Bartle Massey’s was one of a few scattered1 houses on the edge of a common, which was divided by the road to Treddleston. Adam reached it in a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall Farm; and when he had his hand on the door-latch, he could see, through the curtainless window, that there were eight or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted by thin dips.
When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward and Bartle Massey merely nodded, leaving him to take his place where he pleased. He had not come for the sake of a lesson to-night, and his mind was too full of personal matters, too full of the last two hours he had passed in Hetty’s presence, for him to amuse himself with a book till school was over; so he sat down in a corner and looked on with an absent mind. It was a sort of scene which Adam had beheld3 almost weekly for years; he knew by heart every arabesque4 flourish in the framed specimen5 of Bartle Massey’s handwriting which hung over the schoolmaster’s head, by way of keeping a lofty ideal before the minds of his pupils; he knew the backs of all the books on the shelf running along the whitewashed6 wall above the pegs7 for the slates8; he knew exactly how many grains were gone out of the ear of Indian corn that hung from one of the rafters; he had long ago exhausted9 the resources of his imagination in trying to think how the bunch of leathery seaweed had looked and grown in its native element; and from the place where he sat, he could make nothing of the old map of England that hung against the opposite wall, for age had turned it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well-seasoned meerschaum. The drama that was going on was almost as familiar as the scene, nevertheless habit had not made him indifferent to it, and even in his present self-absorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary10 stirring of the old fellow-feeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding pen or pencil with their cramped11 hands, or humbly12 labouring through their reading lesson.
The reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster’s desk consisted of the three most backward pupils. Adam would have known it only by seeing Bartle Massey’s face as he looked over his spectacles, which he had shifted to the ridge13 of his nose, not requiring them for present purposes. The face wore its mildest expression: the grizzled bushy eyebrows14 had taken their more acute angle of compassionate15 kindness, and the mouth, habitually16 compressed with a pout17 of the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak a helpful word or syllable18 in a moment. This gentle expression was the more interesting because the schoolmaster’s nose, an irregular aquiline19 twisted a little on one side, had rather a formidable character; and his brow, moreover, had that peculiar20 tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen impatient temperament21: the blue veins22 stood out like cords under the transparent23 yellow skin, and this intimidating24 brow was softened25 by no tendency to baldness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about an inch in length, stood round it in as close ranks as ever.
“Nay, Bill, nay,” Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded to Adam, “begin that again, and then perhaps, it’ll come to you what d-r-y spells. It’s the same lesson you read last week, you know.”
“Bill” was a sturdy fellow, aged26 four-and-twenty, an excellent stone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man in the trade of his years; but he found a reading lesson in words of one syllable a harder matter to deal with than the hardest stone he had ever had to saw. The letters, he complained, were so “uncommon27 alike, there was no tellin’ ’em one from another,” the sawyer’s business not being concerned with minute differences such as exist between a letter with its tail turned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill had a firm determination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on two reasons: first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything “right off,” whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a letter from twenty miles off, saying how he was prospering28 in the world and had got an overlooker’s place; secondly29, that Sam Phillips, who sawed with him, had learned to read when he was turned twenty, and what could be done by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, could be done by himself, seeing that he could pound Sam into wet clay if circumstances required it. So here he was, pointing his big finger towards three words at once, and turning his head on one side that he might keep better hold with his eye of the one word which was to be discriminated30 out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Massey must possess was something so dim and vast that Bill’s imagination recoiled31 before it: he would hardly have ventured to deny that the schoolmaster might have something to do in bringing about the regular return of daylight and the changes in the weather.
The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type: he was a Methodist brickmaker who, after spending thirty years of his life in perfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately “got religion,” and along with it the desire to read the Bible. But with him, too, learning was a heavy business, and on his way out to-night he had offered as usual a special prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hard task with a single eye to the nourishment32 of his soul — that he might have a greater abundance of texts and hymns33 wherewith to banish34 evil memories and the temptations of old habit — or, in brief language, the devil. For the brickmaker had been a notorious poacher, and was suspected, though there was no good evidence against him, of being the man who had shot a neighbouring gamekeeper in the leg. However that might be, it is certain that shortly after the accident referred to, which was coincident with the arrival of an awakening35 Methodist preacher at Treddleston, a great change had been observed in the brickmaker; and though he was still known in the neighbourhood by his old sobriquet36 of “Brimstone,” there was nothing he held in so much horror as any further transactions with that evil-smelling element. He was a broad-chested fellow. with a fervid37 temperament, which helped him better in imbibing38 religious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere2 human knowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shaken in his resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that the letter was a mere obstruction39 to the Spirit, and expressed a fear that Brimstone was too eager for the knowledge that puffeth up.
