects which cannot be achieved
in any other way. Such strategies as dramatic presentation,
limited point of view, oié symbol all operate rhetorically
to affect the reader's judgment; but Wayne Booth points out
that these devices are not necessarily adequate;
Many of these rhetorical tasks could have been per
formed, though less economically, without explicit
commentary. But as we turn to the task of generalizing
the effect of the entire work, making it seem to have a
universal or at least representative quality beyond the
literal facts of the case, it is not so clear that
other devices can even approximately serve. . . .
No character in Tom Jones, no character in Bleak
House, The Scarlet Letter, or War and Peace, knows
enough about the meaning of the whole to go beyond his
personal problems to any general view. (Rhetoric of
Fiction, pp. 197-198)
The effect of Hardy's generalizations, as of all aspects of
his commentary, is to present a broader perspective than
that available to his characters. Yet the critical resis
tance to commentary persists in such views as the following
^^See above, p. 14.
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by Arnold Kettle:
1 5 1
We believe in Tess . . . because her relationship to her
world is so successfully conveyed. When Hardy begins
theorizing, discussing in abstract terms Tess's plight,
we become uneasy; when he presents her to us in the
misty dawn at Talbothays we feel no need to question her
authenticity. . . . The unconvincing moments are those
when to make a 'point' Hardy allows his own inadequate
ideas to weaken his profound instinctive understanding.
(II, 60)
The implication that any intrusion of ideas weakens
the quality of the narrative is characteristically Jamesian.
A better distinction is the one made by W. J. Harvey in
speaking of George Eliot's use of direct commentary:
. . . the intrinsic quality of these comments is of the
greatest importance. If they repel the reader or provoke
his dissent, they will fail in their purpose; these com
ments are a means to an end, they are one of the bridges
between us and the novel. They are not ends in them
selves, not the proper objects of our contemplation. And
we are meant to pass easily and quickly over these com
ments, these bridges. . . . _
Thus when Hardy describes Tess's "half-unconscious rhapsody"
as a "fetichistic utterance in a Monotheistic setting"
(p. 134) the reader is apt to be repelled, in Harvey's
phrase, because the "intrinsic quality" of the comment is
inferior. The reader can readily dispense with such com
ments, not because they are generalizations, but because
^^"George Eliot and the Omniscient Author Convention,"
Nineteenth Century Fiction. XIII (September 1958), 100.
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1 6 2
they are awkwardly expressed. On the other handj when
Hardy's direct generalizations are blended, as they so often
are, with other elements in the narrative, they serve effec
tively as those "bridges" which Harvey describes as a means
and not an end in themselves. When Tess meets the man with
the paint-pot, for example, the generalization about theol
ogy merges with both setting and character:
Against the peaceful landscape, the pale, decaying
tints of the copses, the blue air of the horizon, and
the lichened stile-boards, these staring vermilion words
shone forth. They seemed to shout themselves out and
make the atmosphere ring. Some people might have cried
'Alas, poor TheologyI' at the hideous defacement— the
last grotesque phase of a creed which had served mankind
well in its time. But the words entered Tess with
accusatory horror. (p. 101)
The generalization that Christianity was a "creed which had
served mankind well in its time" would of course be passed
over more readily today than it would have been by outraged
Victorian readers. Nevertheless, as a technique of author'^
commentary, it is skilfully blended in this passage with
the landscape and with Tess's own sense of guilt.
Those who try to find a consistent philosophy in
Hardy's generalizing commentary are usually disappointed.
He may speak on one occasion of "cruel Nature's law"
(p. 187) but on other occasions Nature is presented as be
nign: Tess's fear was based on "an arbitrary law of society-
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’ 1 6 3
which had no foundation in Nature" (p. 355). Hardy himself
resisted the notion that the expression of ideas in a novel
needs to be consistent. In the 1892 Preface to Tess he re
plies to critics that
the novel was intended to be neither didactic nor
aggressive, but in the scenic parts to be representative
simply, and in the contemplative to be oftener charged
with impressions than with conviction. . . . (p. viii)
Nevertheless, Hardy's particular brand of pessimism,
only faintly tinged with what he later liked to describe as
meliorism, dominates the generalizing commentary in the
novel. In the same scene following Tess's first meeting
ifith Alec, the narrator enters with a full paragraph of
"pure" generalization, the longest such passage in the
novel. The tone conveys what I have earlier described as
bhat "ponderous gloom" which characterizes the.narrator
of Tess:
In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan
of things the call seldom produces the comer, the man
to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving. . . .
Enough that in the present case, as in millions, it was
not the two halves of a perfect whole that confronted
each other at the perfect moment^ a missing counterpart
wandered independently about the earth waiting in crass
obtuseness till the late time came. . . . (pp. 48-49)
As this brief excerpt indicates, the narrator suggests that
although things may not always necessarily turn out badly,
the chances are weighted heavily on the side of misfortune
