by George Eliot
Chapter XXV
The Games
THE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any ladsand lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there wasmusic always at hand--for was not the band of the Benefit Club capableof playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this,there was a grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderfulwind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delightfulshow to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann'sfiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had providedhimself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste toprefer dancing to a solo on that instrument.
Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front ofthe house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped polesto 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 thatof walking as many yards possible on one leg--feats in which it wasgenerally remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the lissom'st, springest fellowi' the country," was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there was tobe a donkey-race--that sublimest of all races, conducted on the grandsocialistic idea of everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, andthe sorriest donkey winning.
And soon after four o'clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damasksatin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by thewhole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, whereshe was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydiahad requested to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, andArthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother'staste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean,finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air ofpunctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, lookingneutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr. Irwine camelast with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besidesMr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner forthe neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces wererequired for the entertainment of the tenants.
There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn fromthe park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of thevictors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and thereon benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the whitemarquees up to the sunk fence.
"Upon my word it's a pretty sight," said the old lady, in her deepvoice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene withits dark-green background; "and it's the last fete-day I'm likely tosee, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care youget a charming bride, else I would rather die without seeing her."
"You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother," said Arthur, "I'm afraid Ishould never satisfy you with my choice."
"Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put offwith amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for theexistence of plain people. And she must not be silly; that will neverdo, 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, standingwithout his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the sideof him--his mother, of course. I like to see that."
"What, don't you know him, Mother?" said Mr. Irwine. "That is SethBede, Adam's brother--a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Sethhas looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was because of hisfather's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted tomarry that sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a monthago, and I suppose she refused him."
"Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people herethat I don't know, for they're grown up and altered so since I used togo about."
"What excellent sight you have!" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who washolding a double glass up to his eyes, "to see the expression of thatyoung man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurredspot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to lookclose. I can read small print without spectacles."
"Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and thosenear-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong spectacles toread with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things ata distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should beblind to everything that wasn't out of other people's sight, like a manwho stands in a well and sees nothing but the stars."
"See," said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their racenow. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?"
"The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats, andthen the little wiry one may win."
"There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand," saidMiss 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 tobe neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is holding on herknee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?"
"That is Hetty Sorrel," said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, "Martin Poyser'sniece--a very likely young person, and well-looking too. My maid hastaught her fine needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine veryrespectably indeed--very respectably."
"Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; youmust 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 aperfect 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 aspretty if she had had round eyes and red hair."
Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine wasspeaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied withsomething on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough withoutlooking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beautypraised--for other men's opinion, you know, was like a native climateto Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, andgrew strong. Yes! She was enough to turn any man's head: any man in hisplace would have done and felt the same. And to give her up after all,as he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always lookback upon with pride.
"No, Mother," and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; "I can'tagree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid as youimagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling,is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and acoarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their presence. The man maybe no better able than the dog to explain the influence the more refinedbeauty 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 thanmarried men, because they have time for more general contemplation.Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his judgment by callingone woman his own. But, as an example of what I was saying, that prettyMethodist preacher I mentioned just now told me that she had preachedto the roughest miners and had never been treated with anything but theutmost respect and kindness by them. The reason is--though she doesn'tknow it--that there's so much tenderness, refinement, and purity abouther. Such a woman as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that thecoarsest fellow is not insensible to."
"Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive aprize, I suppose," said Mr. Gawaine. "She must be one of the racers inthe sacks, who had set off before we came."
The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage, otherwiseChad's Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person had undergonean exaggeration of colour, which, if she had happened to be a heavenlybody, would have made her
sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had takento her ear-rings again since Dinah's departure, and was otherwise deckedout in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who could havelooked into poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblancebetween her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage,perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling. Butthen, you see, they were so very different outside! You would have beeninclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed to kiss Hetty.
Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from merehedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said therewere to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approachedthe marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but with exultationsparkling in her round eyes.
