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The Mill on the Floss
George Eliot
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The Mill on the Floss
George Eliot
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Misunderstood Maggie Tulliver is torn. Her rebellious and passionate nature demands expression, while her provincial kin and community expect self-denial. Based closely on the author's own life, Maggie's story explores the conflicts of love and loyalty and the friction between desire and moral responsibility. Written in 1860, The Mill on the Floss was published to instant popularity. An accurate, evocative depiction of English rural life, this compelling narrative features a vivid and realistic cast, headed by one of 19th-century literature's most appealing characters. Required reading for most students, it ranks prominently among the great Victorian novels.
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Sujet
LiteratureSous-sujet
ClassicsBOOK ONE
Boy and Girl
CHAPTER 1
OUTSIDE DORLCOTE MILL
A WIDE plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on between its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. On this mighty tide the black shipsâladen with the fresh-scented fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coalâare borne along to the town of St Oggâs, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves between the low wooded hill and the river brink, tinging the water with a soft purple hue under the transient glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures, and the patches of dark earth, made ready for the seed of broad-leaved green crops, or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. There is a remnant still of the last yearâs golden clusters of beehive ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees: the distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is, with its dark, changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank and listen to its low placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf and loving. I remember those large dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge.
And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant to look atâperhaps the chill damp season adds a charm to the trimly-kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above.
The rush of the water, and the booming of the mill, bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. And now there is the thunder of the huge covered waggon coming home with sacks of grain. That honest waggoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses,âthe strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in that awful manner, as if they needed that hint! See how they stretch their shoulders up the slope towards the bridge, with all the more energy because they are so near home. Look at their grand shaggy feet that seem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their necks, bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly- earned feed of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the arch of the covered waggon disappears at the turning behind the trees.
Now I can turn my eyes towards the mill again and watch the unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl is watching it too: she has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous, because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening grey of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge. . . .
Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many years ago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr and Mrs Tulliver were talking about, as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlour, on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of.
CHAPTER 2
MR TULLIVER, OF DORLCOTE MILL, DECLARES HIS RESOLUTION ABOUT TOM
âWHAT I want, you know,â said Mr Tulliverââwhat I want is to give Tom a good eddication: an eddication asâll be a bread to him. That was what I was thinking of when I gave notice for him to leave the âcademy at Ladyday. I mean to put him to a downright good school at Midsummer. The two years at the âcademy âud haâ done well enough, if Iâd meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for heâs had a fine sight more schoolinâ nor I ever got: all the learninâ my father ever paid for was a bit oâ birch at one end and the alphabet at thâ other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard, so as he might be up to the tricks oâ these fellows as talk fine and write with a flourish. It âud be a help to me wiâ these lawsuits, and arbitrations, and things. I wouldnât make a downright lawyer oâ the ladâI should be sorry for him to be a raskillâbut a sort oâ engineer, or a surveyor, or an auctioneer and vallyer, like Riley, or one oâ them smartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay, only for a big watch-chain and a high stool. Theyâre pretty nigh all one, and theyâre not far off being even wiâ the law, I believe; for Riley looks Lawyer Wakem iâ the face as hard as one cat looks another. Heâs none frightened at him.â
Mr Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blond comely woman in a fan-shaped cap (I am afraid to think how long it is since fan-shaped caps were wornâthey must be so near coming in again. At that time, when Mrs Tulliver was nearly forty, they were new at St Oggâs, and considered sweet things).
âWell, Mr Tulliver, you know best: Iâve no objections. But hadnât I better kill a couple oâ fowl and have thâ aunts and uncles to dinner next week, so as you may hear what sister Glegg and sister Pullet have got to say about it? Thereâs a couple oâ fowl wants killing!â
âYou may kill every fowl iâ the yard, if you like, Bessy; but I shall ask neither aunt nor uncle what Iâm to do wiâ my own lad,â said Mr Tulliver, defiantly.
