Adam Bede. Джордж Элиот

yourself about me, Ben. I’m not a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are—though it’s like enough you’ll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine’s got more sense nor to meddle wi’ people’s doing as they like in religion. That’s between themselves and God, as he’s said to me many a time.”

      “Aye, aye; but he’s none so fond o’ your dissenters, for all that.”

      “Maybe; I’m none so fond o’ Josh Tod’s thick ale, but I don’t hinder you from making a fool o’ yourself wi’t.”

      There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam’s, but Seth said, very seriously. “Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody’s religion’s like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and the Methodists have got the root o’ the matter as well as the church folks.”

      “Nay, Seth, lad; I’m not for laughing at no man’s religion. Let ‘em follow their consciences, that’s all. Only I think it ‘ud be better if their consciences ‘ud let ‘em stay quiet i’ the church—there’s a deal to be learnt there. And there’s such a thing as being oversperitial; we must have something beside Gospel i’ this world. Look at the canals, an’ th’ aqueduc’s, an’ th’ coal-pit engines, and Arkwright’s mills there at Cromford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them things, I reckon. But t’ hear some o’ them preachers, you’d think as a man must be doing nothing all’s life but shutting’s eyes and looking what’s agoing on inside him. I know a man must have the love o’ God in his soul, and the Bible’s God’s word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o’ looking at it: there’s the sperrit o’ God in all things and all times—weekday as well as Sunday—and i’ the great works and inventions, and i’ the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as well as with our souls; and if a man does bits o’ jobs out o’ working hours—builds a oven for ‘s wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit o’ garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o’ one, he’s doin’ more good, and he’s just as near to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.”

      “Well done, Adam!” said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his planks while Adam was speaking; “that’s the best sarmunt I’ve heared this long while. By th’ same token, my wife’s been a-plaguin’ on me to build her a oven this twelvemont.”

      “There’s reason in what thee say’st, Adam,” observed Seth, gravely. “But thee know’st thyself as it’s hearing the preachers thee find’st so much fault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. It’s the preacher as empties th’ alehouse; and if a man gets religion, he’ll do his work none the worse for that.”

      “On’y he’ll lave the panels out o’ th’ doors sometimes, eh, Seth?” said Wiry Ben.

      “Ah, Ben, you’ve got a joke again’ me as ‘ll last you your life. But it isna religion as was i’ fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more’s the pity.”

      “Ne’er heed me, Seth,” said Wiry Ben, “y’ are a down-right good-hearted chap, panels or no panels; an’ ye donna set up your bristles at every bit o’ fun, like some o’ your kin, as is mayhap cliverer.”

      “Seth, lad,” said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, “thee mustna take me unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now. Some ‘s got one way o’ looking at things and some ‘s got another.”

      “Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean’st me no unkindness,” said Seth, “I know that well enough. Thee’t like thy dog Gyp—thee bark’st at me sometimes, but thee allays lick’st my hand after.”

      All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket; Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, “Look there, now! I can’t abide to see men throw away their tools i’ that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i’ their work and was afraid o’ doing a stroke too much.”

      Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, “Aye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y’ are six-an’-forty like me, istid o’ six-an’-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o’ workin’ for nought.”

      “Nonsense,” said Adam, still wrathful; “what’s age got to do with it, I wonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man’s arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clock’s fairly struck, just as if he’d never a bit o’ pride and delight in ‘s work. The very grindstone ‘ull go on turning a bit after you loose it.”

      “Bodderation, Adam!” exclaimed Wiry Ben; “lave a chap aloon, will ‘ee? Ye war afinding faut wi’ preachers a while agoo—y’ are fond enough o’ preachin’ yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work; that’ll ‘commodate ye—it laves ye th’ more to do.”

      With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something.

      “Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching?” Adam asked, looking up.

      “Nay; I’ve got my hat and things at Will Maskery’s. I shan’t be home before going for ten. I’ll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she’s willing. There’s nobody comes with her from Poyser’s, thee know’st.”

      “Then I’ll tell mother not to look for thee,” said Adam.

      “Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself to-night?” said Seth rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.

      “Nay, I’m going to th’ school.”

      Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his master’s face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him.

      “What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?” said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth.

      Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, “Of course.” Poor fellow, he had not a great range of expression.

      The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam’s and Seth’s dinner; and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at his master’s heels.

      On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman’s sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize Adam till he said, “Here’s the key, Dolly; lay it down for me in the house, will you?”

      “Aye,