Mary Ann Evans ("George Eliot") was born Nov. 22, 1819, at
South Farm, Arbury, Warwickshire, England, where her father
was agent on the Newdigate estate. In her youth, she was adept
at butter-making and similar rural work, but she found time to
master Italian and German. Her first important literary work
was the translation of Strauss's "Life of Jesus" in 1844, and
shortly after her father's death in 1849 she was writing in
the "Westminster Review." It was not until 1856 that George
Eliot settled down to the writing of novels. "Scenes from
Clerical Life" first appeared serially in "Blackwood's
Magazine" during 1857 and 1858; "Adam Bede," the first and
most popular of her long stories, in 1859. In May, 1880,
eighteen months after the death of her friend George Henry
Lewes (see PHILOSOPHY, Vol. XIV), George Eliot married Mr. J.
W. Cross. She died on December 22 in the same year. With all
her sense of humour there is a note of sadness in George
Eliot's novels. She deals with ordinary, everyday people, and
describes their joys and sorrows. In "Adam Bede," as in most
of her work, the novelist drew from the ample stores of her
early life in the Midlands, while the plot is unfolded with
singular simplicity, purity, and power.
_I.--The Two Brothers_
In the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, in
the village of Hayslope, on the eighteenth of June, 1799, five workmen
were busy upon doors and window-frames.
The tallest of the five was a large-boned, muscular man, nearly six feet
high. 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. 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 Adam's brother. He is
nearly as tall; he has the same type of features. But Seth's broad
shoulders have a slight stoop, and his glance, instead of being keen, is
confiding and benignant.
The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; they
scarcely ever spoke to Adam.
At six o'clock the men stopped working, and went out. Seth lingered, and
looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something.
"Shalt go home before thee go'st to the preaching?" Adam asked.
"Nay, I shan't be home before going for ten. I'll happen see Dinah
Morris safe home, if she's willing. There's nobody comes with her from
Poyser's, thee know'st."
Adam set off home, and at a quarter to seven Seth was on the village
green where the Methodists were preaching. The people drew nearer when
Dinah Morris mounted the cart which served as a pulpit. There was a
total absence of self-consciousness in her demeanour; she walked to the
cart as simply as if she were going to market. There was no keenness in
the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making
observations. When Dinah spoke it was with a clear but not loud voice,
and her sincere, unpremeditated eloquence held the attention of her
audience without interruption.
When the service was over, Seth Bede walked by Dinah's side along the
hedgerow path that skirted the pastures and corn-fields which lay
between the village and the Hall Farm.
Seth could see an expression of unconscious placid gravity on her
face--an expression that is most discouraging to a lover. He was timidly
revolving something he wanted to say, and it was only when they were
close to the yard-gates of the Hall Farm he had the courage to speak.
"It may happen you'll think me overbold to speak to you again after what
you told me o' your thoughts. But it seems to me there's more texts for
your marrying than ever you can find against it. St. Paul says, 'Two are
better than one,' and that holds good with marriage as well as with
other things. For we should be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. I'd
never be the husband to make a claim on you as could interfere with your
doing the work God has fitted you for. I'd make a shift, and fend indoor
and out, to give you more liberty--more than you can have now; for
you've got to get your own living now, and I'm strong enough to work for
us both."
When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly and
almost hurriedly. His voice trembled at the last sentence.
They had reached one of those narrow passes between two tall stones,
which performed the office of a stile in Loamshire. And Dinah paused,
and said, in her tender but calm notes, "Seth Bede, I thank you for your
love towards me, and if I could think of any man as more than a
Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is not free to
marry, or to think of making a home for myself in this world. God has
called me to speak His word, and He has greatly owned my work."
They said farewell at the yard-gate, for Seth wouldn't enter the
farmhouse, choosing rather to turn back along the fields through which
he and Dinah had already passed. It was ten o'clock when he reached
home, and he heard the sound of tools as he lifted the latch.
"Why, mother," said Seth, "how is it as father's working so late?"
"It's none o' thy feyther as is a-workin'; it's thy brother as does
iverything, for there's niver nobody else i' th' way to do nothin'."
Lisbeth Bede was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth--who
had never in his life spoken a harsh word to his mother--and usually
poured into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed by the
awe which mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam.
But Seth, with an anxious look, had passed into the workshop, and said,
"Addy, how's this? What! Father's forgot the coffin?"
"Ay, lad, th' old tale; but I shall get it done," said Adam, looking up.
"Why, what's the matter with thee--thee'st in trouble?"
Seth's eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on his
mild face.