âDear heart!â said Mrs Tulliver, shocked at this sanguinary rhetoric, âhow can you talk so, Mr Tulliver? But itâs your way to speak disrespectful oâ my family; and sister Glegg throws all the blame upoâ me, though Iâm sure Iâm as innocent as the babe unborn. For nobodyâs ever heard me say as it wasnât lucky for my children to have aunts and uncles as can live independent. Howiver, if Tomâs to go to a new school, I should like him to go where I can wash him and mend him; else he might as well have calico as linen, for theyâd be one as yallow as thâ other before theyâd been washed half-a-dozen times. And then, when the box is goinâ backards and forrards, I could send the lad a cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple; for he can do with an extry bit, bless him, whether they stint him at the meals or no. My children can eat as much victuals as most, thank God.â
âWell, well, we wonât send him out oâ reach oâ the carrierâs cart, if other things fit in,â said Mr Tulliver. âBut you mustnât put a spoke iâ the wheel about the washinâ, if we canât get a school near enough. Thatâs the fault I have to find wiâ you, Bessy; if you see a stick iâ the road, youâre allays thinkinâ you canât step over it. Youâd want me not to hire a good waggoner, âcause heâd got a mole on his face.â
âDear heart!â said Mrs Tulliver, in mild surprise, âwhen did I iver make objections to a man because heâd got a mole on his face? Iâm sure Iâm rether fond oâ the moles; for my brother, as is dead anâ gone, had a mole on his brow. But I canât remember your iver offering to hire a waggoner with a mole, Mr Tulliver. There was John Gibbs hadnât a mole on his face no more nor you have, anâ I was all for having you hire him ; anâ so you did hire him, anâ if he hadnât died oâ thâ inflammation, as we paid Dr Turnbull for attending him, heâd very like haâ been driving the waggon now. He might have a mole somewhere out oâ sight, but how was I to know that, Mr Tulliver?â
âNo, no, Bessy; I didnât mean justly the mole; I meant it to stand for summat else; but niver mindâitâs puzzling work, talking is. What Iâm thinking on, is how to find the right sort oâ school to send Tom to, for I might be taâen in again, as Iâve been wiâ the âcademy. Iâll have nothing to do wiâ a âcademy again: whativer school I send Tom to, it shanât be a âcademy; it shall be a place where the lads spend their time iâ summat else besides blacking the familyâs shoes, and getting up the potatoes. Itâs an uncommon puzzling thing to know what school to pick.â
Mr Tulliver paused a minute or two, and dived with both hands into his breeches pockets as if he hoped to find some suggestion there. Apparently he was not disappointed, for he presently said, âI know what Iâll doâIâll talk it over wiâ Riley: heâs coming to-morrow, tâ arbitrate about the dam.â
âWell, Mr Tulliver, Iâve put the sheets out for the best bed, and Keziaâs got âem hanging at the fire. They arenât the best sheets, but theyâre good enough for anybody to sleep in, be he who he will; for as for them best Holland sheets, I should repent buying âem, only theyâll do to lay us out in; anâ if you was to die to-morrow, Mr Tulliver, theyâre mangled beautiful, anâ all ready, anâ smell oâ lavender as it âud be a pleasure to lay âem out; anâ they lie at the left-hand corner oâ the big oak linen-chest at the back: not as I should trust anybody to look âem out but myself.â
As Mrs Tulliver uttered the last sentence, she drew a bright bunch of keys from her pocket, and singled out one, rubbing her thumb and finger up and down it with a placid smile while she looked at the clear fire. If Mr Tulliver had been a susceptible man in his conjugal relation, he might have supposed that she drew out the key to aid her imagination in anticipating the moment when he would be in a state to justify the production of the best Holland sheets. Happily he was not so; he was only susceptible in respect of his right to water-power; moreover, he had the marital habit of not listening very closely, and since his mention of Mr Riley, had been apparently occupied in a tactile examination of his woollen stockings.
âI think Iâve hit it, Bessy,â was his first remark after a short silence. âRileyâs as likely a man as any to know oâ some school; heâs had schooling himself, anâ goes about to all sorts oâ placesâarbitratinâ and vallyinâ and that. And we shall have time to talk it over to-morrow night when the business is done. I want Tom to be such a sort oâ man as Riley, you knowâas can talk pretty nigh as well as if it was all wrote out for him, and knows a good lot oâ words as donât mean much, so as you canât lay hold of âem iâ law; and a good solid knowledge oâ business too.â
âWell,â said Mrs Tulliver, âso far as talking proper, and knowing everything, and walking with a bend in his back, and setting his hair up, I shouldnât mind the lad being brought up to that. But them fine-talking men from the big towns mostly wear the false shirt-fronts; they wear a frill till itâs all a mess, and then hide it with a bib; I know Riley does. And then, if Tomâs to go and live at Mudport, like Riley, heâll have a house with a kitchen hardly big enough to turn in, anâ niver get a fresh egg for his breakfast, anâ sleep up three pair oâ stairsâor four, for what I knowâanâ be burnt to death before he gets down.â
âNo, no,â said Mr Tulliver, âIâve no thoughts of his going to Mudport: I mean him to set up his office at St Oggâs, close by us, anâ live at home. But,â continued Mr Tulliver after a pause, âwhat Iâm a bit afraid on is, as Tom hasnât got the right sort oâ brains for a smart fellow. I doubt heâs a bit slowish. He takes after your family, Bessy.â
âYes, that he does,â said Mrs Tulliver, accepting the last proposition entirely on its own merits; âheâs wonderful for liking a deal oâ salt in his broth. That was my brotherâs way, and my fatherâs before him.â
âIt seems a bit of a pity, though,â said Mr Tulliver, âas the lad should take after the motherâs side istead oâ the little wench. Thatâs the worst onât wiâ the crossing oâ breeds: you can never justly calkilate whatâll come onât. The little un takes after my side, now: sheâs twice as âcute as Tom. Too âcute for a woman, Iâm afraid,â continued Mr Tulliver, turning his head dubiously first on one side and then on the other. âItâs no mischief much while sheâs a little un, but an over-âcute womanâs no better nor a long-tailed sheepâsheâll fetch none the bigger price for that.â
âYes, it is a mischief while sheâs a little un, Mr Tulliver, for it all runs to naughtiness. How to keep her in a clean pinafore two hours together passes my cunning. Anâ now you put me iâ mind,â continued Mrs Tulliver, rising and going to the window, âI donât know where she is now, anâ itâs pretty nigh tea-time. Ah, I thought soâwanderinâ up anâ down by the water, like a wild thing: sheâll tumble in some day.â
Mrs Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and shook her head,âa process which she repeated more than once before she returned to her chair.
