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 jigs1, 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 delightful2 show to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann’s fiddle3, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had provided himself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently4 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 — feats5 in which it was generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being “the lissom’st, springest fellow i’ the country,” was sure to be pre- eminent6. To crown all, there was to be a donkey-race — that sublimest7 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 ciock, 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 scented9, withered10 old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of punctilious11, 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 today; there was to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry12 on the morrow, but today all the forces were required for the entertainment of the tenants13.
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 standing14, 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 fete-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 amiability15, 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 blurred16 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 feigned17 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 determined18 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 shackle19 his judgment20 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, refinement21, 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 sublime8. 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 muster22. 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 tempted23 to run the arduous24 race, partly from mere25 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 exultation26 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 flannel27.”
“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 scarlet28 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, kindly29, “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 consolation30 in store for her, turned out of the open space, where she was visible from the marquee, and throwing down the odious31 bundle under a tree, began to cry — very much tittered at the while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried32 by her discreet33 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 maiden34, with a pettish35 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 disinterested36 cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle, lest Chad’s Bess should change her mind.
But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity37 of spirits that secured her from any rankling38 grief; and by the time the grand climax39 of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment was entirely40 lost in the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate41 the last donkey by hisses42, while the boys applied43 the argument of sticks. But the strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely44 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 impromptu45 and gratuitous46 performance — namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless borrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar47 and complex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality48. Wiry Ben’s pride in his dancing — an accomplishment49 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 squire50, 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 fixed51 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 tunes52, by a series of transitions which his good ear really taught him to execute with some skill. It would have been an exasperating53 fact to him, if he had known it, that the general attention was too thoroughly54 absorbed by Ben’s dancing for any one to give much heed55 to the music.
Have you ever seen a real English rustic56 perform a solo dance? Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman in crockery, with graceful57 turns of the haunch and insinuating58 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 ascertaining59 in his own person the amount of shaking and the varieties of angularity that could be given to the human limbs.
To make amends60 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 fervid61 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 lighter62, 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 jigging63 an’ stamping i’ that way, like a mad grasshopper64, 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 irritable65 view of things. “But they’re going away now, t’ have their dinner, I reckon. Well 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.”
收听单词发音 |
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jigs
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| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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sublimest
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| 伟大的( sublime的最高级 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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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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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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shackle
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| n.桎梏，束缚物；v.加桎梏，加枷锁，束缚 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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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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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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inversely
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| adj.相反的 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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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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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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53
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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59
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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60
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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61
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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62
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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63
jigging
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| n.跳汰选，簸选v.（使）上下急动( jig的现在分词 ) | |
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64
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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65
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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