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1 6 4
or tragedy. A similar view^, even more strongly expressed,
occurs in the famous phrase at the end of the novel which
caused such protest when it first appeared:
'Justice' was done, and the President of the Immortals,
in Aeschylean phrase, had ended his sport with Tess.
(p. 508)
It does not at all matter whether such expressions are
philosophically sound or whether they are "true" in the
larger macrocosm of the real world which exists outside the
novel. What does matter is that the voice of the omniscient
author, in his^role as narrator, creates in the reader a
conviction that this state of things does exist in Tess's
world. The unique contribution of direct generalizations
of this kind is to lend a universal dimension to the con
crete episodes of the narrative.
All of the functions of the omniscient author, then,
add in some way to the point of view from which the reader
regards the novel. Such perspective might be conveyed
through other techniques, but the brooding and melancholy
voice of the author in Tess becomes a familiar presence to
the reader and acquires a significance of its own in convey
ing the tragic vision in the novel. In Henry James's
familiar phrase, the "house of fiction has many windows,"
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1 6 5
and the role of the omniscient author^ when it is artistical
Ly used, may be one such window.
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CONCLUSION
In the discussion of point of view in the fiction of
Thomas Hardy^ I have indicated first of all that the study
of the technique of point of view is as valuable in works
like Hardy's which are told by an omniscient author as it
is in works told through any other narrative convention.
Point of view in its broadest sense includes more than the
standard categories of who is telling the story. It in
cludes the matter of distance, of inside views of the minds
of the characters, of the distinction between "telling" and
"showing," and of all aspects of the author's commentary.
There has been to date very little examination of
point of view as technique in the works of novelists using
the omniscient author convention. The principal reason for
the absence of such study is that the trend in the twentietlji
century has been toward critical acceptance of novelists
who tend to efface the author's presence, and critical re
jection of earlier conventions of narration. Thus the
166
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1 6 7
commenting author has often been labelled as "intrusive,"
especially by those critics who follow the principle first
suggested by Henry James in his prefaces that the story
be transmitted through the mind of a dramatized character
within the novel. What was for James simply a description
of one aspect of his own technique subsequently became codi
fied into assumptions that the omniscient author convention
was inferior to other narrative techniques.
Even in pre-Jamesian novelists, the use of the omni
scient author varies according to the particular practice
of each novelist using the convention. Thackeray's narrator
is often witty, satiric, and adopts the role of a personal
friend of the reader; George Eliot's narrator is serious,
intellectual, and sometimes didactic. Hardy's narrator most
resembles a brooding and melancholy presence, observing with
compassion the lives of the characters and reporting,
through an expanded perspective, the unique vision of their
situation.
The thesis of the present study is that the techniques
of point of view within the omniscient author convention in
Thomas Hardy's fiction are a positive and necessary part of
:he total artistic achievement of the novels. In The Mayor
of Casterbridge the problem of creating sympathy for the
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1 6 8
central character is successfully solved by the control of
distance between the narrator and the character of Michael
lenchard. in the early part of the novel the narrator re
mains relatively detached from the character. Henchard is
revealed largely through dramatic presentation^ and frequent
inside views of his mind are withheld. Gradually the dis
tance closes, culminating in the sustained inside view in
the final chapters which secures the reader's sympathy for
the hero and heightens his tragic death.
In Tess of the d'Urbervilles the role of the omniscient
author as narrator receives its finest expression. The
authorial commentary functions both directly and indirectly
to supplement the limited views of the characters and to re
late the immediate scene to a broader perspective of a
macrocosm outside the world of the novel. Such commentary
operates in three principal ways: (1) to supply information
not known to the characters, (2) to comment upon the charac
ters themselves, and (3) to generalize in relation to the
narrative.
Thus the techniques of point of view, when they are
affectively used, are an inherent part of the artistic merit
Df Hardy's best fiction.
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B I B L I O G R A P H Y
169
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Creator Peterson, Audrey Charlotte (author)

Core Title Point Of View In Thomas Hardy'S 'The Mayor Of Casterbridge' And 'Tess Of The D'Urbervilles'

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program English

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag Literature, Modern,OAI-PMH Harvest

Language English

Contributor Digitized by ProQuest (provenance)

Advisor Freeman, Ronald E. (committee chair), Malone, David H. (committee member), Mellard, James M. (committee member)

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c18-127217

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