EARLY IN The Woodlanders, an idle surgeon spends a long afternoon watching the wet white paint on a swinging gate detach itself from the gate's surface and latch onto first the body of one, then a second, then a third young woman crossing into his neighborhood. Much later that same surgeon, not now idle but engaged in the exhausting work of self-rescue, crawls toward the home of a wealthy woman, lifts himself over the stile, and leaves behind on its altered surface his own red blood.1 These two moments, clear counterparts of one another, belong to a long succession of moments in which a gate or threshold or stile or doorway or fence is crossed to permit the passage of one person into a space belonging to a person of another gender or of another class gates, fences, and doorways that thus open into scenes resonant with economic and political and sexual disturbance. Hardy's concern here with the crossing of three young laboring class women into a space watched over by a middle class man and again with the crossing of that middle class man into a space whose very air is radiant with monied femininity, at the same time requires him (requires him because he is Thomas Hardy) to be attentive to another sort of crossing: the crossing of the white paint from the non-sentient surface of the wooden gate to the sentient surface of the human body, and in turn the crossing of the red blood from the sentient surface of the human body to the non-sentient surface of the wooden stile. This second kind of crossing is at least as essential to Hardy as the first, for his subject is not the passage of persons through the world but the passage of embodied persons through the world, and he is, on this subject, without peer in the three centuries of the English novel.2 The human creature is for him not now and then but habitually embodied: it has at every moment a physical circumference and boundary. Thus it is, in its work and its play, in the midst of great yearning and in the moment of great fatigue, forever rubbing up against and leaving traces of itself (its blood) on the world, as the world is forever rubbing up against and leaving traces of itself (its paint) on the human creature. So it is that a girl passes through a swinging gate. Soon she is through the gate. A minute later she is beyond the gate which, if she were to look back over her would be invisible, eclipsed by an intervening lilac bush. The act is over, yet it is still with her: one might say to her not You have paint on your shoulder, but instead,
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