The Games
The great dance was not to begin until eight o’clock, but for any lads
and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there was
music always at hand—for was not the band of the Benefit Club capable
of playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this,
there was a grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderful
wind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delightful
show to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann’s
fiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had provided
himself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to
prefer dancing to a solo on that instrument.
Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front of
the house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped poles to
be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women,
races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men,
and a long list of challenges to such ambitious attempts as that of
walking as many yards possible on one leg—feats in which it was
generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being “the lissom’st, springest
fellow i’ the country,” was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there
was to be a donkey-race—that sublimest of all races, conducted on the
grand socialistic idea of everybody encouraging everybody else’s
donkey, and the sorriest donkey winning.
And soon after four o’clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damask
satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by the
whole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, where
she was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia
had requested to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, and
Arthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother’s
taste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean,
finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of
punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking
neutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr. Irwine came
last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides
Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner for the
neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces were
required for the entertainment of the tenants.
There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn from
the park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of the
victors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and there on
benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the white
marquees up to the sunk fence.
“Upon my word it’s a pretty sight,” said the old lady, in her deep
voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene with
its dark-green background; “and it’s the last fête-day I’m likely to
see, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care you
get a charming bride, else I would rather die without seeing her.”
“You’re so terribly fastidious, Godmother,” said Arthur, “I’m afraid I
should never satisfy you with my choice.”
“Well, I won’t forgive you if she’s not handsome. I can’t be put off
with amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for the
existence of plain people. And she must not be silly; that will never
do, because you’ll want managing, and a silly woman can’t manage you.
Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with the mild face? There,
standing without his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman
by the side of him—his mother, of course. I like to see that.”
“What, don’t you know him, Mother?” said Mr. Irwine. “That is Seth
Bede, Adam’s brother—a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Seth has
looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was because of his
father’s dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to
marry that sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a month
ago, and I suppose she refused him.”
“Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people here
that I don’t know, for they’re grown up and altered so since I used to
go about.”
“What excellent sight you have!” said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was
holding a double glass up to his eyes, “to see the expression of that
young man’s face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurred
spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to
look close. I can read small print without spectacles.”
“Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and those
near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong spectacles
to read with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things
at a distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should
be blind to everything that wasn’t out of other people’s sight, like a
man who stands in a well and sees nothing but the stars.”
“See,” said Arthur, “the old women are ready to set out on their race
now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?”
“The long-legged one, unless they’re going to have several heats, and
then the little wiry one may win.”
“There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand,” said
Miss Irwine. “Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice of her.”
“To be sure I will,” said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs.
Poyser. “A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is not to be
neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is holding on her
knee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?”
“That is Hetty Sorrel,” said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, “Martin Poyser’s
niece—a very likely young person, and well-looking too. My maid has
taught her fine needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine very
respectably indeed—very respectably.”
“Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; you
must have seen her,” said Miss Irwine.
“No, I’ve never seen her, child—at least not as she is now,” said Mrs.
Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. “Well-looking, indeed! She’s a
perfect beauty! I’ve never seen anything so pretty since my young days.
What a pity such beauty as that should be thrown away among the
farmers, when it’s wanted so terribly among the good families without
fortune! I daresay, now, she’ll marry a man who would have thought her
just as pretty if she had had round eyes and red hair.”
Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was
speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with
something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough without
looking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beauty
praised—for other men’s opinion, you know, was like a native climate to
Arthur’s feelings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, and
grew strong. Yes! She _was_ enough to turn any man’s head: any man in
his place would have done and felt the same. And to give her up after
all, as he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always
look back upon with pride.
“No, Mother,” and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; “I can’t
agree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid as you
imagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling, is
conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and a
coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their presence. The man
may be no better able than the dog to explain the influence the more
refined beauty has on him, but he feels it.”
“Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about it?”
“Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser than
married men, because they have time for more general contemplation.
Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his judgment by calling
one woman his own. But, as an example of what I was saying, that pretty
Methodist preacher I mentioned just now told me that she had preached
to the roughest miners and had never been treated with anything but the
utmost respect and kindness by them. The reason is—though she doesn’t
know it—that there’s so much tenderness, refinement, and purity about
her. Such a woman as that brings with her ‘airs from heaven’ that the
coarsest fellow is not insensible to.”
“Here’s a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive a
prize, I suppose,” said Mr. Gawaine. “She must be one of the racers in
the sacks, who had set off before we came.”
The “bit of womanhood” was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage,
otherwise Chad’s Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person had
undergone an exaggeration of colour, which, if she had happened to be a
heavenly body, would have made her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say,
had taken to her ear-rings again since Dinah’s departure, and was
otherwise decked out in such small finery as she could muster. Any one
who could have looked into poor Bessy’s heart would have seen a
striking resemblance between her little hopes and anxieties and
Hetty’s. The advantage, perhaps, would have been on Bessy’s side in the
matter of feeling. But then, you see, they were so very different
outside! You would have been inclined to box Bessy’s ears, and you
would have longed to kiss Hetty.
Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere
hedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said there
were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approached
the marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation
sparkling in her round eyes.
