Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas HardyFar from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy

Far from the Madding Crowd

byThomas HardyIntroduction byMargaret Drabble

Paperback | December 11, 2001


Far from the Madding Crowd, Hardy’s passionate tale of the beautiful, headstrong farmer Bathsheba Everdene and her three suitors, firmly established the thirty-four-year-old writer as a popular novelist. According to Virginia Woolf, “The subject was right; the method was right; the poet and the countryman, the sensual man, the sombre reflective man, the man of learning, all enlisted to produce a book which . . . must hold its place among the great English novels.” Introducing the fictional name of “Wessex” to describe Hardy’s legendary countryside, this early masterpiece draws a vivid picture of rural life in southwest England.

This Modern Library Paperback Classic is set from the 1912 Wessex edition and features Hardy’s map of Wessex.
Margaret Drabble edited The Oxford Companion to English Literature and The Genius of Thomas Hardy. Her novels include The Waterfall and The Gates of Ivory, and, most recently, The Witch of Exmoor and The Peppered Moth. She lives in England.
Title:Far from the Madding CrowdFormat:PaperbackPublished:December 11, 2001Publisher:Random House Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:037575797X

ISBN - 13:9780375757976

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Rated 5 out of 5 by from Classic Beauty One of the classic books of literature that isn't similar to every other love story. It portrays a strong female lead who we can all identify with, and who despite her flaws, represents real life.
Date published: 2018-03-02
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Hardy to get through I didn't enjoy this book as much as I had hoped too. I was excited to dive in to a story about an independent female farmer in rural England during the Victorian Era. However, I found the first half of the book extremely repetitive; Bathsheba is always turning heads as a self-sufficient woman, and Oak is always swooping in to save the day as a deus ex machina. I think the repetition may be attributed to Hardy releasing the book as a serial. The second half of the book disappointed me because Bathsheba loses her agency and makes a string of poor choices, as other reviewers have mentioned below. This was the first book I've read by Thomas Hardy and I am in no rush to read more.
Date published: 2018-02-26
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Loved it Another timeless classic, well worth the read
Date published: 2017-03-10
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A Classic from a Great Author You may or may not like Bathsheba Everdene, the heroine of this novel, due to her admitedly long sting of poor decisions, but it is hard to deny the boldness of her presence. After all she did manage to attract three suiters. The plot is wonderful and the heroine and the men who fall in love with her, are such compelling, well-rounded characters. Worth the time.
Date published: 2017-01-20
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Really Great I watched the movie before I read the book, so I knew what to expect, but I still really enjoyed this book. It was dark, and angsty, with a heroine who made a very large amount of stupid choices, and yet I really liked it. One of the main reasons I liked it - the reason I rated it 4 stars instead of 3 - was Gabriel Oaks. He's gone up there with Atticus Finch and Mr. Darcy as one of my favorite fictional men. He's just so steady, and dependable, and sweet, and down-to-the-core good. Honestly, he's too good for Bathsheba, but by the end of it I was just so happy that he was happy that I didn't mind that he ignored everything she'd done to him. Bathsheba was interesting. On the one hand, I kind hated her, because she made so many mistakes that ended up hurting a lot of people, and she wasn't able to keep the fire that she promised going throughout her trials. On the other hand, I loved her, for the same reasons. She was very human, very relatable, and it's impossible to judge her for her choices because they're so like the mistakes I make all the time. She was just very real, and, though you wanted to give her a swift kick sometimes, she was ultimately the kind of heroine you cheered on because she was just so human. Overall, sad, but happy, and brilliant writing, and I don't know, I just loved it.
Date published: 2016-12-17
Rated 5 out of 5 by from I wish he had written more!! I was surprised at how easy it was to read, since it was written in 1860 and most literature from that time period has a totally different linguistic style. On that note, I loved how the dialog of the farm hands was written phonetically, reflecting the caste during the time period. Hardy has such a unique plot progression, (as well as in Tess of the Dubervilles) that continues to astound me with his creativity (honestly, who proposes to a woman- who clearly doesn't like him- and then pulls out a shotgun and shoots her "dead" husband?? Who comes up with that?!). I enjoyed the short paragraphs, making it easy for me to stop and start the book on a dime. It was a fast read, he didn't waste time on details or extraneous conversation, everything was incised for a reason.
Date published: 2016-12-01
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A Hardy Paean to Nature, Love, and Literature Reading Hardy in the “age of speed” and “conspicuous consumption” may be an acquired taste, but once acquired it is hard to live without. Let me begin by introducing the heroine of the novel and then give you three reasons for this conclusion. I must admit that what initially spurred me to read Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd was the new film adaptation (starring Carey Mulligan). Now, having spent the last few weeks in the glorious Weatherbury cabin overlooking the amorous vicissitudes of its heroine Bathsheba Everdene I am terrified that the film will never be able to live up to its literary inspiration. Bathsheba, much like the world she inhabits, is a compound character. She is a little bit like the Biblical Bathsheba (both fall for, or prey to, military malingering types), she has the passion and naiveté of Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina (Wrosnky was a military man too!), and much like Elizabeth Bennett and Jane Eyre she grows (up) to learn that “love