An excerpt from “Adam Bede”

I had an idea for today’s post but was spirited away by a more worthy prospect.

I had an idea for today’s post but I have wanted to quote Mary Ann Evans for quite a while. I recently read Adam Bede, the first of her novels I have ever read. Somehow, I made it through a perfectly good education without reading Silas Marner or Middlemarch or The Mill on the Floss, so I started with her first: Adam Bede. If you don’t recognize the name Mary Ann Evans, which was quite a plain name (how many Mary Ann Evans’s are there in the English-speaking world?), it is because writing novels—or anything else, for that matter—was viewed as an improper way for women to conduct themselves when she lived her full life. Mary Ann Evans became George Eliot. She wrote some of the most significant fiction of the 19th Century.

In the following section, seventeen (or I should say XVII) chapters into her narrative, she titles this bit “In Which the Story Pauses a Little” and goes on an aside to her audience about the nature of the characters she has chosen to portray. She sets her story around 1800 in a tiny village, a relatively remote section of central west England not far inland from Liverpool. They rely on their local lord for some employment, for commerce with somewhat larger villages and towns for their livelihood and supplies, and live rich lives full of problems in spite of their lack of importance to historical events on the grand canvas of the world. She pauses to explain why her novel isn’t full of derring-do and romance in the way other novels the readers of the time (and of this time, honestly) have come to expect. I find her rationale beautiful and utterly human. Please enjoy… and pardon the length.

“But, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow-parishioner who opposes your husband in the vestry? With your newly appointed vicar, whose style of preaching you find painfully below that of his regretted predecessor? With the honest servant who worries your soul with her one failing? With your neighbour, Mrs. Green, who was really kind to you in your last illness, but has said several ill-natured things about you since your convalescence? Nay, with your excellent husband himself, who has other irritating habits besides that of not wiping his shoes? These fellow-mortals, every one, must be accepted as they are: you can neither straighten their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify their dispositions; and it is these people—amongst whom your life is passed—that it is needful you should tolerate, pity, and love: it is these more or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people whose movements of goodness you should be able to admire—for whom you should cherish all possible hopes, all possible patience. And I would not, even if I had the choice, be the clever novelist who could create a world so much better than this, in which we get up in the morning to do our daily work, that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the dusty streets and the common green fields—on the real breathing men and women, who can be chilled by your indifference or injured by your prejudice; who can be cheered and helped onward by your fellow-feeling, your forbearance, your outspoken, brave justice.
“So I am content to tell my simple story, without trying to make things seem better than they were; dreading nothing, indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one’s best efforts, there is reason to dread. Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. The pencil is conscious of a delightful facility in drawing a griffin—the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the better; but that marvellous facility which we mistook for genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real unexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find that even when you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own immediate feelings—much harder than to say something fine about them which is not the exact truth.
“It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous homely existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my fellow-mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragic suffering or of world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noonday light, softened perhaps by a screen of leaves, falls on her mob-cap, and just touches the rim of her spinning-wheel, and her stone jug, and all those cheap common things which are the precious necessaries of life to her—or I turn to that village wedding, kept between four brown walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance with a high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle-aged friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probably with quart-pots in their hands, but with an expression of unmistakable contentment and goodwill. “Foh!” says my idealistic friend, “what vulgar details! What good is there in taking all these pains to give an exact likeness of old women and clowns? What a low phase of life! What clumsy, ugly people!”
“But bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope? I am not at all sure that the majority of the human race have not been ugly, and even among those “lords of their kind,” the British, squat figures, ill-shapen nostrils, and dingy complexions are not startling exceptions. Yet there is a great deal of family love amongst us. I have a friend or two whose class of features is such that the Apollo curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly trying; yet to my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten for them, and their miniatures—flattering, but still not lovely—are kissed in secret by motherly lips. I have seen many an excellent matron, who could have never in her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a packet of yellow love-letters in a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of young heroes, of middle stature and feeble beards, who have felt quite sure they could never love anything more insignificant than a Diana, and yet have found themselves in middle life happily settled with a wife who waddles. Yes! Thank God; human feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for beauty—it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it.
“All honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and children—in our gardens and in our houses. But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the celestial light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face upward and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory; but do not impose on us any aesthetic rules which shall banish from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pot-house, those rounded backs and stupid weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and done the rough work of the world—those homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In this world there are so many of these common coarse people, who have no picturesque sentimental wretchedness! It is so needful we should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy and frame lofty theories which only fit a world of extremes. Therefore, let Art always remind us of them; therefore let us always have men ready to give the loving pains of a life to the faithful representing of commonplace things—men who see beauty in these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven falls on them. There are few prophets in the world; few sublimely beautiful women; few heroes. I can’t afford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities: I want a great deal of those feelings for my every-day fellow-men, especially for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither are picturesque lazzaroni or romantic criminals half so frequent as your common labourer, who gets his own bread and eats it vulgarly but creditably with his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I should have a fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen who weighs out my sugar in a vilely assorted cravat and waistcoat, than with the handsomest rascal in red scarf and green feathers—more needful that my heart should swell with loving admiration at some trait of gentle goodness in the faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or in the clergyman of my own parish, who is perhaps rather too corpulent and in other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than at the deeds of heroes whom I shall never know except by hearsay, or at the sublimest abstract of all clerical graces that was ever conceived by an able novelist.”

