Chapter II — The Preaching
Chapter III — After the Preaching
Chapter IV — Home and Its Sorrows
Chapter V — The Rector
Chapter VI — The Hall Farm
Chapter VII — The Dairy
Chapter VIII — A Vocation
Chapter IX — Hetty’s World
Chapter X — Dinah Visits Lisbeth
Chapter XI — In the Cottage
Chapter XII — In the Wood
Chapter XIII — Evening in the Wood
Chapter XIV — The Return Home
Chapter XV — The Two Bed-Chambers
Chapter XVI — Links
Book Second
Chapter XVII — In Which the Story Pauses a Little
Chapter XVIII — Church
Chapter XIX — Adam on a Working Day
Chapter XX — Adam Visits the Hall Farm
Chapter XXI — The Night-School and the Schoolmaster
Book Third
Chapter XXII — Going to the Birthday Feast
Chapter XXIII — Dinner-Time
Chapter XXIV — The Health-Drinking
Chapter XXV — The Games
Chapter XXVI — The Dance
Book Fourth
Chapter XXVII — A Crisis
Chapter XXVIII — A Dilemma
Chapter XXIX — The Next Morning
Chapter XXX — The Delivery of the Letter
Chapter XXXI — In Hetty’s Bed-Chamber
Chapter XXXII — Mrs. Poyser “Has Her Say Out”
Chapter XXXIII — More Links
Chapter XXXIV — The Betrothal
Chapter XXXV — The Hidden Dread
Book Fifth
Chapter XXXVI — The Journey of Hope
Chapter XXXVII — The Journey in Despair
Chapter XXXVIII — The Quest
Chapter XXXIX — The Tidings
Chapter XL — The Bitter Waters Spread
Chapter XLI — The Eve of the Trial
Chapter XLII — The Morning of the Trial
Chapter XLIII — The Verdict
Chapter XLIV — Arthur’s Return
Chapter XLV — In the Prison
Chapter XLVI — The Hours of Suspense
Chapter XLVII — The Last Moment
Chapter XLVIII — Another Meeting in the Wood
Book Sixth
Chapter XLIX — At the Hall Farm
Chapter L — In the Cottage
Chapter LI — Sunday Morning
Chapter LII — Adam and Dinah
Chapter LIII — The Harvest Supper
Chapter LIV — The Meeting on the Hill
Chapter LV — Marriage Bells
Epilogue
Book First
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 singing—
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 vigour—
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 Adam’s 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. Seth’s broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes are
grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his
brother’s; 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 Adam’s, 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 Adam’s 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, “There! I’ve finished my door to-day,
anyhow.”
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, “What! Dost think thee’st finished the door?”
“Aye, sure,” said Seth, with answering surprise; “what’s awanting
to’t?”
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,
“Why, thee’st forgot the panels.”
The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head,
and coloured over brow and crown.
“Hoorray!” shouted a small lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running
forward and seizing the door. “We’ll hang up th’ door at fur end o’ th’
shop an’ write on’t ‘Seth Bede, the Methody, his work.’ Here, Jim,
lend’s hould o’ th’ red pot.”
“Nonsense!” said Adam. “Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You’ll mayhap be
making such a slip yourself some day; you’ll laugh o’ th’ other side o’
your mouth then.”
“Catch me at it, Adam. It’ll be a good while afore my head’s full o’
th’ Methodies,” said Ben.
“Nay, but it’s often full o’ drink, and that’s worse.”
Ben, however, had now got the “red pot” in his hand, and was about to
begin writing his inscription, making, by way of preliminary, an
imaginary S in the air.
“Let it alone, will you?” Adam called out, laying down his tools,
striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. “Let it alone, or
I’ll shake the soul out o’ your body.”
Ben shook in Adam’s iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was,
he didn’t 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.
“Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he’s i’ the right to
laugh at me—I canna help laughing at myself.”
“I shan’t loose him till he promises to let the door alone,” said Adam.
“Come, Ben, lad,” said Seth, in a persuasive tone, “don’t let’s have a
quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. You may’s well try
to turn a waggon in a narrow lane. Say you’ll leave the door alone, and
make an end on’t.”
“I binna frighted at Adam,” said Ben, “but I donna mind sayin’ as I’ll
let ’t alone at your askin’, Seth.”
“Come, that’s wise of you, Ben,” 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.
“Which was ye thinkin’ on, Seth,” he began—“the pretty parson’s face or
her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?”
“Come and hear her, Ben,” said Seth, good-humouredly; “she’s going to
preach on the Green to-night; happen ye’d get something to think on
yourself then, instead o’ those wicked songs you’re so fond on. Ye
might get religion, and that ’ud be the best day’s earnings y’ ever
made.”
“All i’ good time for that, Seth; I’ll think about that when I’m
a-goin’ to settle i’ life; bachelors doesn’t want such heavy earnin’s.
Happen I shall do the coortin’ an’ the religion both together, as _ye_
do, Seth; but ye wouldna ha’ me get converted an’ chop in atween ye an’
the pretty preacher, an’ carry her aff?”
“No fear o’ that, Ben; she’s neither for you nor for me to win, I
doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you won’t speak lightly on her
again.”
“Well, I’m half a mind t’ ha’ a look at her to-night, if there isn’t
good company at th’ Holly Bush. What’ll she take for her text? Happen
ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up i’ time for’t.
Will’t be—what come ye out for to see? A prophetess? Yea, I say unto
you, and more than a prophetess—a uncommon pretty young woman.”