"Here is the prize for the first sack-race," said Miss Lydia, taking alarge parcel from the table where the prizes were laid and giving it toMrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, "an excellent grogram gown and a pieceof flannel."
"You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?" saidArthur. "Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and save thatgrim-looking gown for one of the older women?"
"I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial," said MissLydia, adjusting her own lace; "I should not think of encouraging a loveof finery in young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak, but thatis 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 aseries of curtsies.
"This is Bessy Cranage, mother," said Mr. Irwine, kindly, "ChadCranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?"
"Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is yourprize--excellent warm things for winter. I'm sure you have had hard workto win them this warm day."
Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown--which felt so hot anddisagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great ugly thing tocarry. She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with agrowing tremulousness about the corners of her mouth, and then turnedaway.
"Poor girl," said Arthur; "I think she's disappointed. I wish it hadbeen something more to her taste."
"She's a bold-looking young person," observed Miss Lydia. "Not at allone I should like to encourage."
Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of moneybefore the day was over, that she might buy something more to her mind;but she, not aware of the consolation in store for her, turned out ofthe open space, where she was visible from the marquee, and throwingdown the odious bundle under a tree, began to cry--very much tittered atthe while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by herdiscreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having justgiven the baby into her husband's charge.
"What's the matter wi' ye?" said Bess the matron, taking up the bundleand examining it. "Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that fool'srace. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good grogram and flannel, asshould ha' been gi'en by good rights to them as had the sense to keepaway from such foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o' this grogram to makeclothes for the lad--ye war ne'er ill-natured, Bess; I ne'er said thaton ye."
"Ye may take it all, for what I care," said Bess the maiden, with apettish 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 thedisinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle, lest Chad'sBess should change her mind.
But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spiritsthat secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time the grandclimax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment was entirely lostin the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkeyby hisses, while the boys applied the argument of sticks. But thestrength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as thearguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mentalforce as the direct sequence; and the present donkey proved thefirst-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstilljust when the blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd,radiant the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunaterider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in themidst of its triumph.
Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was madehappy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and gimletsenough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returnedfrom the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began to beunderstood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, beforethe gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitousperformance--namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtlessborrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar andcomplex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality.Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing--an accomplishment productive of greateffect at the yearly Wake--had needed only slightly elevating by anextra quantity of good ale to convince him that the gentry would bevery much struck with his performance of his hornpipe; and he had beendecidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that itwas nothing but right to do something to please the young squire, inreturn for what he had done for them. You will be the less surprisedat this opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben hadrequested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quitesure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the music wouldmake 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 afool of himself--a remark which at once fixed Ben's determination: hewas not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede turned up his noseat it.
"What's this, what's this?" said old Mr. Donnithorne. "Is it somethingyou've arranged, Arthur? Here's the clerk coming with his fiddle, and asmart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole."
"No," said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going todance! 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; "rathera loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is toomuch for you: you're getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you mayrest till dinner."
Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, whileJoshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the "White Cockade," fromwhich he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by a series oftransitions which his good ear really taught him to execute with someskill. It would have been an exasperating fact to him, if he had knownit, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben'sdancing for any one to give much heed to the music.
Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance? Perhapsyou have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman incrockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movementsof the head. That is as much like the real thing as the "Bird Waltz" islike the song of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled: he looked as serious as adancing monkey--as serious as if he had been an experimental philosopherascertaining in his own person the amount of shaking and the varietiesof angularity that could be given to the human limbs.
To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthurclapped his hands continually and cried "Bravo!" But Ben had one admirerwhose eyes followed his movements with a fervid gravity that equalledhis own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommybetween his legs.
"What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. "He goes as pat to themusic as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un atdancing myself when I was lighter, but I could niver ha' hit it just toth' hair like that."
"It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking," re-turnedMrs. Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver comejigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for the gentryto 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, whodid not easily take an irritable view of things. "But they're going awaynow, 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 andthings: I doubt he hasna had much fun."
