BOOK ONE
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Chapter I
The Workshop
WITH A SINGLE DROP OF ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799.
The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tentlike pile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to the open window opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough, grey shepherd dog had made himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer singingâ
Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth...
Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle; but it presently broke out again with renewed vigourâ
Let all thy converse be sincere,
Thy conscience as the noonday clear.
Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest belonged to a large-boned, muscular man nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats of strength; yet the long supple hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his name; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an expression of good-humoured honest intelligence.
It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adamâs brother. He is nearly as tall; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hair and complexion; but the strength of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the remarkable difference of expression both in form and face. Sethâs broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his brotherâs; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and benign. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adamâs, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow.
The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam.
The concert of the tools and Adamâs voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working intently, placed it against the wall, and said, âThere! Iâve finished my door to-day, anyhow.â
The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly, red-haired man known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise, âWhat! Dost think theeâst finished the door?â
âAye, sure,â said Seth, with answering surprise; âwhatâs awanting toât?â
A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before, âWhy, theeâst forgot the panels.â
The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, and coloured over brow and crown.
âHoorray!â shouted a small lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running forward and seizing the door. âWeâll hang up thâ door at fur end oâ thâ shop anâ write onât âSeth Bede, the Methody, his work.â Here, Jim, lendâs hould oâ thâ red pot.â
âNonsense!â said Adam. âLet it alone, Ben Cranage. Youâll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day; youâll laugh oâ thâ other side oâ your mouth then.â
âCatch me at it, Adam. Itâll be a good while afore my headâs full oâ thâ Methodies,â said Ben.
âNay, but itâs often full oâ drink, and thatâs worse.â
Ben, however, had now got the âred potâ in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscription, making, by way of preliminary, an imaginary S in the air.
âLet it alone, will you?â Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. âLet it alone, or Iâll shake the soul out oâ your body.â
Ben shook in Adamâs iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he didnât mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against the wall. But now Seth spoke.
âLet be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, heâs iâ the right to laugh at meâI canna help laughing at myself.â
âI shanât loose him till he promises to let the door alone,â said Adam.
âCome, Ben, lad,â said Seth, in a persuasive tone, âdonât letâs have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. You mayâs well try to turn a waggon in a narrow lane. Say youâll leave the door alone, and make an end onât.â
âI binna frighted at Adam,â said Ben, âbut I donna mind sayinâ as Iâll let ât alone at your askinâ, Seth.â
âCome, thatâs wise of you, Ben,â said Adam, laughing and relaxing his grasp.
They all returned to their work now; but Wiry Ben, having had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by a success in sarcasm.
âWhich was ye thinkinâ on, Seth,â he beganâ"the pretty parsonâs face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?â
âCome and hear her, Ben,â said Seth, good-humouredly; âsheâs going to preach on the Green to-night; happen yeâd get something to think on yourself then, instead oâ those wicked songs youâre so fond on. Ye might get religion, and that âud be the best dayâs earnings yâ ever made.â
âAll iâ good time for that, Seth; Iâll think about that when Iâm a-goinâ to settle iâ life; bachelors doesnât want such heavy earninâs. Happen I shall do the coortinâ anâ the religion both together, as YE do, Seth; but ye wouldna haâ me get converted anâ chop in atween ye anâ the pretty preacher, anâ carry her aff?â
âNo fear oâ that, Ben; sheâs neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you wonât speak lightly on her again.â
âWell, Iâm half a mind tâ haâ a look at her to-night, if there isnât good company at thâ Holly Bush. Whatâll she take for her text? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up iâ time forât. Willât beâwhat come ye out for to see? A prophetess? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophetessâa uncommon pretty young woman.â
âCome, Ben,â said Adam, rather sternly, âyou let the words oâ the Bible alone; youâre going too far now.â
âWhat! Are YE a-turninâ rounâ, Adam? I thought ye war dead again thâ women preachinâ, a while agoo?â
âNay, Iâm not turninâ noway. I said nought about the women preachinâ. I said, You let the Bible alone: youâve got a jest-book, hanât you, as youâre rare and proud on? Keep your dirty fingers to that.â
âWhy, yâ are gettinâ as big a saint as Seth. Yâ are goinâ to thâ preachinâ to-night, I should think. Yeâll do finely tâ lead the singinâ. But I donâ know what Parson Irwine âull say at his granâ favright Adam Bede a-turninâ Methody.â
âNever do you bother yourself about me, Ben. Iâm not a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you areâthough itâs like enough youâll turn to something worse. Mester Irwineâs got more sense nor to meddle wiâ peopleâs doing as they like in religion. Thatâs between themselves and God, as heâs said to me many a time.â
âAye, aye; but heâs none so fond oâ your dissenters, for all that.â
âMaybe; Iâm none so fond oâ Josh Todâs thick ale, but I donât hinder you from making a fool oâ yourself wiât.â
There was a laugh at this thrust of Adamâs, but Seth said, very seriously. âNay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybodyâs religionâs like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and the Methodists have got the root oâ the matter as well as the church folks.â