“Come, Ben,” said Adam, rather sternly, “you let the words o’ the Bible
alone; you’re going too far now.”
“What! Are _ye_ a-turnin’ roun’, Adam? I thought ye war dead again th’
women preachin’, a while agoo?”
“Nay, I’m not turnin’ noway. I said nought about the women preachin’. I
said, You let the Bible alone: you’ve got a jest-book, han’t you, as
you’re rare and proud on? Keep your dirty fingers to that.”
“Why, y’ are gettin’ as big a saint as Seth. Y’ are goin’ to th’
preachin’ to-night, I should think. Ye’ll do finely t’ lead the
singin’. But I don’ know what Parson Irwine ’ull say at his gran’
favright Adam Bede a-turnin’ Methody.”
“Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I’m not a-going to turn
Methodist any more nor you are—though it’s like enough you’ll turn to
something worse. Mester Irwine’s got more sense nor to meddle wi’
people’s doing as they like in religion. That’s between themselves and
God, as he’s said to me many a time.”
“Aye, aye; but he’s none so fond o’ your dissenters, for all that.”
“Maybe; I’m none so fond o’ Josh Tod’s thick ale, but I don’t hinder
you from making a fool o’ yourself wi’t.”
There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam’s, but Seth said, very
seriously. “Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody’s religion’s
like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and the
Methodists have got the root o’ the matter as well as the church
folks.”
“Nay, Seth, lad; I’m not for laughing at no man’s religion. Let ’em
follow their consciences, that’s all. Only I think it ’ud be better if
their consciences ’ud let ’em stay quiet i’ the church—there’s a deal
to be learnt there. And there’s such a thing as being oversperitial; we
must have something beside Gospel i’ this world. Look at the canals,
an’ th’ aqueduc’s, an’ th’ coal-pit engines, and Arkwright’s mills
there at Cromford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them
things, I reckon. But t’ hear some o’ them preachers, you’d think as a
man must be doing nothing all’s life but shutting’s eyes and looking
what’s agoing on inside him. I know a man must have the love o’ God in
his soul, and the Bible’s God’s 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 o’ looking at it: there’s the sperrit o’
God in all things and all times—weekday as well as Sunday—and i’ the
great works and inventions, and i’ 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 o’ jobs out o’ working hours—builds a
oven for ’s wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at
his bit o’ garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o’ one, he’s doin’
more good, and he’s just as near to God, as if he was running after
some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.”
“Well done, Adam!” said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to
shift his planks while Adam was speaking; “that’s the best sarmunt I’ve
heared this long while. By th’ same token, my wife’s been a-plaguin’ on
me to build her a oven this twelvemont.”
“There’s reason in what thee say’st, Adam,” observed Seth, gravely.
“But thee know’st thyself as it’s hearing the preachers thee find’st so
much fault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un.
It’s the preacher as empties th’ alehouse; and if a man gets religion,
he’ll do his work none the worse for that.”
“On’y he’ll lave the panels out o’ th’ doors sometimes, eh, Seth?” said
Wiry Ben.
“Ah, Ben, you’ve got a joke again’ me as ’ll last you your life. But it
isna religion as was i’ fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a
wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more’s the
pity.”
“Ne’er heed me, Seth,” said Wiry Ben, “y’ are a down-right good-hearted
chap, panels or no panels; an’ ye donna set up your bristles at every
bit o’ fun, like some o’ your kin, as is mayhap cliverer.”
“Seth, lad,” said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against
himself, “thee mustna take me unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I
said just now. Some ’s got one way o’ looking at things and some ’s got
another.”
“Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean’st me no unkindness,” said Seth, “I know
that well enough. Thee’t like thy dog Gyp—thee bark’st at me sometimes,
but thee allays lick’st my hand after.”
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, “Look there,
now! I can’t abide to see men throw away their tools i’ that way, the
minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i’ their
work and was afraid o’ doing a stroke too much.”
Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his
preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, “Aye,
aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y’ are six-an’-forty like
me, istid o’ six-an’-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o’ workin’ for
nought.”
“Nonsense,” said Adam, still wrathful; “what’s age got to do with it, I
wonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man’s
arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clock’s fairly struck,
just as if he’d never a bit o’ pride and delight in ’s work. The very
grindstone ’ull go on turning a bit after you loose it.”
“Bodderation, Adam!” exclaimed Wiry Ben; “lave a chap aloon, will ’ee?
Ye war afinding faut wi’ preachers a while agoo—y’ are fond enough o’
preachin’ yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play
better nor work; that’ll ’commodate ye—it laves ye th’ more to do.”
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.
“Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching?” Adam asked, looking
up.
“Nay; I’ve got my hat and things at Will Maskery’s. 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.”
“Then I’ll tell mother not to look for thee,” said Adam.
“Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself to-night?” said Seth rather
timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.
“Nay, I’m going to th’ school.”
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
master’s 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.
“What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?” 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, “Of course.” Poor
fellow, he had not a great range of expression.
The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam’s and Seth’s dinner;
and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely
unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at
his master’s 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 woman’s sight seemed to
be dim, for she did not recognize Adam till he said, “Here’s the key,
Dolly; lay it down for me in the house, will you?”
“Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary’s i’ th’ house, and
Mester Burge ’ull be back anon; he’d be glad t’ ha’ ye to supper wi’m,
I’ll be’s warrand.”
“No, Dolly, thank you; I’m off home. Good evening.”
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 God’s all-seeing eye surveys
Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways.