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 scent1 of pine-wood from a tent-like pile of planks2 outside the open door mingled3 itself with the scent of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to the open window opposite; the slanting4 sunbeams shone through the transparent5 shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped6 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 carving7 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 sloth8...
Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attention, and the sonorous9 voice subsided10 into a low whistle; but it presently broke out again with renewed vigour11 —
Let all thy converse12 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 poised13 that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing14 at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats15 of strength; yet the long supple17 hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified18 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 eyebrows19, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose20 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 hue21 of hair and complexion22; but the strength of the family likeness23 seems only to render more conspicuous24 the remarkable25 difference of expression both in form and face. Seth’s broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less prominence26 and more repose than his brother’s; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding27 and benign28. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam’s, but thin and wavy29, 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 copper30 from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke31 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 today, 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 lithe33 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.
“Nay34, 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 inscription35, 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 plucky36 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 feat16 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 persuasive37 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 waggon38 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 bent39 on retrieving40 that humiliation41 by a success in sarcasm42.
“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 earnings43 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’ Holly44 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 uncommon45 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 nought46 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 meddle47 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 dissenters48, 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 industrious49 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 allays50 a wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more’s the pity.”
“Ne’er heed51 me, Seth,” said Wiry Ben, “y’ are a down-right good- hearted chap, panels or no panels; an’ ye donna set up your bristles52 at every bit o’ fun, like some o’ your kin32, 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 screwdriver53 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 abide54 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 arena55 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 apron56 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 destitute57 of that vehicle for his emotions, he was like many other worthy58 personages, destined59 to appear more phlegmatic60 than nature had made him.
“What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?” said Adam, with the same gentle modulation61 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 resolutely62 unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting63 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 thatch64 and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow65 in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and speckless66, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder67 at ebb68 tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen69 gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls70 which appeared to have been drawn71 towards her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley72. 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 strapped73 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 admiration74 he was exciting, presently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the tune75 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.
收听单词发音 |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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retrieving
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| n.检索（过程），取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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42
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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50
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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52
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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53
screwdriver
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| n.螺丝起子；伏特加橙汁鸡尾酒 | |
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54
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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59
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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63
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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65
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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speckless
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| adj.无斑点的，无瑕疵的 | |
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boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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68
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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69
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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71
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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73
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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74
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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