The third beginner was a much more promising40 pupil. He was a tall but thin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, with a very pale face and hands stained a deep blue. He was a dyer, who in the course of dipping homespun wool and old women’s petticoats had got fired with the ambition to learn a great deal more about the strange secrets of colour. He had already a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he was bent41 on discovering some method by which he could reduce the expense of crimsons42 and scarlets43. The druggist at Treddleston had given him a notion that he might save himself a great deal of labour and expense if he could learn to read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours to the night-school, resolving that his “little chap” should lose no time in coming to Mr. Massey’s day-school as soon as he was old enough.
It was touching44 to see these three big men, with the marks of their hard labour about them, anxiously bending over the worn books and painfully making out, “The grass is green,” “The sticks are dry,” “The corn is ripe”— a very hard lesson to pass to after columns of single words all alike except in the first letter. It was almost as if three rough animals were making humble45 efforts to learn how they might become human. And it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey’s nature, for such full-grown children as these were the only pupils for whom he had no severe epithets46 and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with an imperturbable47 temper, and on music-nights it was apparent that patience could never be an easy virtue48 to him; but this evening, as he glances over his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning his head on one side with a desperate sense of blankness before the letters d-r-y, his eyes shed their mildest and most encouraging light.
After the reading class, two youths between sixteen and nineteen came up with the imaginary bills of parcels, which they had been writing out on their slates and were now required to calculate “off-hand”— a test which they stood with such imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyes had been glaring at them ominously49 through his spectacles for some minutes, at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitched tone, pausing between every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick which rested between his legs.
“Now, you see, you don’t do this thing a bit better than you did a fortnight ago, and I’ll tell you what’s the reason. You want to learn accounts — that’s well and good. But you think all you need do to learn accounts is to come to me and do sums for an hour or so, two or three times a-week; and no sooner do you get your caps on and turn out of doors again than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You go whistling about, and take no more care what you’re thinking of than if your heads were gutters50 for any rubbish to swill51 through that happened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion in ’em, it’s pretty soon washed out again. You think knowledge is to be got cheap — you’ll come and pay Bartle Massey sixpence a-week, and he’ll make you clever at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledge isn’t to be got with paying sixpence, let me tell you. If you’re to know figures, you must turn ’em over in your heads and keep your thoughts fixed52 on ’em. There’s nothing you can’t turn into a sum, for there’s nothing but what’s got number in it — even a fool. You may say to yourselves, ‘I’m one fool, and Jack’s another; if my fool’s head weighed four pound, and Jack’s three pound three ounces and three quarters, how many pennyweights heavier would my head be than Jack’s?’ A man that had got his heart in learning figures would make sums for himself and work ’em in his head. When he sat at his shoemaking, he’d count his stitches by fives, and then put a price on his stitches, say half a farthing, and then see how much money he could get in an hour; and then ask himself how much money he’d get in a day at that rate; and then how much ten workmen would get working three, or twenty, or a hundred years at that rate — and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as if he left his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and the short of it is — I’ll have nobody in my night-school that doesn’t strive to learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he was striving to get out of a dark hole into broad daylight. I’ll send no man away because he’s stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted to learn anything, I’d not refuse to teach him. But I’ll not throw away good knowledge on people who think they can get it by the sixpenn’orth, and carry it away with ’em as they would an ounce of snuff. So never come to me again, if you can’t show that you’ve been working with your own heads, instead of thinking that you can pay for mine to work for you. That’s the last word I’ve got to say to you.”
With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap than ever with his knobbed stick, and the discomfited53 lads got up to go with a sulky look. The other pupils had happily only their writing-books to show, in various stages of progress from pot- hooks to round text; and mere pen-strokes, however perverse54, were less exasperating55 to Bartle than false arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on Jacob Storey’s Z’s, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all with their tops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense that they were not right “somehow.” But he observed in apology, that it was a letter you never wanted hardly, and he thought it had only been there “to finish off th’ alphabet, like, though ampusand (&) would ha’ done as well, for what he could see.”
At last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their “Good- nights,” and Adam, knowing his old master’s habits, rose and said, “Shall I put the candles out, Mr. Massey?”
“Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I’ll carry into the house; and just lock the outer door, now you’re near it,” said Bartle, getting his stick in the fitting angle to help him in descending56 from his stool. He was no sooner on the ground than it became obvious why the stick was necessary — the left leg was much shorter than the right. But the school-master was so active with his lameness57 that it was hardly thought of as a misfortune; and if you had seen him make his way along the schoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you would perhaps have understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace might be indefinitely quickened and that he and his stick might overtake them even in their swiftest run.
The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the candle in his hand, a faint whimpering began in the chimney-corner, and a brown- and-tan-coloured bitch, of that wise-looking breed with short legs and long body, known to an unmechanical generation as turnspits, came creeping along the floor, wagging her tail, and hesitating at every other step, as if her affections were painfully divided between the hamper60 in the chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leave without a greeting.
“Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies?” said the schoolmaster, making haste towards the chimney-corner and holding the candle over the low hamper, where two extremely blind puppies lifted up their heads towards the light from a nest of flannel61 and wool. Vixen could not even see her master look at them without painful excitement: she got into the hamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved with true feminine folly62, though looking all the while as wise as a dwarf63 with a large old-fashioned head and body on the most abbreviated64 legs.
“Why, you’ve got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?” said Adam, smiling, as he came into the kitchen. “How’s that? I thought it was against the law here.”
“Law? What’s the use o’ law when a man’s once such a fool as to let a woman into his house?” said Bartle, turning away from the hamper with some bitterness. He always called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lost all consciousness that he was using a figure of speech. “If I’d known Vixen was a woman, I’d never have held the boys from drowning her; but when I’d got her into my hand, I was forced to take to her. And now you see what she’s brought me to — the sly, hypocritical wench”— Bartle spoke65 these last words in a rasping tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, who poked66 down her head and turned up her eyes towards him with a keen sense of opprobrium67 —”and contrived68 to be brought to bed on a Sunday at church-time. I’ve wished again and again I’d been a bloody69 minded man, that I could have strangled the mother and the brats70 with one cord.”
“I’m glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church,” said Adam. “I was afraid you must be ill for the first time i’ your life. And I was particularly sorry not to have you at church yesterday.”
“Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why,” said Bartle kindly71, going up to Adam and raising his hand up to the shoulder that was almost on a level with his own head. “You’ve had a rough bit o’ road to get over since I saw you — a rough bit o’ road. But I’m in hopes there are better times coming for you. I’ve got some news to tell you. But I must get my supper first, for I’m hungry, I’m hungry. Sit down, sit down.”
Bartel went into his little pantry, and brought out an excellent home-baked loaf; for it was his one extravagance in these dear times to eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake; and he justified72 it by observing, that what a schoolmaster wanted was brains, and oat-cake ran too much to bone instead of brains. Then came a piece of cheese and a quart jug73 with a crown of foam74 upon it. He placed them all on the round deal table which stood against his large arm-chair in the chimney-corner, with Vixen’s hamper on one side of it and a window-shelf with a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was as clean as if Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a checkered75 apron76; so was the quarry77 floor; and the old carved oaken press, table, and chairs, which in these days would be bought at a high price in aristocratic houses, though, in that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartle had got them for an old song, where as free from dust as things could be at the end of a summer’s day.
“Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We’ll not talk about business till we’ve had our supper. No man can be wise on an empty stomach. But,” said Bartle, rising from his chair again, “I must give Vixen her supper too, confound her! Though she’ll do nothing with it but nourish those unnecessary babbies. That’s the way with these women — they’ve got no head-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to fat or to brats.”
He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps78, which Vixen at once fixed her eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to lick up with the utmost dispatch.
“I’ve had my supper, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, “so I’ll look on while you eat yours. I’ve been at the Hall Farm, and they always have their supper betimes, you know: they don’t keep your late hours.”
“I know little about their hours,” said Bartle dryly, cutting his bread and not shrinking from the crust. “It’s a house I seldom go into, though I’m fond of the boys, and Martin Poyser’s a good fellow. There’s too many women in the house for me: I hate the sound of women’s voices; they’re always either a-buzz or a-squeak — always either a-buzz or a-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o’ the talk like a fife; and as for the young lasses, I’d as soon look at water-grubs. I know what they’ll turn to — stinging gnats79, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, my boy: it’s been drawn80 for you — it’s been drawn for you.”
“Nay, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, who took his old friend’s whim59 more seriously than usual to-night, “don’t be so hard on the creaturs God has made to be companions for us. A working-man ’ud be badly off without a wife to see to th’ house and the victual, and make things clean and comfortable.”
