Bartle 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 justified 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 jug with a crown of foam 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 checkered apron; so was the quarry 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, were 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 scraps, 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 gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, my boy: it’s been drawn for you—it’s been drawn for you.”
“Nay, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, who took his old friend’s whim 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 batch 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 swarm 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 mischief, 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 blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and wasps, and foxes and wild beasts are a blessing, when they’re only the evils that belong to this state o’ probation, which it’s lawful 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 invective 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 incumbent on her to jump out of the hamper and bark vaguely.
“Quiet, Vixen!” snarled 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 humiliation, 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 to-day?”
“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 puffs, looking earnestly the while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious 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 negligence. At last he said, “Satchell’s got a paralytic 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, mischievous fellow; but, after all, there’s nobody he’s done so much harm to as to th’ old squire. 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 steward 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 stewards. 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 to-morrow, 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 backbone 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 allays 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’ brass 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 mighty pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay she was to give me. I didn’t speak at random—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 thirteen.’ 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 abide me.”
“That’s likely enough, that’s likely enough,” said Bartle meditatively. “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 fiery and stiff-backed—I’m an old schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch. 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 turnip? 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 denomination, big and little’s nothing to do with the sum!”
During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion the pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to his speech by striking a light furiously, after which he puffed 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 streak 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 limestone 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 bestow 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 lame Bartle inside you. The strongest calf must have something to suck at. There’s plenty of these big, lumbering 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 broached 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.”