âYou talk oâ âcuteness, Mr Tulliver,â she observed as she sat down, âbut Iâm sure the childâs half a idiot iâ some things, for if I send her up-stairs to fetch anything, she forgets what sheâs gone for, anâ perhaps âull sit down on the floor iâ the sunshine anâ plait her hair anâ sing to herself like a Bedlam creaturâ, all the while Iâm waiting for her down-stairs. That niver run iâ my family, thank God, no more nor a brown skin as makes her look like a mulatter. I donât like to fly iâ the face oâ Providence, but it seems hard as I should have but one gell, anâ her so comical.â
âPooh, nonsense!â said Mr Tulliver, âsheâs a straight black-eyed wench as anybody need wish to see. I donât know iâ what sheâs behind other folksâs children; and she can read almost as well as the parson.â
âBut her hair wonât curl all I can do with it, and sheâs so franzy about having it put iâ paper, and Iâve such work as never was to make her stand and have it pinched with thâ irons.â
âCut it offâcut it off short,â said the father, rashly.
âHow can you talk so, Mr Tulliver? Sheâs too big a gell, gone nine, and tall of her age, to have her hair cut short; anâ thereâs her cousin Lucyâs got a row oâ curls round her head, anâ not a hair out oâ place. It seems hard as my sister Deane should have that pretty child; Iâm sure Lucy takes more after me nor my own child does. Maggie, Maggie,â continued the mother, in a tone of half-coaxing fretfulness, as this small mistake of nature entered the room, âwhereâs the use oâ my telling you to keep away from the water? Youâll tumble in and be drownded some day, anâ then youâll be sorry you didnât do as mother told you.â
Maggieâs hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirmed her motherâs accusation: Mrs Tulliver, desiring her daughter to have a curled crop, âlike other folksâs children,â had had it cut too short in front to be pushed behind the ears; and as it was usually straight an hour after it had been taken out of paper, Maggie was incessantly tossing her head to keep the dark heavy locks out of her gleaming black eyesâan action which gave her very much the air of a small Shetland pony.
âO dear, O dear, Maggie, what are you thinkinâ of, to throw your bonnet down there? Take it up-stairs, thereâs a good gell, anâ let your hair be brushed, anâ put your other pinafore on, anâ change your shoesâdo, for shame; anâ come anâ go on with your patchwork, like a little lady.â
âO mother,â said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, âI donât want to do my patchwork.â
âWhat! not your pretty patchwork, to make a counterpane for your aunt Glegg?â
âItâs foolish work,â said Maggie, with a toss of her mane,ââtearing things to pieces to sew âem together again. And I donât want to do anything for my aunt GleggâI donât like her.â
Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while Mr Tulliver laughs audibly.
âI wonder at you, as youâll laugh at her, Mr Tulliver,â said the mother, with feeble fretfulness in her tone. âYou encourage her iâ naughtiness. Anâ her aunts will have it as itâs me spoils her.â
Mrs Tulliver was what is called a good-tempered personânever cried, when she was a baby, on any slighter ground than hunger and pins; and from the cradle upwards had been healthy, fair, plump, and dull-witted; in short, the flower of her family for beauty and amiability. But milk and mildness are not the best things for keeping, and when they turn only a little sour, they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. I have often wondered whether those early Madonnas of Raphael, with the blond faces and somewhat stupid expression, kept their placidity undisturbed when their strong-limbed, strong-willed boys got a little too old to do without clothing. I think they must have been given to feeble remonstrance, getting more and more peevish as it became more and more ineffectual.
CHAPTER 3
MR RILEY GIVES HIS ADVICE CONCERNING A SCHOOL FOR TOM
THE gentleman in the ample white cravat and shirt-frill, taking his brandy-and-water so pleasantly with his good friend Tulliver, is Mr Riley, a gentleman with a waxen complexion and fat hands, rather highly educated for an auctioneer and appraiser, but large-hearted enough to show a great deal of bonhommie towards simple country acquaintances of hospitable habits. Mr Riley spoke of such acquaintances kindly as âpeople of the old school.â
The conversation had come to a pause. Mr Tulliver, not without a particular reason, had abstained from a seventh recital of the cool retort by which Riley had shown himself too many for Dix, and how Wakem had had his comb cut for once in his life, now the business of the dam had been settled by arbitration, and how there never would have been any dispute at all about the height of water if everybody was what they should be, and Old Harry hadnât made the lawyers. Mr Tulliver was, on the whole, a man of safe traditional opinions; but on one or two points he had trusted to his unassisted intellect and had arrived at several questionable conclusions; among the rest, that rats, weevils, and lawyers were created by Old Harry. Unhappily he had no one to tell him that this was rampant ManichĂŠism, else he might have seen his error. But to...