“Nonsense! It’s the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever believed, to say a woman makes a house comfortable. It’s a story got up because the women are there and something must be found for ’em to do. I tell you there isn’t a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, but what a man can do better than a woman, unless it’s bearing children, and they do that in a poor make-shift way; it had better ha’ been left to the men — it had better ha’ been left to the men. I tell you, a woman ’ull bake you a pie every week of her life and never come to see that the hotter th’ oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman ’ull make your porridge every day for twenty years and never think of measuring the proportion between the meal and the milk — a little more or less, she’ll think, doesn’t signify. The porridge WILL be awk’ard now and then: if it’s wrong, it’s summat in the meal, or it’s summat in the milk, or it’s summat in the water. Look at me! I make my own bread, and there’s no difference between one batch81 and another from year’s end to year’s end; but if I’d got any other woman besides Vixen in the house, I must pray to the Lord every baking to give me patience if the bread turned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner than any other house on the Common, though the half of ’em swarm82 with women. Will Baker’s lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as much cleaning done in one hour, without any fuss, as a woman ’ud get done in three, and all the while be sending buckets o’ water after your ankles, and let the fender and the fire-irons stand in the middle o’ the floor half the day for you to break your shins against ’em. Don’t tell me about God having made such creatures to be companions for us! I don’t say but He might make Eve to be a companion to Adam in Paradise — there was no cooking to be spoilt there, and no other woman to cackle with and make mischief83, though you see what mischief she did as soon as she’d an opportunity. But it’s an impious, unscriptural opinion to say a woman’s a blessing84 to a man now; you might as well say adders85 and wasps86, and foxes and wild beasts are a blessing, when they’re only the evils that belong to this state o’ probation87, which it’s lawful88 for a man to keep as clear of as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of ’em for ever in another — hoping to get quit of ’em for ever in another.”
Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his invective89 that he had forgotten his supper, and only used the knife for the purpose of rapping the table with the haft. But towards the close, the raps became so sharp and frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome, that Vixen felt it incumbent90 on her to jump out of the hamper and bark vaguely91.
“Quiet, Vixen!” snarled92 Bartle, turning round upon her. “You’re like the rest o’ the women — always putting in your word before you know why.”
Vixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation93, and her master continued his supper in a silence which Adam did not choose to interrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better humour when he had had his supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk in this way, but had never learned so much of Bartle’s past life as to know whether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that point Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he had lived previous to the twenty years in which happily for the peasants and artisans of this neighbourhood he had been settled among them as their only schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on this subject, Bartle always replied, “Oh, I’ve seen many places — I’ve been a deal in the south,” and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought of asking for a particular town or village in Africa as in “the south.”
“Now then, my boy,” said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out his second mug of ale and lighted his pipe, “now then, we’ll have a little talk. But tell me first, have you heard any particular news today?”
“No,” said Adam, “not as I remember.”
“Ah, they’ll keep it close, they’ll keep it close, I daresay. But I found it out by chance; and it’s news that may concern you, Adam, else I’m a man that don’t know a superficial square foot from a solid.”
Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs94, looking earnestly the while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious95 man has never any notion of keeping his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs; he is always letting it go nearly out, and then punishing it for that negligence96. At last he said, “Satchell’s got a paralytic97 stroke. I found it out from the lad they sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven o’clock this morning. He’s a good way beyond sixty, you know; it’s much if he gets over it.”
“Well,” said Adam, “I daresay there’d be more rejoicing than sorrow in the parish at his being laid up. He’s been a selfish, tale-bearing, mischievous98 fellow; but, after all, there’s nobody he’s done so much harm to as to th’ old squire99. Though it’s the squire himself as is to blame — making a stupid fellow like that a sort o’ man-of-all-work, just to save th’ expense of having a proper steward100 to look after th’ estate. And he’s lost more by ill management o’ the woods, I’ll be bound, than ’ud pay for two stewards101. If he’s laid on the shelf, it’s to be hoped he’ll make way for a better man, but I don’t see how it’s like to make any difference to me.”
“But I see it, but I see it,” said Bartle, “and others besides me. The captain’s coming of age now — you know that as well as I do — and it’s to be expected he’ll have a little more voice in things. And I know, and you know too, what ’ud be the captain’s wish about the woods, if there was a fair opportunity for making a change. He’s said in plenty of people’s hearing that he’d make you manager of the woods tomorrow, if he’d the power. Why, Carroll, Mr. Irwine’s butler, heard him say so to the parson not many days ago. Carroll looked in when we were smoking our pipes o’ Saturday night at Casson’s, and he told us about it; and whenever anybody says a good word for you, the parson’s ready to back it, that I’ll answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can tell you, at Casson’s, and one and another had their fling at you; for if donkeys set to work to sing, you’re pretty sure what the tune’ll be.”
“Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?” said Adam; “or wasn’t he there o’ Saturday?”
“Oh, he went away before Carroll came; and Casson — he’s always for setting other folks right, you know — would have it Burge was the man to have the management of the woods. ‘A substantial man,’ says he, ‘with pretty near sixty years’ experience o’ timber: it ’ud be all very well for Adam Bede to act under him, but it isn’t to be supposed the squire ’ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there’s his elders and betters at hand!’ But I said, ‘That’s a pretty notion o’ yours, Casson. Why, Burge is the man to buy timber; would you put the woods into his hands and let him make his own bargains? I think you don’t leave your customers to score their own drink, do you? And as for age, what that’s worth depends on the quality o’ the liquor. It’s pretty well known who’s the backbone102 of Jonathan Burge’s business.’”
“I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. “But, for all that, Casson was partly i’ the right for once. There’s not much likelihood that th’ old squire ’ud ever consent t’ employ me. I offended him about two years ago, and he’s never forgiven me.”
“Why, how was that? You never told me about it,” said Bartle.
“Oh, it was a bit o’ nonsense. I’d made a frame for a screen for Miss Lyddy — she’s allays103 making something with her worsted-work, you know — and she’d given me particular orders about this screen, and there was as much talking and measuring as if we’d been planning a house. However, it was a nice bit o’ work, and I liked doing it for her. But, you know, those little friggling things take a deal o’ time. I only worked at it in overhours — often late at night — and I had to go to Treddleston over an’ over again about little bits o’ brass104 nails and such gear; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th’ open work, after a pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommon pleased with it when it was done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddy sent for me to bring it into her drawing-room, so as she might give me directions about fastening on the work — very fine needlework, Jacob and Rachel a- kissing one another among the sheep, like a picture — and th’ old squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with her. Well, she was mighty105 pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay she was to give me. I didn’t speak at random106 — you know it’s not my way; I’d calculated pretty close, though I hadn’t made out a bill, and I said, ‘One pound thirty.’ That was paying for the mater’als and paying me, but none too much, for my work. Th’ old squire looked up at this, and peered in his way at the screen, and said, ‘One pound thirteen for a gimcrack like that! Lydia, my dear, if you must spend money on these things, why don’t you get them at Rosseter, instead of paying double price for clumsy work here? Such things are not work for a carpenter like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more.’ Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon, believed what he told her, and she’s not overfond o’ parting with the money herself — she’s not a bad woman at bottom, but she’s been brought up under his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned as red as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, ‘No, thank you, madam; I’ll make you a present o’ the screen, if you please. I’ve charged the regular price for my work, and I know it’s done well; and I know, begging His Honour’s pardon, that you couldn’t get such a screen at Rosseter under two guineas. I’m willing to give you my work — it’s been done in my own time, and nobody’s got anything to do with it but me; but if I’m paid, I can’t take a smaller price than I asked, because that ’ud be like saying I’d asked more than was just. With your leave, madam, I’ll bid you good-morning.’ I made my bow and went out before she’d time to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand, looking almost foolish. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as polite as I could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it out as I’m trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought me the one pound thirteen wrapped in paper. But since then I’ve seen pretty clear as th’ old squire can’t abide107 me.”
“That’s likely enough, that’s likely enough,” said Bartle meditatively108. “The only way to bring him round would be to show him what was for his own interest, and that the captain may do — that the captain may do.”
“Nay, I don’t know,” said Adam; “the squire’s ’cute enough but it takes something else besides ’cuteness to make folks see what’ll be their interest in the long run. It takes some conscience and belief in right and wrong, I see that pretty clear. You’d hardly ever bring round th’ old squire to believe he’d gain as much in a straightfor’ard way as by tricks and turns. And, besides, I’ve not much mind to work under him: I don’t want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular an old gentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn’t agree long. If the captain was master o’ th’ estate, it ’ud be different: he’s got a conscience and a will to do right, and I’d sooner work for him nor for any man living.”
“Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don’t you put your head out at window and tell it to be gone about its business, that’s all. You must learn to deal with odd and even in life, as well as in figures. I tell you now, as I told you ten years ago, when you pommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad shilling before you knew whether he was in jest or earnest — you’re overhasty and proud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don’t square to your notions. It’s no harm for me to be a bit fiery109 and stiff-backed — I’m an old schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch110. But where’s the use of all the time I’ve spent in teaching you writing and mapping and mensuration, if you’re not to get for’ard in the world and show folks there’s some advantage in having a head on your shoulders, instead of a turnip111? Do you mean to go on turning up your nose at every opportunity because it’s got a bit of a smell about it that nobody finds out but yourself? It’s as foolish as that notion o’ yours that a wife is to make a working-man comfortable. Stuff and nonsense! Stuff and nonsense! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a sum in simple addition. Simple addition enough! Add one fool to another fool, and in six years’ time six fools more — they’re all of the same denomination112, big and little’s nothing to do with the sum!”
During this rather heated exhortation113 to coolness and discretion114 the pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax115 to his speech by striking a light furiously, after which he puffed116 with fierce resolution, fixing his eye still on Adam, who was trying not to laugh.
“There’s a good deal o’ sense in what you say, Mr. Massey,” Adam began, as soon as he felt quite serious, “as there always is. But you’ll give in that it’s no business o’ mine to be building on chances that may never happen. What I’ve got to do is to work as well as I can with the tools and mater’als I’ve got in my hands. If a good chance comes to me, I’ll think o’ what you’ve been saying; but till then, I’ve got nothing to do but to trust to my own hands and my own head-piece. I’m turning over a little plan for Seth and me to go into the cabinet-making a bit by ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. But it’s getting late now — it’ll be pretty near eleven before I’m at home, and Mother may happen to lie awake; she’s more fidgety nor usual now. So I’ll bid you good-night.”
“Well, well, we’ll go to the gate with you — it’s a fine night,” said Bartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, and without further words the three walked out into the starlight, by the side of Bartle’s potato-beds, to the little gate.
“Come to the music o’ Friday night, if you can, my boy,” said the old man, as he closed the gate after Adam and leaned against it.
“Aye, aye,” said Adam, striding along towards the streak117 of pale road. He was the only object moving on the wide common. The two grey donkeys, just visible in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestone118 images — as still as the grey-thatched roof of the mud cottage a little farther on. Bartle kept his eye on the moving figure till it passed into the darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had twice run back to the house to bestow119 a parenthetic lick on her puppies.
“Aye, aye,” muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, “there you go, stalking along — stalking along; but you wouldn’t have been what you are if you hadn’t had a bit of old lame58 Bartle inside you. The strongest calf120 must have something to suck at. There’s plenty of these big, lumbering121 fellows ’ud never have known their A B C if it hadn’t been for Bartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what is it? I must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I’m never to have a will o’ my own any more. And those pups — what do you think I’m to do with ’em, when they’re twice as big as you? For I’m pretty sure the father was that hulking bull- terrier of Will Baker’s — wasn’t he now, eh, you sly hussy?”
(Here Vixen tucked her tail between her legs and ran forward into the house. Subjects are sometimes broached122 which a well-bred female will ignore.)
“But where’s the use of talking to a woman with babbies?” continued Bartle. “She’s got no conscience — no conscience; it’s all run to milk.”
收听单词发音 |
1
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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13
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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17
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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18
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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19
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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20
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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21
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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23
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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24
intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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25
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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28
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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29
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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30
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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31
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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32
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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33
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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34
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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35
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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36
sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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37
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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38
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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39
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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40
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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41
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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42
crimsons
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| 变为深红色（crimson的第三人称单数形式） | |
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43
scarlets
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| 鲜红色，猩红色( scarlet的名词复数 ) | |
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44
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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45
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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46
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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47
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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48
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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49
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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50
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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51
swill
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| v.冲洗；痛饮；n.泔脚饲料；猪食；（谈话或写作中的）无意义的话 | |
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52
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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53
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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54
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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55
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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56
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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57
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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58
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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59
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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60
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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61
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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62
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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63
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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64
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
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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66
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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67
opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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68
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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69
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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70
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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71
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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72
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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73
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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74
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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75
checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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76
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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77
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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78
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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79
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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80
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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81
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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82
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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83
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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84
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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85
adders
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| n.加法器，（欧洲产）蝰蛇（小毒蛇），（北美产无毒的）猪鼻蛇( adder的名词复数 ) | |
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86
wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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87
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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88
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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89
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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90
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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91
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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92
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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93
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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94
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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95
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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96
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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97
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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98
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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99
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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100
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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101
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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102
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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103
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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105
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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106
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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107
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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108
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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109
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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110
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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111
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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112
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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113
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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114
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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115
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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116
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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117
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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118
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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119
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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120
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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121
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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122
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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