which…waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown” may have always been closer to her than she ever imagined. This is not to suggest that Bathsheba is not an original character (or that there are intentional influences at work here). Rather, these affinities only serve to prove the complexity and genuineness of Hardy’s heroine and ipso facto the literary value of the entire project. Anyways, here are my three reason I fell in love with a place Far from the Madding Crowd. Nature: Thoreau’s Walden maybe the closest American analog for the reverence for the raw and the natural Hardy evokes in his novel. But staying in the British Isles, I think it is not too far-fetched to say that what Dickens was to urban London of the 19th century Hardy is to be to the rural Casterbridges and Weatherburys. The fact that both would decry the human cost of industrial progress notwithstanding, the scientific precision, speed, and mechanical-like perfection of the Dickensian plot finds its natural counterpart (and its its antidote) in the simmering and organic ebbs and flows of Hardy’s countryside. Indeed, in the latter’s world of yore plot and characters “move…swell” and mature with the alacrity and rapidity of a country snail or rather young wine – but given sufficient time and space they ripen to become a veritable feast for the senses. Indeed, there are times, as in the following passage (describing spring), when Hardy directly juxtaposes the urban and the rural predictably endowing the latter with the unassuming grace and power over the former: “The vegetable world begins to move and swell and the saps to rise, till in the completest silence of lone gardens and trackless plantations, where everything seems helpless and still after the bond and slavery of frost, there are bustling, strainings, united thrusts, and pulls-all-together, in comparison with which the powerful tugs of cranes and pulleys in a noisy city are but pigmy efforts” This certainly is a delightful David vs. Goliath metaphor, but the most evocative passage, which also perfectly encapsulates the title of the novel, comes in one of the early chapters where Hardy invites his readers to solitarily ponder the majestic beauty of the night sky from a country hilltop: “To persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight such as this, the roll of the world eastward is almost palpable…The poetry of motion is a phrase much in use, and to enjoy the epic form of that gratification it is necessary to stand on a hill at a small our of the night, and, having first expanded with a sense of difference from the mass of civilized mankind, who are dreamwrapt and disregardful of all such proceedings at this time, long and quietly watch your stately progress through the stars. After such nocturnal reconnoitre it is hard to get back to earth, and to believe that the consciousness of such majestic speeding is derived from tiny human frame.” There is raw, visceral beauty in this Thoreau-like passage where “the madding crowd” is likened to “the mass of civilized mankind”, but we should note that its aims are as descriptive as they are prescriptive. No, it is not that we should all become farmers, hermits, or Luddites, but to truly appreciate Hardy’s novel – indeed to “suck the marrow out of life”, to use Thoreau’s phrase – it sometimes becomes necessary to be as “uncivilized” as the solitary stargazer in this passage. Love: Thus far I have attempted to give the potential reader a sneak preview of the pastoral beauty Hardy brings to his novel, but what elevates a mere novel to a classic worthy of our investment centuries after its birth is the quality of its plot – in this case, the masterful love narrative. No, I do not intend to give away what must be earned to be appreciated, but I will only say that the readers enamored with the likes of Austen, Bronte, and Dickens or continental writers of the period like Hugo or Dumas shall not be disappointed. Yes, as mentioned before, the natural engines of Hardy’s countryside may take their time to get going, but far from the madding crowd does not mean far from maddingly amorous twists and turns – and Weatherbury, as it turns out, may have as many of these as London or Paris. In fact, with only few chapters remaining the story seems to have distended to an unmanageable size for any satisfying denouement, but Hardy (perhaps himself under time pressure) masterfully resolved all the loose ends and somewhat paradoxically quenched my aesthetic thirst while leaving me wanting more. Literature: The art of style is where Hardy completes his literary hat trick. First of all, what unlike many of the other literary giants mentioned before, he endows his characters with something akin to second consciousness. What I mean is that Hardy (seemingly anticipating the post-modern reckoning with moral dualism) not only refuses to compartmentalize his protagonists as good or bad, but there are times where he dares to bare the darker (uglier) hues of their souls thus humanizing what we, readers longing for patterns and order, would rather continue to see as one-dimensional and therefore specious. It is difficult to give an example of this without giving away the plot, but Hardy himself describes the feelings he endows his characters with as “strange complications of impulses” and “lower instincts of uncharitableness”. Finally, Far from the Madding Crowd is a place pithy phrases and sublime metaphors abound. “Ordinary men take wives because possession is not possible without marriage…ordinary women accepts husbands because marriage is not possible without possession” is just one example of the former; and, “Bathsheba was lonely and miserable now; not lonelier actually than she had been before her marriage; but her loneliness then was to that of the present as the solitude of the mountain is to the solitude of a cave” is, I think, a divine example of the latter. As I read and reread each passage in this wonderful book I realized that to write like this is well-nigh impossible in the 21st century. Computers, internet, social media seem to have crowded our already congested time and space changing both the writers’ and readers’ aesthetic tastes buds. This, I think is OK because change is OK. But in that spirit of change occasional rebooting or rewiring our systems may enable us to delight in things we wouldn’t have thought enjoyable before. Well, Far the Madding Crowd is a perfect place to do just that and I wholeheartedly hope I will see you there.
Date published: 2015-07-05

Read from the Book

Chapter I Description of Farmer Oak—An IncidentWhen Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun.His Christian name was Gabriel,and on working days he was a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character. On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people of the parish and the drunken section,—that is, he went to church, but yawned privately by the time the congregation reached the Nicene creed, and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture.Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak’s appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own—the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed in that way. He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a coat like Dr. Johnson’s,4 his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp—their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity.Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being several years older than Oak’s grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours’ windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. It may be mentioned that Oak’s fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well.But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one of his fields on a certain December morning—sunny and exceedingly mild—might have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these. In his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of the boy. His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. But there is a way some men have, rural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their manner of showing them. And from a quiet modesty that would have become a vestal, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world’s room, Oak walked unassumingly, and with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. This may be said to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his capacity to wear well, which Oak did not.He had just reached the time of life at which “young” is ceasing to be the prefix of “man” in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster and Chalk-Newton. Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming down the incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking alongside bearing a whip perpendicularly. The waggon was laden with household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, young and attractive. Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his eyes.“The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss,” said the waggoner.“Then I heard it fall,” said the girl, in a soft, though not particularly low voice. “I heard a noise I could not account for when we were coming up the hill.”“I’ll run back.”“Do,” she answered.The sensible horses stood perfectly still, and the waggoner’s steps sank fainter and fainter in the distance.The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by tables and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle, and ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses, together with a caged canary—all probably from the windows of the house just vacated. There was also a cat in a willow basket, from the partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and affectionately surveyed the small birds around.The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up and down the perches of its prison. Then she looked attentively downwards. It was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an oblong package tied in paper, and lying between them. She turned her head to learn if the waggoner were coming. He was not yet in sight; and her eyes crept back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run upon what was inside it. At length she drew the article into her lap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively. She parted her lips and smiled.It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright face and dark hair. The myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed around her were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they invested the whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar vernal charm. What possessed her to indulge in such a performance in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived farmer who were alone its spectators,—whether the smile began as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art,—nobody knows; it ended certainly in a real smile. She blushed at herself, and seeing her reflection blush, blushed the more.The change from the customary spot and necessary occasion of such an act—from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out of doors—lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically possess. The picture was a delicate one. Woman’s prescriptive infirmity had stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the freshness of an originality. A cynical inference was irresistible by Gabriel Oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would have been. There was no necessity whatever for her looking in the glass. She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such intention had been her motive in taking up the glass. She simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind, her thoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely dramas in which men would play a part—vistas of probable triumphs—the smiles being of a phase suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost and won. Still, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any part in them at all.The waggoner’s steps were heard returning. She put the glass in the paper, and the whole again into its place.When the waggon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from his point of espial, and descending into the road, followed the vehicle to the turnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom of the hill, where the object of his contemplation now halted for the payment of toll. About twenty steps still remained between him and the gate, when he heard a dispute. It was a difference concerning twopence between the persons with the waggon and the man at the toll-bar.“Mis’ess’s niece is upon the top of the things, and she says that’s enough that I’ve offered ye, you great miser, and she won’t pay any more.” These were the waggoner’s words.“Very well; then mis’ess’s niece can’t pass,” said the turnpike-keeper, closing the gate.Oak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell into a reverie. There was something in the tone of twopence remarkably insignificant. Threepence had a definite value as money—it was an appreciable infringement on a day’s wages, and, as such, a higgling matter; but twopence——“Here,” he said, stepping forward and handing twopence to the gatekeeper; “let the young woman pass.” He looked up at her then; she heard his words, and looked down.Gabriel’s features adhered throughout their form so exactly to the middle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugliness of Judas Iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, that not a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of distinction or notoriety. The red-jacketed and dark-haired maiden seemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him, and told her man to drive on. She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably she felt none, for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we know how women take a favour of that kind.The gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle. “That’s a handsome maid,” he said to Oak.“But she has her faults,” said Gabriel.“True, farmer.”“And the greatest of them is—well, what it is always.”“Beating people down? ay, ’tis so.”“O no.”“What, then?”Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller’s indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance over the hedge, and said, “Vanity.”

Bookclub Guide

1. According to the scholar Howard Babb, Hardy’s depiction of Wessex “impinges upon the consciousness of the reader in many ways . . . as mere setting, or a symbol, or as a being in its own right.” How does environment serve as an integral part of this novel?2. The title of Far from the Madding Crowd, borrowed from Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” celebrates the “cool, sequestered” lives of rural folks. Is the title ironic or appropriate?3. The rustics who work the land, tend the sheep, and gather at Warren’s malt house have been likened to a Greek chorus. Can you support this analogy? What function do the rustics serve in the novel?4. Time is a theme that weaves throughout the story. One example may be found in Chapter XVI, when Frank Troy stands rigidly in All Saints Church awaiting Fanny’s delayed arrival while a “grotesque clockwork” agonizingly marks each passing moment. Where else does Hardy employ the theme of time, and what purpose does it serve?5. In Chapter IV, Bathsheba tells Gabriel, “I want somebody to tame me; I am too independent: and you would never be able to, I know.” How is Bathsheba “tamed” over the course of the novel, and who is responsible for her transformation?6. How does the subordinate plot concerning Fanny Robin and Sergeant Troy serve as a contract to the main storyline?7. What do Bathsheba Everdene and Fanny Robin have in common, and how do they differ? And what does Hardy’s portrayal of these two women reveal about Victorian moral standards?8. In Gabriel Oak, Sergeant Troy, and Farmer Boldwood, Hardy has depicted three very different suitors in pursuit of Bathsheba Everdene. What distinguishes each of these characters, and what values does each of them represent?9. Two particular episodes in Far from the Madding Crowd are often cited for their profound sensuality: Sergeant Troy’s seduction of Bathsheba through swordplay (Chapter XXVIII), and Gabriel’s sheep-shearing scene (Chapter XXII). What elements does Hardy employ to make these scenes so powerful?10. At the end of the novel, Hardy describes the remarkable bond between Gabriel and Bathsheba: “Theirs was that substantial affection which arises . . . when the two who are thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each other’s character, and not the best till further on, the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard, prosaic reality.” How does this relationship serve as a contrast to other examples of love and courtship throughout the novel? Consider Bathsheba and her three suitors, as well as Fanny Robin and Sergeant Troy.

Editorial Reviews

“Far from the Madding Crowd is the first of Thomas Hardy’s great novels, and the first to sound the tragic note
for which his fiction is best remembered.”
-Margaret Drabble