"Yes, Addy, but it's what must be borne, and can't be helped. Let me
take my turn now, and do thee go to bed."
"No, lad; I'd rather go on, now I'm in harness. The coffin's promised to
be ready at Brox'on by seven o'clock to-morrow morning. I'll call thee
up at sunrise, to help me to carry it when it's done. Go and eat thy
supper and shut the door, so as I mayn't hear mother's talk."
Adam worked throughout the night, thinking of his childhood and its
happy days, and then of the days of sadness that came later when his
father began to loiter at public-houses, and Lisbeth began to cry at
home. He remembered well the night of shame and anguish when he first
saw his father quite wild and foolish.
The two brothers set off in the early sunlight, carrying the long coffin
on their shoulders. By six o'clock they had reached Broxton, and were on
their way home.
When they were coming across the valley, and had entered the pasture
through which the brook ran, Seth said suddenly, beginning to walk
faster, "Why, what's that sticking against the willow?"
They both ran forward, and dragged the tall, heavy body out of the
water; and then looked with mute awe at the glazed eyes--forgetting
everything but that their father lay dead before them.
Adam's mind rushed back over the past in a flood of relenting and pity.
Only a few hours ago, and the gray-haired father, of whom he had been
thinking with a sort of hardness as certain to live to be a thorn in his
side, was perhaps even then struggling with that watery death!
_II.--The Hall Farm_
It is a very fine old place of red brick, the Hall Farm--once the
residence of a country squire, and the Hall.
Plenty of life there, though this is the drowsiest time of the year,
just before hay-harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the day, too,
for it is half-past three by Mrs. Poyser's handsome eight-day clock.
Mrs. Poyser, a good-looking woman, not more than eight-and-thirty, of
fair complexion and sandy hair, well shaped, light-footed, had just
taken up her knitting, and was seated with her niece, Dinah Morris.
Another motherless niece, Hetty Sorrel, a distractingly pretty girl of
seventeen, was busy in the adjoining dairy.
"You look the image o' your aunt Judith, Dinah, when you sit a-sewing,"
said Mrs. Poyser. "I allays said that o' Judith, as she'd bear a pound
weight any day to save anybody else carrying a ounce. And it made no
difference in her, as I could see, when she took to the Methodists; only
she talked a bit different, and wore a different sort o' cap. If you'd
only come and live i' this country you might get married to some decent
man, and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only leave off
that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your Aunt Judith
ever did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a poor,
wool-gathering Methodist, and's never like to have a penny beforehand, I
know your uncle 'ud help you with a pig, and very like a cow, for he's
allays been good-natur'd to my kin, for all they're poor, and made 'em
welcome to the house; and 'ud do for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever
he'd do for Hetty, though she's his own niece."
The arrival of Mr. Irwine, the rector of Hayslope, and Captain
Donnithorne, Squire Donnithorne's grandson and heir, interrupted Mrs.
Poyser's flow of talk.
"I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your preaching on the
Green, Dinah. It's you must answer 'em, for I'm dumb. I've said enough
a'ready about your bringing such disgrace upo' your uncle's family. I
wouldn't ha' minded if you'd been Mr. Poyser's own niece. Folks must put
up wi' their own kin as they put up wi' their own noses; it's their own
flesh and blood."
Mr. Irwine, however, was the last man to feel any annoyance at the
Methodist preaching, and young Arthur Donnithorne's visit was merely an
excuse for exchanging a few words with Hetty Sorrel.
The rector mentioned before he left that Thias Bede had been found
drowned in the Willow Brook; and Dinah Morris at once decided that she
might be of some comfort to the widow, and set out for the village.
As for Hetty Sorrel, she was thinking more of the looks Captain
Donnithorne had cast at her than of Adam and his troubles. Bright,
admiring glances from a handsome young gentleman--those were the warm
rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating.
Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her.
She was aware that Mr. Craig, the gardener at Squire Donnithorne's, was
over head-and-ears in love with her. She knew still better that Adam
Bede--tall, upright, clever, brave Adam Bede--who carried such authority
with all the people round about, and whom her uncle was always delighted
to see of an evening, saying that "Adam knew a fine sight more o' the
natur o' things than those as thought themselves his betters"--she knew
that this Adam, who was often rather stern to other people, and not much
given to run after the lassies, could be made to turn pale or red any
day by a word or a look from her. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not
large, but she couldn't help perceiving that Adam was "something like" a
man; always knew what to say about things; knew, with only looking at
it, the value of a chestnut-tree that was blown down, and why the damp
came in the walls, and what they must do to stop the rats; and wrote a
beautiful hand that you could read, and could do figures in his head--a
degree of accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of
that country-side.
Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, and
would be pleased for her to marry him. For the last three years--ever
since he had superintended the building of the new barn--Adam had always
been made welcome at the Hall Farm, and for the last two years at least
Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her uncle say, "Adam Bede may be
working for a wage now, but he'll be a master-man some day, as sure as I
sit in this chair. Master Burge is in the right on't to want him to go
partners and marry his daughter, if it's true what they say. The woman
as marries him 'ull have a good take, be't Lady Day or Michaelmas," a
remark which Mrs. Poyser always followed up with her cordial assent.
"Ah," she would say, "it's all very fine having a ready-made rich man,
but may happen he'll be a ready-made fool; and it's no use filling your
pocket full of money if you've got a hole in the corner. It'll do you no
good to sit in a spring-cart o' your own if you've got a soft to drive
you; he'll soon turn you over into the ditch."
But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement. She liked to
feel that this strong, keen-eyed man was in her power; but as to
marrying Adam, that was a very different affair.
Hetty's dreams were all of luxuries. She thought if Adam had been rich,
and could have given the things of her dreams--large, beautiful earrings
and Nottingham lace and a carpeted parlour--she loved him well enough to
marry him.
The last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty; she had become
aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would take a good deal of trouble for
the chance of seeing her. And Dinah Morris was away, preaching and
working in a manufacturing town.
_III.--Adam's First Love_
Adam Bede, like many other men, thought the signs of love for another
were signs of love towards himself. The time had come to him that
summer, as he helped Hetty pick currants in the orchard of the Hall
Farm, that a man can least forget in after-life--the time when he
believes that the first woman he has ever loved is, at least, beginning
to love him in return.
He was not wrong in thinking that a change had come over Hetty; the
anxieties and fears of a first passion with which she was trembling had
become stronger than vanity, and while Adam drew near to her she was
absorbed in thinking and wondering about Arthur Donnithorne's possible
return.
For the first time Hetty felt that there was something soothing to her
in Adam's timid yet manly tenderness; she wanted to be treated lovingly.
And Arthur was away from home; and, oh, it was very hard to bear the
blank of absence. She was not afraid that Adam would tease her with
love-making and flattering speeches; he had always been so reserved to
her. She could enjoy without any fear the sense that this strong, brave
man loved her and was near her. It never entered into her mind that Adam
was pitiable, too, that Adam, too, must suffer one day.
It was from Adam that she found out that Captain Donnithorne would be
back in a day or two, and this knowledge made her the more kindly
disposed towards him. But for all the world Adam would not have spoken
of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towards him
should have grown into unmistakable love. He did no more than pluck a
rose for her, and walk back to the farm with her arm in his.
When Adam, after stopping a while to chat with the Poysers, had said
good-night, Mr. Poyser remarked, "If you can catch Adam for a husband,
Hetty, you'll ride i' your own spring-cart some day, I'll be your
warrant."
Her uncle did not see the little toss of the head with which Hetty
answered him. To ride in a spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot
indeed to her now.
It was on August 18, when Adam, going home from some work he had been
doing at one of the farms, passed through a grove of beeches, and saw,
at the end of the avenue, about twenty yards before him, two figures.
They were standing opposite to each other with clasped hands, and they
separated with a start at a sharp bark from Adam Bede's dog. One hurried
away through a gate out of the grove; the other, Arthur Donnithorne,
looking flushed and excited, sauntered towards Adam. The young squire
had been home for some weeks celebrating his twenty-first birthday, and
he was leaving on the morrow to rejoin his regiment.
Hitherto there had been a cordial and sincere liking and a mutual esteem
between the two young men; but now Adam stood as if petrified, and his
amazement turned quickly to fierceness.
Arthur tried to pass the matter off lightly, as if it had been a chance
meeting with Hetty; but Adam, who felt that he had been robbed
treacherously by the man in whom he had trusted, would not so easily let
him off. It came to blows, and Arthur sank under a well-planted blow of
Adam's, as a steel rod is broken by an iron bar.
Before they separated, Arthur promised that he would write and tell
Hetty there could be no further communication between them. And this
promise he kept. Adam rested content with the assurance that nothing but
an innocent flirtation had been stopped. As the days went by he found
that the calm patience with which he had waited for Hetty's love had
forsaken him since that night in the beech-grove. The agitations of
jealousy had given a new restlessness to his passion.
Hetty, for her part, after the first misery caused by Arthur's letter,
had turned into a mood of dull despair, and sought only for change. Why
should she not marry Adam? She did not care what she did so that it made
some change in her life.