And that is all I need to know about being “stylish,” good readers. Take it from Mary Ann Evans, it is not a quality to be found only in the rich and debonair or poor and picturesque. It is a quality that we all have in our own measure. Take some time to read more about this amazing woman. Here’s one article but there are more articles available right at your fingertips:

As the entire novel is in the public domain, you can download the pdf here and send it to your Kindle or other e-readers if you wish. You can also purchase her complete works for e-readers for a few tuppence (erm, dollars really but who’s counting?).

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Author: makingsenseofcomplications

I have an academic background in literature and, separately, science. My career has been in industry in positions of increasing responsibility assisting in the drug development process - one of the most amazing intellectual pursuits of the human mind, among many other amazing intellectual pursuits. I am interested in films, philosophy, history, art, music, science (obviously), literature (also obviously), some video gaming, human behavior, and many other topics. I wish there was more time in every day because we have a world that is full of amazing phenomena that are considered too superficially by too many. Although my first and last names are fictional, I think I believe in all of the stuff you read here, although I retain the right in perpetuity of changing my thoughts about anything written herein.

21 thoughts on “An excerpt from “Adam Bede””

      1. I’m fine, thanks. Demanding answers “STAT!” will be good practice for your profession 🚑 I’m going to respond in a little bit but first (now that I know you’re in India) what part? It is such a huge and diverse country! It’s almost like saying “I’m from earth!” 🚀

        Liked by 1 person

      2. I looked up Bhangda and it seems you might be from the Punjab region, which I have heard is famous for its delicious food! I listened to some Bollywood Bhangda and found this “exercise video” of a Bhangda example: Confusingly, it looks like Bhangda and Bhangra are used interchangeably; I assume this is a dialectic difference?
        Are you close to Amritsar? I have seen pictures of the Golden Temple, of course, but I have never been to India, just read some histories and watched some Indian films (Satyajit Ray, Mira Nair, even enjoyed Lagaan), love novels of Vikram Seth and Rohinton Mistry, R.V. Narayan.

        Liked by 1 person

      3. Yes I’m from Punjab. Not amritsar though. You shd try our food, you’ll never like anything else ever again.
        Yes bhangra and bhangda are the same thing. The original punjabi pronunciation is closer to the latter. Not a dialect difference just due to translation.
        Bollywood is more like the film industry at a national level and the dance is a folk dance.
        I’ve seen these films, not lagaan though. Satyajit ray is really old. but strangely I have never heard of rohinton mistry.
        I very rarely watch Bollywood movies. Hollywood for me. But I’ll let you know if something good comes along just tell me the genre you prefer.

        Liked by 1 person

      4. Rohinton Mistry is a Zoroastrian writer from Mumbai but lives in Canada. His “A Fine Balance” is amazing. My favorite Seth book is “A Suitable Boy.”
        It is wonderful to know someone from Punjab. I know quite a few folks from Gujarat and the Mumbai area, even one originally from Hyderabad. I had neighbors from Kerala, the first time I’d ever heard of that state or the Malayalam language! It is fun to learn (as we both know so well)!


      5. Yes it is.
        I’ll read these books as well has hitchhikers guide to the galaxy. I have accumulated quite a list.
        It’s good to know you too. You have become a good friend in a very short time.
        I don’t yet know where you are from?

        Liked by 1 person

      6. Oh – I live in North Carolina near Lake Norman but I was raised by a Navy dad, so we moved about a bit when I was young. My favorite place was Malta, where we lived for 2.5 years when I was going through 1-3 grades in a British RAF school. It had a critical impact on my perspectives on life and the world.

        Liked by 1 person

  1. Good post. I read the article also. quite educational. I learned about Mary Evans’ writing style and philosophy. very interesting. It reminds me of the poem, Life and Duty by Ellen Sturgis Hooper.

    Liked by 2 people

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