Adam Bede
the very opposite of what he intended! Irwine would think him a
shilly-shally fellow ever after. However, it must come out in an
unpremeditated way; the conversation might lead up to it.
“I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day,” said
Mr. Irwine. “No dust has settled on one’s mind then, and it presents a
clear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by
me at breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that
regularly every morning it seems to me as if I should certainly become
studious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has
killed a hare, and when I’ve got through my ‘justicing,’ as Carroll
calls it, I’m inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way back I
meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a
mutinous pauper to tell me; and so the day goes on, and I’m always the
same lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the
stimulus of sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D’Oyley left
Treddleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I should
have had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholarship doesn’t run
in your family blood.”
“No indeed. It’s well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin to
adorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. ‘Cras
ingens iterabimus aequor,’ and a few shreds of that sort, will perhaps
stick to me, and I shall arrange my opinions so as to introduce them.
But I don’t think a knowledge of the classics is a pressing want to a
country gentleman; as far as I can see, he’d much better have a
knowledge of manures. I’ve been reading your friend Arthur Young’s
books lately, and there’s nothing I should like better than to carry
out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of
their land; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the
same dark hue, bright and variegated with corn and cattle. My
grandfather will never let me have any power while he lives, but
there’s nothing I should like better than to undertake the Stonyshire
side of the estate—it’s in a dismal condition—and set improvements on
foot, and gallop about from one place to another and overlook them. I
should like to know all the labourers, and see them touching their hats
to me with a look of goodwill.”
“Bravo, Arthur! A man who has no feeling for the classics couldn’t make
a better apology for coming into the world than by increasing the
quantity of food to maintain scholars—and rectors who appreciate
scholars. And whenever you enter on your career of model landlord may I
be there to see. You’ll want a portly rector to complete the picture,
and take his tithe of all the respect and honour you get by your hard
work. Only don’t set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to
get in consequence. I’m not sure that men are the fondest of those who
try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the
whole neighbourhood upon him about that enclosure. You must make it
quite clear to your mind which you are most bent upon, old
boy—popularity or usefulness—else you may happen to miss both.”
“Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn’t make himself
personally agreeable to his tenants. I don’t believe there’s anything
you can’t prevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I
couldn’t live in a neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved.
And it’s very pleasant to go among the tenants here—they seem all so
well inclined to me I suppose it seems only the other day to them since
I was a little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if
fair allowances were made to them, and their buildings attended to, one
could persuade them to farm on a better plan, stupid as they are.”
“Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don’t get a wife
who will drain your purse and make you niggardly in spite of yourself.
My mother and I have a little discussion about you sometimes: she says,
‘I’ll never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he
falls in love with.’ She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the
moon rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil
you know, and I maintain that you’re not of that watery quality. So
mind you don’t disgrace my judgment.”
Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine’s opinion
about him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister omen. This, to be
sure, was only another reason for persevering in his intention, and
getting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at this
point in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclination
to tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and
lived a great deal in other people’s opinions and feelings concerning
himself; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an intimate
friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any such
serious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather shook his own
belief in the seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a
thing to make a fuss about; and what could Irwine do for him that he
could not do for himself? He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg’s
lameness—go on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the
old hack. That was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but the next
minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered how
thoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No! He
would not be vacillating again—he _would_ do what he had meant to do,
this time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of the
conversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics,
his difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause
for this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered, “But I think
it is hardly an argument against a man’s general strength of character
that he should be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitution
doesn’t insure one against smallpox or any other of those inevitable
diseases. A man may be very firm in other matters and yet be under a
sort of witchery from a woman.”
“Yes; but there’s this difference between love and smallpox, or
bewitchment either—that if you detect the disease at an early stage and
try change of air, there is every chance of complete escape without any
further development of symptoms. And there are certain alternative
doses which a man may administer to himself by keeping unpleasant
consequences before his mind: this gives you a sort of smoked glass
through which you may look at the resplendent fair one and discern her
true outline; though I’m afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to
be missing just at the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a
man fortified with a knowledge of the classics might be lured into an
imprudent marriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in
the Prometheus.”
The smile that flitted across Arthur’s face was a faint one, and
instead of following Mr. Irwine’s playful lead, he said, quite
seriously—“Yes, that’s the worst of it. It’s a desperately vexatious
thing, that after all one’s reflections and quiet determinations, we
should be ruled by moods that one can’t calculate on beforehand. I
don’t think a man ought to be blamed so much if he is betrayed into
doing things in that way, in spite of his resolutions.”
“Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as his
reflections did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance with
his own nature. He carries within him the germ of his most exceptional
action; and if we wise people make eminent fools of ourselves on any
particular occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we
carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom.”
“Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of
circumstances, which one might never have done otherwise.”
“Why, yes, a man can’t very well steal a bank-note unless the bank-note
lies within convenient reach; but he won’t make us think him an honest
man because he begins to howl at the bank-note for falling in his way.”
“But surely you don’t think a man who struggles against a temptation
into which he falls at last as bad as the man who never struggles at
all?”
“No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for they
foreshadow the inward suffering which is the worst form of Nemesis.
Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible
consequences, quite apart from any fluctuations that went
before—consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it
is best to fix our minds on that certainty, instead of considering what
may be the elements of excuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined
for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you
are considering in this philosophical, general way?”
In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, threw
himself back in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He really
suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of
smoothing the way for him by this direct question. But he was mistaken.
Brought suddenly and involuntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur
shrank back and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The
conversation had taken a more serious tone than he had intended—it
would quite mislead Irwine—he would imagine there was a deep passion
for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was conscious of
colouring, and was annoyed at his boyishness.
“Oh no, no danger,” he said as indifferently as he could. “I don’t know
that I am more liable to irresolution than other people; only there are
little incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might
happen in the future.”
Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of Arthur’s
which had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to himself? Our
mental business is carried on much in the same way as the business of
the State: a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not
acknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often a
small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion
of the large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized
agent secretly busy in Arthur’s mind at this moment—possibly it was the
fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession
to the rector a serious annoyance, in case he should _not_ be able
quite to carry out his good resolutions? I dare not assert that it was
not so. The human soul is a very complex thing.
The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine’s mind as he looked
inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming indifferent answer confirmed
the thought which had quickly followed—that there could be nothing
serious in that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever
saw her except at church, and at her own home under the eye of Mrs.
Poyser; and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no
more serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as to
rouse the little chit’s vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic
drama of her life. Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far
away: no, there could be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur’s
character had not been a strong security against it. His honest,
patronizing pride in the good-will and respect of everybody about him
was a safeguard even against foolish romance, still more against a
lower kind of folly. If there had been anything special on Arthur’s
mind in the previous conversation, it was clear he was not inclined to
enter into details, and Mr. Irwine was too delicate to imply even a
friendly curiosity. He perceived a change of subject would be welcome,
and said, “By the way, Arthur, at your colonel’s birthday fête there