So, in November, when Mr. Burge offered Adam a share in his business,
Adam not only accepted it, but decided that the time had come to ask
Hetty to marry him.
Hetty did not speak when Adam got out the question, but his face was
very close to hers, and she put up her round cheek against his, like a
kitten. She wanted to be caressed--she wanted to feel as if Arthur were
with her again.
Adam only said after that, "I may tell your uncle and aunt, mayn't I,
Hetty?" And she said "Yes."
The red firelight on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on joyful faces
that evening when Adam took the opportunity of telling Mr. and Mrs.
Poyser that he saw his way to maintaining a wife now, and that Hetty had
consented to have him.
There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away about the
possibility of his finding a house that would do for him to settle in.
"Well, well," said Mr. Poyser at last, "we needna fix everything
to-night. You canna think o' getting married afore Easter. I'm not for
long courtships, but there must be a bit o' time to make things
comfortable."
This was in November.
Then in February came the full tragedy of Hetty Sorrel's life. She left
home, and in a strange village, a child--Arthur Donnithorne's child--was
born. Hetty left the baby in a wood, and returned to find it dead.
Arrest and trial followed, and only at the last moment was the capital
sentence commuted to transportation.
She died a few years later on her way home.
_IV.--The Wife of Adam Bede_
It was the autumn of 1801, and Dinah Morris was once more at the Hall
Farm, only to leave it again for her work in the town. Mrs. Poyser
noticed that Dinah, who never used to change colour, flushed when Adam
said, "Why, I hoped Dinah was settled among us for life. I thought she'd
given up the notion o' going back to her old country."
"Thought! Yes," said Mrs. Poyser; "and so would anybody else ha' thought
as had got their right ends up'ards. But I suppose you must be a
Methodist to know what a Methodist 'ull do. It's all guessing what the
bats are flying after."
"Why, what have we done to you, Dinah, as you must go away from us?"
said Mr. Poyser. "It's like breaking your word; for your aunt never had
no thought but you'd make this your home."
"Nay, uncle," said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. "When I first came I
said it was only for a time, as long as I could be of any comfort to my
aunt."
"Well, an' who said you'd ever left off being a comfort to me?" said
Mrs. Poyser. "If you didna mean to stay wi' me, you'd better never ha'
come. Them as ha' never had a cushion don't miss it."
Dinah set off with Adam, for Lisbeth was ailing and wanted Dinah to sit
with her a bit. On the way he reverted to her leaving the Hall Farm.
"You know best, Dinah, but if it had been ordered so that you could ha'
been my sister, and lived wi' us all our lives, I should ha' counted it
the greatest blessing as could happen to us now."
Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence, until presently,
crossing the stone stile, Adam saw her face, flushed, and with a look of
suppressed agitation.
It struck him with surprise, and then he said, "I hope I've not hurt or
displeased you by what I've said, Dinah; perhaps I was making too free.
I've no wish different from what you see to be best; and I'm satisfied
for you to live thirty miles off if you think it right."
Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder.
Lisbeth opened his eyes on the Sunday morning when Adam sat at home and
read from his large pictured Bible.
For a long time his mother talked on about Dinah, and about how they
were losing her when they might keep her, and Adam at last told her she
must make up her mind that she would have to do without Dinah.
"Nay, but I canna ma' up my mind, when she's just cut out for thee; an'
nought shall ma' me believe as God didna make her and send her here o'
purpose for thee. What's it sinnify about her being a Methody? It 'ud
happen wear out on her wi' marryin'."
Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. He
understood now what her talk had been aiming at, and tried to chase away
the notion from her mind.
He was amazed at the way in which this new thought of Dinah's love had
taken possession of him with an overmastering power that made all other
feelings give way before the impetuous desire to know that the thought
was true. He spoke to Seth, who said quite simply that he had long given
up all thoughts of Dinah ever being his wife, and would rejoice in his
brother's joy. But he could not tell whether Dinah was for marrying.
"Thee might'st ask her," Seth said presently. "She took no offence at
_me_ for asking, and thee'st more right than I had."
When Adam did ask, Dinah answered that her heart was strongly drawn
towards him, but that she must wait for divine guidance. So she left the
Hall Farm and went back to the town, and Adam waited,--and then went
after her to get his answer.
"Adam," she said when they had met and walked some distance together,
"it is the divine will. My soul is so knit to yours that it is but a
divided life I live without you. And this moment, now you are with me,
and I feel that our hearts are filled with the same love, I have a
fullness of strength to bear and do our Heavenly Father's will that I
had lost before."
Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes.
"Then we'll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us."
And they kissed each other with deep joy.
* * * * *