adam bede(亚当[1].比德)-第6节
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lining the bushy hedgerows。 It was that moment in summer when
the sound of the scythe being whetted makes us cast more
lingering looks at the flower…sprinkled tresses of the meadows。
He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had
turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward； beyond Jonathan
Burge’s pasture and woodyard towards the green corn…fields and
walnut…trees of the Hall Farm； but apparently there was more
interest for him in the living groups close at hand。 Every
generation in the village was there； from old “Feyther Taft” in his
brown worsted night…cap； who was bent nearly double； but
seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while； leaning on
his short stick； down to the babies with their little round heads
lolling forward in quilted linen caps。 Now and then there was a
new arrival； perhaps a slouching labourer； who； having eaten his
supper； came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine
gaze； willing to hear what any one had to say in explanation of it；
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but by no means excited enough to ask a question。 But all took
care not to join the Methodists on the Green； and identify
themselves in that way with the expectant audience； for there was
not one of them that would not have disclaimed the imputation of
having come out to hear the “preacher woman”—they had only
come out to see “what war a…goin’ on； like。” The men were chiefly
gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith’s shop。 But do
not imagine them gathered in a knot。 Villagers never swarm： a
whisper is unknown among them； and they seem almost as
incapable of an undertone as a cow or a stag。 Your true rustic
turns his back on his interlocutor； throwing a question over his
shoulder as if he meant to run away from the answer； and walking
a step or two farther off when the interest of the dialogue
culminates。 So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith’s door
was by no means a close one； and formed no screen in front of
Chad Cranage； the blacksmith himself； who stood with his black
brawny arms folded； leaning against the door…post； and
occasionally sending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes；
giving them a marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben；
who had renounced the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of
seeing life under a new form。 But both styles of wit were treated
with equal contempt by Mr。 Joshua Rann。 Mr。 Rann’s leathern
apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt that
he is the village shoemaker； the thrusting out of his chin and
stomach and the twirling of his thumbs are more subtle
indications； intended to prepare unwary strangers for the
discovery that they are in the presence of the parish clerk。 “Old
Joshway；” as he is irreverently called by his neighbours； is in a
state of simmering indignation； but he has not yet opened his lips
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except to say； in a resounding bass undertone； like the tuning of a
violoncello； “Sehon； King of the Amorites； for His mercy endureth
for ever； and Og the King of Basan： for His mercy endureth for
ever”—a quotation which may seem to have slight bearing on the
present occasion； but； as with every other anomaly； adequate
knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence。 Mr。 Rann was
inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this
scandalous irruption of Methodism； and as that dignity was bound
up with his own sonorous utterance of the responses； his
argument naturally suggested a quotation from the psalm he had
read the last Sunday afternoon。
The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to
the edge of the Green； where they could examine more closely the
quaker…like costume and odd deportment of the female
Methodists。 Underneath the maple there was a small cart； which
had been brought from the wheelwright’s to serve as a pulpit； and
round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had been placed。
Some of the Methodists were resting on these； with their eyes
closed； as if wrapt in prayer or meditation。 Others chose to
continue standing； and had turned their faces towards the
villagers with a look of melancholy compassion； which was highly
amusing to Bessy Cranage； the blacksmith’s buxom daughter；
known to her neighbours as Chad’s Bess； who wondered “why the
folks war amakin’ faces a that’ns。” Chad’s Bess was the object of
peculiar compassion； because her hair； being turned back under a
cap which was set at the top of her head； exposed to view an
ornament of which she was much prouder than of her red
cheeks—namely； a pair of large round ear…rings with false garnets
in them； ornaments condemned not only by the Methodists； but by
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her own cousin and namesake Timothy’s Bess； who； with much
cousinly feeling； often wished “them ear…rings” might come to
good。
Timothy’s Bess； though retaining her maiden appellation
among her familiars； had long been the wife of Sandy Jim； and
possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels； of which it is enough
to mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her arms； and the
sturdy fellow of five in knee…breeches； and red legs； who had a
rusty milk…can round his neck by way of drum； and was very
carefully avoided by Chad’s small terrier。 This young olive…branch；
notorious under the name of Timothy’s Bess’s Ben； being of an
inquiring disposition； unchecked by any false modesty； had
advanced beyond the group of women and children； and was
walking round the Methodists； looking up in their faces with his
mouth wide open； and beating his stick against the milk…can by
way of musical accompaniment。 But one of the elderly women
bending down to take him by the shoulder； with an air of grave
remonstrance； Timothy’s Bess’s Ben first kicked out vigorously；
then took to his heels and sought refuge behind his father’s legs。
“Ye gallows young dog；” said Sandy Jim； with some paternal
pride； “if ye donna keep that stick quiet； I’ll tek it from ye。 What
dy’e mane by kickin’ foulks？”
“Here！ Gie him here to me； Jim；” said Chad Cranage； “I’ll tie
hirs up an’ shoe him as I do th’ hosses。 Well； Mester Casson；” he
continued； as that personage sauntered up towards the group of
men； “how are ye t’ naight？ Are ye coom t’ help groon？ They say
folks allays groon when they’re hearkenin’ to th’ Methodys； as if
they war bad i’ th’ inside。 I mane to groon as loud as your cow did
th’ other naight； an’ then the praicher ’ull think I’m i’ th’ raight
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way。”
“I’d advise you not to be up to no nonsense； Chad；” said Mr。
Casson； with some dignity； “Poyser wouldn’t like to hear as his
wife’s niece was treated any ways disrespectful； f