âNay, Seth, lad; Iâm not for laughing at no manâs religion. Let âem follow their consciences, thatâs all. Only I think it âud be better if their consciences âud let âem stay quiet iâ the churchâthereâs a deal to be learnt there. And thereâs such a thing as being oversperitial; we must have something beside Gospel iâ this world. Look at the canals, anâ thâ aqueducâs, anâ thâ coal-pit engines, and Arkwrightâs mills there at Cromford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them things, I reckon. But tâ hear some oâ them preachers, youâd think as a man must be doing nothing allâs life but shuttingâs eyes and looking whatâs agoing on inside him. I know a man must have the love oâ God in his soul, and the Bibleâs Godâs word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way oâ looking at it: thereâs the sperrit oâ God in all things and all timesâweekday as well as Sundayâand iâ the great works and inventions, and iâ the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as well as with our souls; and if a man does bits oâ jobs out oâ working hoursâbuilds a oven for âs wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit oâ garden and makes two potatoes grow istead oâ one, heâs doinâ more good, and heâs just as near to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.â
âWell done, Adam!â said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his planks while Adam was speaking; âthatâs the best sarmunt Iâve heared this long while. By thâ same token, my wifeâs been a-plaguinâ on me to build her a oven this twelvemont.â
âThereâs reason in what thee sayâst, Adam,â observed Seth, gravely. âBut thee knowâst thyself as itâs hearing the preachers thee findâst so much fault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. Itâs the preacher as empties thâ alehouse; and if a man gets religion, heâll do his work none the worse for that.â
âOnây heâll lave the panels out oâ thâ doors sometimes, eh, Seth?â said Wiry Ben.
âAh, Ben, youâve got a joke againâ me as âll last you your life. But it isna religion as was iâ fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the moreâs the pity.â
âNeâer heed me, Seth,â said Wiry Ben, âyâ are a down-right good-hearted chap, panels or no panels; anâ ye donna set up your bristles at every bit oâ fun, like some oâ your kin, as is mayhap cliverer.â
âSeth, lad,â said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, âthee mustna take me unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now. Some âs got one way oâ looking at things and some âs got another.â
âNay, nay, Addy, thee meanâst me no unkindness,â said Seth, âI know that well enough. Theeât like thy dog Gypâthee barkâst at me sometimes, but thee allays lickâst my hand after.â
All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket; Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, âLook there, now! I canât abide to see men throw away their tools iâ that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure iâ their work and was afraid oâ doing a stroke too much.â
Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, âAye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When yâ are six-anâ-forty like me, istid oâ six-anâ-twenty, ye wonna be so flush oâ workinâ for nought.â
âNonsense,â said Adam, still wrathful; âwhatâs age got to do with it, I wonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a manâs arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clockâs fairly struck, just as if heâd never a bit oâ pride and delight in âs work. The very grindstone âull go on turning a bit after you loose it.â
âBodderation, Adam!â exclaimed Wiry Ben; âlave a chap aloon, will âee? Ye war afinding faut wiâ preachers a while agooâyâ are fond enough oâ preachinâ yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work; thatâll âcommodate yeâit laves ye thâ more to do.â
With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something.
âShalt go home before thee goâst to the preaching?â Adam asked, looking up.
âNay; Iâve got my hat and things at Will Maskeryâs. I shanât be home before going for ten. Iâll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if sheâs willing. Thereâs nobody comes with her from Poyserâs, thee knowâst.â
âThen Iâll tell mother not to look for thee,â said Adam.
âThee artna going to Poyserâs thyself to-night?â said Seth rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.
âNay, Iâm going to thâ school.â
Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his masterâs face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him.
âWhat! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?â said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth.
Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, âOf course.â Poor fellow, he had not a great range of expression.
The basket was the one which on workdays held Adamâs and Sethâs dinner; and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at his masterâs heels.
On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old womanâs sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize Adam till he said, âHereâs the key, Dolly; lay it down for me in the house, will you?â
âAye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Maryâs iâ thâ house, and Mester Burge âull be back anon; heâd be glad tâ haâ ye to supper wiâm, Iâll beâs warrand.â
âNo, Dolly, thank you; Iâm off home. Good evening.â
Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of the workyard, and along the highroad leading away from the village and down to the valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adam had passed him, and turned round to have another long look at the stalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worsted stockings.
Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all day long been running in his head:
Let all thy converse be sincere,
Thy conscience as the noonday clear;
For Godâs all-seeing eye surveys
Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways.
Chapter II
The Preaching
About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement in the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The Donnithorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small farmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was a pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promise of good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to the heraldic bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson, the landlord, had bee...