Dara Miller

Dr. Murphy

ENG 445

28 January 2014

“By nature something of a woman-hater”: Henchard’s Trouble in The Mayor of Casterbridge

In Elaine Showalter’s feminist critique of Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge,

she not only claims that Hardy’s portrayal of Michael Henchard is “the fullest nineteenth-century

portrait of a man’s inner life” (177) but also that this portrait is only complete when Henchard is

successfully “unmanned,” (189) thus becoming a tragic figure. If, however, Henchard’s story

does provide a full portrait of a man’s inner life, it is that fact, not Henchard’s fate, which is

tragic. Despite Henchard’s intermittent impulses towards creating himself as a man of character,

his relationships with women throughout the novel keep that character from ever fully being

realized. In one of his first extended conversations with his young protégé Donald Farfrae,

Michael Henchard admits that despite his loneliness, he has been happy living a solitary life

since the debacle with his wife in part because he has always been “by nature something of a

woman-hater,” and thus “found it no hardship to keep mostly at distance from the sex” (Hardy

88). Once that distance is shortened by his wife and supposed daughter’s re-entrance into his

life, Henchard’s public fortunes immediately begin spiraling downward, until he is left much as

he appeared at the opening of the novel: destitute and alone. Throughout the novel, Henchard’s

life is plagued by his relationship with women; indeed, his years of public success are largely

characterized by his lack of affiliation with women, and Hardy at many points conflates the

tension Henchard feels between the public and private spheres of his life with his futile struggles

to maintain healthy relationships with the women in his life.

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The Mayor of Casterbridge begins “before the nineteenth century had reached one-third

of its span” (Hardy 7), and the bulk of the novel takes place in a time when, as Elizabeth

Langford notes, “an epistemic shift in early Victorian England” (77) was taking place. As

modern forces entered society, the “combined forces of industrialism, capitalism, imperialism,

growing urbanism, and individualism worked together to impact dramatically the social

production of space” (Langford 77). For the first time, British society began to draw clearly

demarcated lines separating not only the public and private spheres, but also the male and female

spaces. The tension in Michael Henchard’s character reflects social anxieties about these pulls.

He freely associates female influence with the degradation of his reputation (his life in the public

sphere), yet he is unable or unwilling to recognize that it is his private management of his

relationships, not the outside influence of others, which ultimately determines his public

standing.

Hardy’s depiction of this essential disconnect is evident even from the opening

description of Henchard: the young hay-trusser in the opening pages of the novel is presented

almost entirely in terms of outward appearance or public reception. His body is perfunctorily

mentioned as “fine…swarthy, and stern in aspect,” (Hardy 7) but significantly more detail is

spent on his clothes, which mark his social status, and his tools, which provide the means for

Henchard to make himself viable in the public arena. His walk sets him apart as a “skilled

countryman,” (Hardy 7) again focusing on public perception of his character. Even his attitude is

marked by his clothing, as his “dogged and cynical indifference personal to himself” only

“[shows] its presence…in the regularly interchanging fustian folds” (Hardy 7) of his breeches.

In contrast, Hardy describes nothing about Susan’s socially marked appearance, instead

focusing exclusively on her expression. Although she “virtually…walked the highway alone”

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(8), her gait denotes nothing about her public identity, as Henchard’s does. Instead, Hardy’s

description provides readers with a brief insight into her emotions and personal identity; a view

that is more intimate and much more private than the sweeping gaze over Henchard’s

appearance. Unlike Henchard, who Hardy describes in concrete physical details and social

trappings, Susan is marked by her personal mutability:

When she looked down sideways to the girl she became pretty, and even

handsome, particularly that in the action her features caught slantways the rays of

the strongly-coloured sun, which made transparencies of her eyelids and nostrils

and set fire one her lips. When she plodded on in the shade of the hedge, silently

thinking, she had the hard, half-apathetic expression of one who deems anything

possible at the hands of Time and Chance except, perhaps, fair play. The first

phase was the work of Nature, the second probably of civilization. (Hardy 8)

The contrasts in these disparate patterns of description introduce the complexities of

Hardy’s treatment of gender in The Mayor of Casterbridge. Susan, at this point, seems to earn

the more sympathetic depiction – she, as opposed to Henchard, is at least “thinking,” and her

expression is only “half-apathetic,” suggesting both that she is conscious of the harsh realities of

her circumstance and yet also capable of resisting, to some degree, the cruelties of “Time and

Chance.” However, the relationship between the two characters is already complicated by the

dichotomy between public appearance and private reality. The young couple “walked side by

side in such a way as to suggest afar off the low, easy, confidential chat of people full of

reciprocity” (Hardy 8, emphasis mine), but this appearance of a harmonious relationship only

emphasizes the actuality of their strained and unhappy marriage, which has become so

normalized between Henchard and Susan that she regards his purposefully “ignoring silence” as

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“a natural thing” (Hardy 8). According to William W. Morgan, Hardy regularly employs

strategic silences as “a critical element in the voicing of gender issues in all of [his] texts,” (182)

and in this instance the oppressive silence between Henchard and Susan ushers in the opportunity

for conflict that they find in the infamous furmity tent.

In Henchard’s sale of Susan and Elizabeth-Jane to the sailor Newton, he violates the

humanity of his wife and daughter as well as the sanctity of their family. This act, as Showalter

claims, also effectively alienates himself from the community of women at large (179). In this

scene, the boundaries between public and private become increasingly skewed; as Henchard

becomes increasingly intoxicated, his resentment over the state of his marriage becomes a matter

of public discussion. That this is not the first time he has made such a display is evident from

Hardy’s description of Susan’s initial reaction. If not indifferent, she at least “seem[s]

accustomed to such remarks” and “act[s] as if she did not hear them” (Hardy 12). His desire to

sell his family to the highest bidder is first a public joke, and then a matter of public tension as

the scene drags on uncomfortably long. Henchard’s audience offers him ample opportunity to

drop the distasteful subject, from the unexpected flattery from the “smoking gentleman” and the

interruption of the swallow flying through the tent to the staylace dealer’s admonition to

Henchard to “Behave yerself moral, good man, for Heaven’s love!” (Hardy 13). Henchard,

however, does not grasp the inappropriateness of his behavior, and instead of heeding the

warnings of the public, he allows those very warnings to goad him on and confirms his

commitment to carrying out the sale.

Henchard’s public sale of his wife, and her eventual defiant agreement to the bargain, “is

clearly an extraordinary event” which will later go on “to violate the moral sense of the

Casterbridge community” upon its discovery, effectively cementing his social ruin (Showalter

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178). This shocking opening to the novel has rightly garnered much critical discussion; however,

a single line in the scene that seems to escaped critical notice significantly effects the

characterization of Henchard, in regards both to his relationship with Susan and to his

understanding of the nature of public and private life. As the sale concludes, Newton emphasizes

that he will only go through with the bargain if Susan is willing; offended, Henchard replies: “…

she is willing, provided she can have the child. She said so only the other day when I talked o’t!”

(Hardy 17). This line, almost thrown away at the end of the scene, highlights two significant

insights: the first, that his daughter is of little consequence to Henchard, and second, that the

subject of separation between Henchard and Susan was not only one that had occurred multiple

times, but also ostensibly in a private setting as well.

Showalter rightly notes that the sale of a daughter fits neatly into the scheme of patriarchy,

and even suggests that this “is an act insidiously attractive to male fantasy, the rejection of a wife

who has borne only female offspring” (179). Annie Ramel has made the additional observation

that out of all the characters in the novel, the original Elizabeth-Jane is the only one to

completely disappear, thus creating a “breach in the historical continuity” (259) that Henchard is

incapable of mending. While these observations succinctly foreshadow Henchard’s eventual

family-less fate, the second half of his defense to Newton sheds light on Hardy’s development of

his character. Henchard’s “woman-hating,” or at least his inability to deal productively with

women, and his crucial inability to distinguish between public and private boundaries intersect to

create his fatal flaw. Because he cannot regulate his passions based on his contexts, he airs his

private marital struggles in a public arena, and what he should make public, his subsequent

remorse and search for her, he keeps private for fear of risking public shame.

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Notably, his sense of what will cause public shame only seems clear to him once he finds

himself alone; his rise to success in Casterbridge seems devoid of any scandal, implying that his

freedom and vow of soberness have allowed him to regulate his temper and manage himself in

the public sphere with impunity. Showalter claims that in creating this new life for himself,

Henchard “commits his life entirely to the male community” and “sells out or divorces his own

“feminine” self, his own need for passion, tenderness, and loyalty” (179). However, in order to

purposefully eliminate the feminine self that Showalter suggests, Henchard would first have to

recognize that aspect of himself, which he does not, at least not within the first half of the novel.

He instead makes his way throughout the untold pages between his vow and his wife’s return

oblivious to those needs, thinking perhaps of his own loneliness, but never of its cause. In his

early affair with Lucetta, told in retrospect to Farfrae on the night he discovers the reappearance

of Susan and Elizabeth-Jane, Henchard admits that he was even more “terribly careless of

appearances” (Hardy 89) than Lucetta was, once again displaying how his awareness of what

will cause public shame decreases in correlation to his involvement with women.

Throughout the remainder of the novel, Henchard struggles to reconcile the “tragic

inadequacy of his codes” and the “arid limits of patriarchal power” (Showalter 179) with his

reentrance into a life that includes relationships with women. Through these relationships, Hardy

provides Henchard with the potential to recognize his own innate feminine characteristics, and

thus come to a more complete understanding of his own humanity; however, despite his best

intentions, Henchard ultimately rebuffs these opportunities. Ramel points to the metaphor of

“crevices of the canvas” (Hardy 20) as “emblematic of the breach[es]” (259) in Henchard’s life,

the holes that are “ripped beyond the possibility of repair” (260). On Susan’s return, he feels that

his “first duty” (Hardy 60) is to her, and instantly desires to make amends. However, this sense

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of duty merely extends to his idea that he should publically atone for an act of public shame; in

his focus on acknowledging that wrong he did to her, he disregards any possibility of private

remorse, much less of private feeling for Susan. He courts her with “business-like determination”

and a sense of “strict mechanical rightness” (Hardy 92) rather than affection, even though he puts

forth great effort to appear to care for her:

Nobody would have conceived from his outward demeanour that 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—one, to make amends to his

neglected Susan; another, to provide a comfortable home for Elizabeth-Jane under

his paternal eye; and a third, to castigate himself with the thorns which these

restitutory acts brought in their train; among them the lowering of dignity in

public opinion by marrying so comparatively humble a woman. (Hardy 94)

Love and mutual respect may never have truly factored into Henchard’s relationship with

Susan, so perhaps it would be unreasonable that he should pursue those goals upon their reunion.

His emotional distance, however, at this point extends equally to Elizabeth-Jane, even though he

believes her to be his biological child. Instead, he substitutes material provision for any attempt

at human connection with her, and she at first “scarcely ma[kes] a perceptible addition to the

contents of his house” (Hardy 98). Similarly, he desires to stake a public claim in Elizabeth-Jane

by changing her surname, but when she asks him privately about it he gruffly replies with “Curse

me if I care what you do” (Hardy 101). After Susan’s death and his estrangement from Farfrae,

Henchard is once again reminded of his loneliness, and determines that Elizabeth-Jane is the

only one who could possibly fill the emotional void in his life. His loneliness, though, is a

“craving unfocused loneliness rather than a desire towards another person,” (Showalter 182) and

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he turns to his supposed daughter as a last resort rather than out of genuine tenderness towards

her. When he reveals his version of their history to her, he is oblivious to the obvious distress this

life-altering news causes her, instead feeling a “blaze of satisfaction” (Hardy 140) upon

effectively coercing her into changing her name. Like any quick-burning blaze, though,

Henchard’s proves short-lived, doused by yet another inconsiderate act as he reads Susan’s

confession despite her express wishes. Subsequently, his pride and his inability to admit his own

wrongdoing alienates Elizabeth-Jane even as she strives to think of him as her father.

Throughout the remainder of the novel, the public position he had worked so long to

maintain continues to spiral correlative to his interactions with the women in his life. His

relationship with Lucetta begins again with a sense of duty, only to devolve into jealous coercion

in the face of his rivalry with Farfrae. To some extent, even his conflict with Farfrae stems from

his inability to healthily interact with the female presences in his life. He fears that Farfrae will

steal Elizabeth-Jane, or, later, Lucetta. On a separate level, Henchard’s business has been wife to

him all these years, and he also views Farfrae’s rise to prominence above him as a particularly

painful cuckolding of its own. However, he cannot bring himself to exact revenge on Farfrae any

more than he can manage to separate himself completely from Elizabeth-Jane, but his “attempts

to replace ambition with love had been as fully foiled as his ambition itself” (Hardy 350) are in

vain. According to Simon Gatrell, after Henchard’s social downfall, “his desire for love is all that

remains, and Elizabeth-Jane is…the only possible object for that desire” (73). In this desire,

however, lies the crux of his struggle: even in the midst of his newfound focus on love, his

understanding of the nature of it is still warped by his attempts to maintain an impulsive control.

He remains, despite his apparent domestication, “the kind of man to whom some human subject

for pouring out his heat upon—were it emotive or were it choleric—was almost a necessity”

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(Hardy 140). Instead of communicating openly with Elizabeth-Jane, he attempts to force his

“dream of a future lit by her filial presence” (Hardy 320) on her through his lie to Newson,

effectively eliminating any real chance that they could have had for maintaining a relationship

after Newson’s return. Showalter argues that his complete social downfall allows “the forces of

male rebellion and female suffering to ultimately conjoin” (189) in Henchard, and that his final

ruin enables him “finally to learn [skills] of observation, attention, sensitivity, and compassion”

(189) that he formerly associated with feminine characteristics, but yet his “proud superiority”

(Hardy 359) still permits him from making peace with Elizabeth-Jane on her wedding day. The

final description of his character, written in his own words through his will, likewise expresses a

melancholic self-pity that denotes little true growth to his character. Although Henchard may

have become publically “unmanned,” his final words still depict a man who both scorns the

thought of feminine ideals and clings to his own idea of manhood; an idea proliferated with

unnecessary pride and tainted with extreme self-absorption.

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Works Cited

Gatrell, Simon. “The Mayor of Casterbridge: The Fate of Michael Henchard’s Character.”

Thomas Hardy and the Proper Study of Mankind. Charlottesville, VA: UP of Virginia,

1993. 68-96. Print.

Hardy, Thomas. The Mayor of Casterbridge. 1912. New York: Penguin, 2008. Print.

Law. Jules David. “Hardy, History, and the Gendered Body.” ELH 65.1 (Spring 1998): 223-257.

JSTOR. Web. 9 Jan 2014.

Langland, Elizabeth. “Private Space and Public Woman: Victorian Working-Class Narratives.”

Telling Tales: Gender and Narrative Form in Victorian Literature and Culture.

Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2002. 77-91. Print.

Morgan, William. “Gender and Silence in Thomas Hardy’s Texts.” Gender and

Discourse in Victorian Literature and Art. Ed. Antony Harrison and Beverly Taylor.

DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1992. Print.

Ramel, Annie. “The Crevice in the Canvas: A Study of The Mayor of Casterbridge.” Victorian

Literature and Culture 26.2 (1998): 259-272. JSTOR. Web. 28 Jan 2014.

Showalter, Elaine. "The Unmanning of the Mayor of Casterbridge." Thomas Hardy: Modern

Critical Views. ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House, 1987. 175-189. Print.

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