“Here is the prize for the first sack-race,” said Miss Lydia, taking a
large parcel from the table where the prizes were laid and giving it to
Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, “an excellent grogram gown and a
piece of flannel.”
“You didn’t think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?” said
Arthur. “Couldn’t you find something else for this girl, and save that
grim-looking gown for one of the older women?”
“I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial,” said Miss
Lydia, adjusting her own lace; “I should not think of encouraging a
love of finery in young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak,
but that is for the old woman who wins.”
This speech of Miss Lydia’s produced rather a mocking expression in
Mrs. Irwine’s face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up and
dropped a series of curtsies.
“This is Bessy Cranage, mother,” said Mr. Irwine, kindly, “Chad
Cranage’s daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?”
“Yes, to be sure,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Well, Bessy, here is your
prize—excellent warm things for winter. I’m sure you have had hard work
to win them this warm day.”
Bessy’s lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown—which felt so hot and
disagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great ugly thing to
carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with a
growing tremulousness about the corners of her mouth, and then turned
away.
“Poor girl,” said Arthur; “I think she’s disappointed. I wish it had
been something more to her taste.”
“She’s a bold-looking young person,” observed Miss Lydia. “Not at all
one I should like to encourage.”
Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of money
before the day was over, that she might buy something more to her mind;
but she, not aware of the consolation in store for her, turned out of
the open space, where she was visible from the marquee, and throwing
down the odious bundle under a tree, began to cry—very much tittered at
the while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by her
discreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having just
given the baby into her husband’s charge.
“What’s the matter wi’ ye?” said Bess the matron, taking up the bundle
and examining it. “Ye’n sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that
fool’s race. An’ here, they’n gi’en you lots o’ good grogram and
flannel, as should ha’ been gi’en by good rights to them as had the
sense to keep away from such foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o’ this
grogram to make clothes for the lad—ye war ne’er ill-natured, Bess; I
ne’er said that on ye.”
“Ye may take it all, for what I care,” said Bess the maiden, with a
pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover herself.
“Well, I could do wi’t, if so be ye want to get rid on’t,” said the
disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle, lest Chad’s
Bess should change her mind.
But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spirits
that secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time the grand
climax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment was entirely lost
in the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkey
by hisses, while the boys applied the argument of sticks. But the
strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the
arguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental
force as the direct sequence; and the present donkey proved the
first-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill
just when the blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd,
radiant the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate
rider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in the
midst of its triumph.
Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was made
happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and gimlets
enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returned
from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began to be
understood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, before the
gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous
performance—namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless
borrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar and
complex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality.
Wiry Ben’s pride in his dancing—an accomplishment productive of great
effect at the yearly Wake—had needed only slightly elevating by an
extra quantity of good ale to convince him that the gentry would be
very much struck with his performance of his hornpipe; and he had been
decidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that it
was nothing but right to do something to please the young squire, in
return for what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised at
this opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had
requested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt
quite sure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the
music would make up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of the
large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben he had
better not make a fool of himself—a remark which at once fixed Ben’s
determination: he was not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede
turned up his nose at it.
“What’s this, what’s this?” said old Mr. Donnithorne. “Is it something
you’ve arranged, Arthur? Here’s the clerk coming with his fiddle, and a
smart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole.”
“No,” said Arthur; “I know nothing about it. By Jove, he’s going to
dance! It’s one of the carpenters—I forget his name at this moment.”
“It’s Ben Cranage—Wiry Ben, they call him,” said Mr. Irwine; “rather a
loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is too
much for you: you’re getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you
may rest till dinner.”
Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, while
Joshua’s preliminary scrapings burst into the “White Cockade,” from
which he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by a series of
transitions which his good ear really taught him to execute with some
skill. It would have been an exasperating fact to him, if he had known
it, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben’s
dancing for any one to give much heed to the music.
Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance? Perhaps
you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman in
crockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movements
of the head. That is as much like the real thing as the “Bird Waltz” is
like the song of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled: he looked as serious as
a dancing monkey—as serious as if he had been an experimental
philosopher ascertaining in his own person the amount of shaking and
the varieties of angularity that could be given to the human limbs.
To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthur
clapped his hands continually and cried “Bravo!” But Ben had one
admirer whose eyes followed his movements with a fervid gravity that
equalled his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with
Tommy between his legs.
“What dost think o’ that?” he said to his wife. “He goes as pat to the
music as if he was made o’ clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un at
dancing myself when I was lighter, but I could niver ha’ hit it just to
th’ hair like that.”
“It’s little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking,” re-turned Mrs.
Poyser. “He’s empty enough i’ the upper story, or he’d niver come
jigging an’ stamping i’ that way, like a mad grasshopper, for the
gentry to look at him. They’re fit to die wi’ laughing, I can see.”
“Well, well, so much the better, it amuses ’em,” said Mr. Poyser, who
did not easily take an irritable view of things. “But they’re going
away now, t’ have their dinner, I reckon. We’ll move about a bit, shall
we, and see what Adam Bede’s doing. He’s got to look after the drinking
and things: I doubt he hasna had much fun.”