I’m in the middle of reading “The Mayor of Casterbridge” novel by Thomas Hardy (https://www.pinkmonkey.com/dl/library1/caster.pdf). I have reached this following section of the book where the Mayor of Casterbridge, Michael Henchard, is seeking advice from Donald Farfrae, a Scot, whom he has appointed as his manager just a few days back, about what to do now that his wife Susan Henchard has appeared in his life again after 20 years, along with his now grown-up daughter Elizabeth-Jane, after her sailor-husband died to whom she was sold by Michael 20 years back when he was drunk.
Read the following section form the novel in this backdrop, and ponder what you would have done if you were the Mayor of Casterbridge? I can’t wait to find out how the rest of the novel unfolds.
“It is odd,” said Henchard, “that two men should meet as we have done on a purely
business ground, and that at the end of the first day I should wish to speak to ‘ee on a
family matter. But, damn it all, I am a lonely man, Farfrae: I have nobody else to speak
to; and why shouldn’t I tell it to ‘ee?”
“I’ll be glad to hear it, if I can be of any service,” said Donald, allowing his eyes to
travel over the intricate wood-carvings of the chimney-piece, representing garlanded
lyres, shields, and quivers, on either side of a draped ox-skull, and flanked by heads of
Apollo and Diana in low relief.
“I’ve not been always what I am now,” continued Henchard, his firm deep voice being
ever so little shaken. He was plainly under that strange influence which sometimes
prompts men to confide to the new-found friend what they will not tell to the old. “I
began life as a working hay-trusser, and when I was eighteen I married on the strength
o’ my calling. Would you think me a married man?” “I heard in the town that you were
a widower.” “Ah, yes- you would naturally have heard that. Well, I lost my wife
eighteen years ago- by my own fault…. This is how it came about. One summer evening
I was travelling for employment, and she was walking at my side, carrying the baby,
our only child. We came to a booth in a country fair. I was a drinking man at that time.”
Henchard paused a moment, threw himself back so that his elbow rested on the table,
his forehead being shaded by his hand, which, however, did not hide the marks of
introspective inflexibility on his features as he narrated in fullest detail the incidents of
the transaction with the sailor. The tinge of indifference which had at first been visible
in the Scotchman now disappeared.
Henchard went on to describe his attempts to find his wife; the oath he swore; the
solitary life he led during the years which followed. “I have kept my oath for eighteen
years,” he went on; “I have risen to what you see me now.” “Ay!” “Well- no wife could
I hear of in all that time; and being by nature something of a woman-hater, I have
found it no hardship to keep at a distance from the sex.
No wife could I hear of, I say, till this very day. And now- she has come back.” “Come
back, has she!” “This morning- this very morning. And what’s to be done?” “Can ye no’
take her and live with her, and make some amends?” “That’s what I’ve planned and
proposed. But, Farfrae,” said Henchard gloomingly, “by doing right with Susan I
wrong another innocent woman.” “Ye don’t say that?” “In the nature of things, Farfrae,
it is almost impossible that a man of my sort should have the good fortune to tide
through twenty years o’ life without making more blunders than one. It has been my
custom for many years to run across to Jersey in the way of business, particularly in the
potato and root season. I do a large trade wi’ them in that line. Well, one autumn when
stopping there I fell quite ill, and in my illness I sank into one of those gloomy fits I
sometimes suffer from, on account o’ the loneliness of my domestic life, when the
world seems to have the blackness of hell, and, like Job, I could curse the day that gave
me birth.”
“Ah, now, I never feel like it,” said Farfrae.
“Then pray to God that you never may, young man. While in this state I was taken pity
on by a woman- a young lady I should call her, for she was of good family, well bred,
and well educated- the daughter of some harum-scarum military officer who had got
into difficulties, and had his pay sequestrated. He was dead now, and her mother too,
and she was as lonely as I. This young creature was staying at the boarding-house
where I happened to have my lodging; and when I was pulled down she took upon
herself to nurse me. From that she got to have a foolish liking for me. Heavens knows
why, for I wasn’t worth it. But being together in the same house, and her feelings
warm, we got naturally intimate. I won’t go into particulars of what our relations were.
It is enough to say that we honestly meant to marry. There arose a scandal, which did
me no harm, but was of course ruin to her. Though, Farfrae, between you and me, as
man and man, I solemnly declare that philandering with womankind has neither been
my vice nor my virtue. She was terribly careless of appearances, and I was perhaps
more, because o’ my dreary state; and it was through this that the scandal arose. At last
I was well, and came away. When I was gone she suffered much on my account, and
didn’t forget to tell me so in letters one after another; till, latterly, I felt I owed her
something, and thought that, as I had not heard of Susan for so long, I would make this
other one the only return I could make, and ask her if she would run the risk of Susan
being alive (very slight as I believed) and marry me, such as I was. She jumped for joy,
and we should no doubt soon have been married- but, behold, Susan appears!” Donald
showed his deep concern at a complication so far beyond the degree of his simple
experiences.
“Now see what injury a man may cause around him! Even after that wrongdoing at the
fair when I was young, if I had never been so selfish as to let this giddy girl devote
herself to me over at Jersey, to the injury of her name, all might be well. Yet, as it
stands, I must bitterly disappoint one of these women; and it is the second. My first
duty is to Susan- there’s no doubt about that.” “They are both in a very melancholy
position, and that’s true!” murmured Donald.
“They are! For myself I don’t care- ‘twill all end one way. But these two.” Henchard
paused in reverie. “I feel I should like to treat the second, no less than the first, as
kindly as a man can in such a case.” Ah, well, it cannet be helped!” said the other, with
philosophic woefulness.
“You mun write to the young lady, and in your letter you must put it plain and honest
that it turns out she cannet be your wife, the first having come back; that you cannet see
her more; and that- ye wish her weel.” “That won’t do. ‘Od seize it, I must do a little
more than that! I must- though she did always brag about her rich uncle or rich aunt,
and her expectations from ‘em- I must send a useful sum of money to her, I supposejust
as a little recompense, poor girl…. Now, will you help me in this, and draw up an
explanation to her of all I’ve told ye, breaking it as gently as you can? I’m so bad at
letters.” “And I will.” “Now, I haven’t told you quite all yet. My wife Susan has my
daughter with her- the baby that was in her arms at the fair; and this girl knows
nothing of me beyond that I am some sort of relation by marriage. She has grown up in
the belief that the sailor to whom I made over her mother, and who is now dead, was
her father, and her mother’s husband. What her mother has always felt, she and I
together feel now- that we can’t proclaim our disgrace to the girl by letting her know
the truth. Now what would you do?- I want your advice.” “I think I’d run the risk, and
tell her the truth. She’ll forgive ye both.” “Never!” said Henchard. “I am not going to
let her know the truth. Her mother and I be going to marry again; and it will not only
help us to keep our child’s respect, but it will be more proper. Susan looks upon herself
as the sailor’s widow, and won’t think o’ living with me as formerly without another
religious ceremony- and she’s right.” Farfrae thereupon said no more. The letter to the
young Jersey woman was carefully framed by him, and the interview ended, Henchard
saying, as the Scotchman left, “I feel it a great relief, Farfrae, to tell some friend o’ this!
You see now that the Mayor of Casterbridge is not so thriving in his mind as it seems
he might be from the state of his pocket.”
“I do. And I am sorry for ye!” said Farfrae.
When he was gone, Henchard copied the letter, and, enclosing a cheque, took it to the
post-office, from which he walked back thoughtfully.
“Can it be that it will go off so easily!” he said. “Poor thing- God knows! Now then, to
make amends to Susan!”
Know Thyself 