Much has been made of its self-conscious Victorian morals, dogged naturalism, romantic nostalgia, and stringent emphasis on fate. Few authors can so forcefully shove the wheel of fortune into the center of a narrative without collapsing the structure and ending with a sour note of adolescent nihilism. On occasion, both Shakespeare and Hardy could.¹ But enough lauding.

Hardy’s MC is subtitled A Story of a Man of Character. Being “a man of character” is a Victorian, and essentially a middle class, ideal. The angst to distinguish themselves, to secure self-assurance in the upheaval of Victorian England, led the middle class to rigorously emphasize a moral education.  Eventually, the Victorian concept of “character” came to define both a social and moral standard of conduct. Middle class England² grew rapidly within the Victorian Age. As its impact on society as a whole deepened (leading in large part to the Reform Bills) in a comparitively homogeneous society, their ideals spread, affecting those of every class and creed.  

Within MC, Henchard’s ability to behave as a man of character is inexorably linked to the state of his reputation. He begins as a poverty-stricken drunkard, reeling from one village to the next with a neglected wife and child. After selling his wife and daughter to the highest bidder, Henchard’s conscience spurs him to change, to aspire to a moral and social ideal. A perfect stereotype of the rising middle class, he works his fingers to the bone, rising to a position of great wealth and authority in his community, and swears an oath against the alcoholism that plagued him in the past.  Eventually, and token of the rising civic opportunities the middle class were afforded, Henchard becomes the mayor of Casterbridge.  And in that upward social and moral narrative, three significant elements of the middle class culture are identified: power (ownership of one’s destiny), money (the right to an honest wage for an honest day’s work), and politics (the hope of affecting change).

Ironically, Henchard’s onus to both a social reputation and certain moral obligations precipitates his downfall. When, unbeknownst to the village, his long-missing wife (Susan) reappears with a grown child, he shrewdly maneuvers a courtship and remarriage with Susan so that both his moral obligation and social reputation are satisfied. The “business-like determination” with which the mayor approaches these duties was not without cost. The village, still ignorant of Henchard’s history with Susan, begins to question his reputation in marrying beneath his station. Henchard’s bumbling (step-) daughter proves an obstacle as well, since he has received litte in the way of a moral education. Elizabeth Jane proves socially incompetent and morally naive. After the death of Susan, Henchard’s reputation and character begin to unravel rapidly. While his moral deceit becomes clear in his private life, his social reputation suffers at the hands of modernization in his public life. His downward spiral becomes inevitable and Henchard sinks both morally and socially to the bottom once more.

I can’t make up my mind as to what Hardy wished to communicate. Was there any irony in his narration? Does he truly believe, as Heraclitus³ noted, that one’s “character is destiny” or is he lacing this social commentary with yet another bite of social criticism?  I favored an ironic interpretation until I reached the wedding of Lucetta and Farfrae, after which Hardy’s obligation to a moral/just ending began to alter the trajectory of the narrative.  Any opinions on the matter are welcome.

Addendum: Oh! And if you like to explore architecture and spatcal patterns in literature, MC has much to offer.

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¹Fitting, since critics also parallel Hardy’s tale to Aristotelian tragedy.

²The middle class enveloped a broad spectrum–farmer, professors, merchants, clergy, etc.

³Hardy’s tone mirrors that of Greek philosopher Heraclitus of Ephesus, whose teaching was variously interpreted as follows:

Character is fate.
A man’s character is his fate.
A man’s character is his guardian divinity.

Fortunately, that semester simultaneously marked the launch of my culinary blog obsession (and subsequent subscriptions to Gourmet and Bon Appetit). In that crucial moment of scholarly angst, my love for literature and food aligned and I discovered my illusive essay theme for the Emma “gem.” Austen’s novel frames Emma Woodhouse’s coming-of-age tale in the famine-stricken English countryside of the Late Georgian period. Consequently, within the novel food proves indicative of Highbury’s political and economic stability. A mouth-watering (or less than) list of economic indicators flowered:

• strawberries
• tea & quadrille
• broth
• thin gruel
• small egg(s)
• tart
• fish
• scalloped oysters
• minced chicken
• routcakes
• a hind-quarter (of pork)
• walnuts
• the finest goose
• best baked apple
• arrowroot
• bread and butter
• currants

The correlation between a dry gullet/stomach and economic instability extends beyond England’s Georgian period. With a bowl of FitActive popcorn in my lap, I watched Wall Street’s 8-day plunge crescendo in a single day to a 1000-point stock swing. I recalled Highbury when NPR noted a nostalgic, gut reaction to the crisis and asked the question: just which stocks didn’t plummet? Campbell’s stocks, not unlike their hearty soup products, have reclaimed a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t this autumn. Just in time too, since Campbell’s sentimental branding strategy gave way to a more aggressive approach in September.

If the new MSG-free advertising strategy works, Campbell’s plan would further suggest America’s (a) unfathomable wealth and (b) general gullibility. This perspective may be cynical one but it offers this skeptic some relief: the danger of malnutrition only applies to the Georgian period, thank you. If we’ve enough coins in our pocket to care about the grossly-exaggerated dangers of MSG, we can certainly avoid An Ghorta Mhór.