The Torn Nest Is Pierced by the Thorns

There is something sustaining in the very agitation¹ that accompanies the first shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain is often a stimulus², and produces an excitement which is transient strength. It is in the slow, changed life that follows; in the time when sorrow has become stale, and has no longer an emotive intensity³ that counteracts⁴ its pain; in the time when day follows day in dull, unexpectant sameness, and trial is a dreary⁵ routine,—it is then that despair threatens; it is then that the peremptory⁶ hunger of the soul is felt, and eye and ear are strained after some unlearned secret of our existence, which shall give to endurance the nature of satisfaction.

This time of utmost need was come to Maggie, with her short span of thirteen years. To the usual precocity⁷ of the girl, she added that early experience of struggle, of conflict between the inward impulse and outward fact, which is the lot of every imaginative and passionate⁸ nature; and the years since she hammered the nails into her wooden Fetish among the worm-eaten shelves of the attic¹⁰ had been filled with so eager a life in the triple world of Reality, Books, and Waking Dreams, that Maggie was strangely old for her years in everything except in her entire want of that prudence¹¹ and self-command which were the qualities that made Tom manly¹² in the midst of his intellectual boyishness. And now her lot was beginning to have a still, sad monotony, which threw her more than ever on her inward self. Her father was able to attend to business again, his affairs were settled, and he was acting¹³ as Wakem’s manager on the old spot. Tom went to and fro every morning and evening, and became more and more silent in the short intervals¹⁴ at home; what was there to say? One day was like another; and Tom’s interest in life, driven back and crushed on every other side, was concentrating itself into the one channel of ambitious resistance to misfortune. The peculiarities¹⁵ of his father and mother were very irksome to him, now they were laid bare of all the softening¹⁶ accompaniments of an easy, prosperous home; for Tom had very clear, prosaic¹⁷ eyes, not apt to be dimmed by mists of feeling or imagination. Poor Mrs Tulliver, it seemed, would never recover her old self, her placid¹⁸ household activity; how could she? The objects among which her mind had moved complacently¹⁹ were all gone,—all the little hopes and schemes and speculations²⁰, all the pleasant little cares about her treasures which had made the world quite comprehensible to her for a quarter of a century, since she had made her first purchase of the sugar-tongs, had been suddenly snatched away from her, and she remained bewildered in this empty life. Why that should have happened to her which had not happened to other women remained an insoluble question by which she expressed her perpetual ruminating²¹ comparison of the past with the present. It was piteous to see the comely²² woman getting thinner and more worn under a bodily as well as mental restlessness, which made her often wander about the empty house after her work was done, until Maggie, becoming alarmed about her, would seek her, and bring her down by telling her how it vexed²³ Tom that she was injuring her health by never sitting down and resting herself. Yet amidst this helpless imbecility there was a touching trait of humble²⁴, self-devoting maternity²⁵, which made Maggie feel tenderly toward her poor mother amidst all the little wearing griefs caused by her mental feebleness. She would let Maggie do none of the work that was heaviest and most soiling to the hands, and was quite peevish²⁶ when Maggie attempted to relieve her from her grate-brushing and scouring²⁷: “Let it alone, my dear; your hands ’ull get as hard as hard,” she would say; “it’s your mother’s place to do that. I can’t do the sewing—my eyes fail me.” And she would still brush and carefully tend Maggie’s hair, which she had become reconciled to, in spite of its refusal to curl, now it was so long and massy. Maggie was not her pet child, and, in general, would have been much better if she had been quite different; yet the womanly heart, so bruised²⁸ in its small personal desires, found a future to rest on in the life of this young thing, and the mother pleased herself with wearing out her own hands to save the hands that had so much more life in them.

But the constant presence of her mother’s regretful bewilderment was less painful to Maggie than that of her father’s sullen²⁹, incommunicative depression. As long as the paralysis³⁰ was upon him, and it seemed as if he might always be in a childlike condition of dependence³¹,—as long as he was still only half awakened³² to his trouble,—Maggie had felt the strong tide of pitying love almost as an inspiration, a new power, that would make the most difficult life easy for his sake; but now, instead of childlike dependence, there had come a taciturn, hard concentration of purpose, in strange contrast with his old vehement³³ communicativeness and high spirit; and this lasted from day to day, and from week to week, the dull eye never brightening with any eagerness or any joy. It is something cruelly incomprehensible to youthful natures, this sombre sameness in middle-aged³⁴ and elderly people, whose life has resulted in disappointment and discontent, to whose faces a smile becomes so strange that the sad lines all about the lips and brow seem to take no notice of it, and it hurries away again for want of a welcome. “Why will they not kindle³⁵ up and be glad sometimes?” thinks young elasticity³⁶. “It would be so easy if they only liked to do it.” And these leaden clouds that never part are apt to create impatience³⁷ even in the filial affection that streams forth³⁸ in nothing but tenderness and pity in the time of more obvious affliction.

Mr Tulliver lingered nowhere away from home; he hurried away from market, he refused all invitations to stay and chat, as in old times, in the houses where he called on business. He could not be reconciled with his lot. There was no attitude in which his pride did not feel its bruises³⁹; and in all behaviour toward him, whether kind or cold, he detected an allusion⁴⁰ to the change in his circumstances. Even the days on which Wakem came to ride round the land and inquire into the business were not so black to him as those market-days on which he had met several creditors⁴¹ who had accepted a composition from him. To save something toward the repayment⁴² of those creditors was the object toward which he was now bending all his thoughts and efforts; and under the influence of this all-compelling demand of his nature, the somewhat profuse⁴³ man, who hated to be stinted⁴⁵ or to stint⁴⁴ any one else in his own house, was gradually metamorphosed into the keen-eyed grudger⁴⁶ of morsels⁴⁷. Mrs Tulliver could not economise enough to satisfy him, in their food and firing; and he would eat nothing himself but what was of the coarsest quality. Tom, though depressed⁴⁸ and strongly repelled⁴⁹ by his father’s sullenness⁵⁰, and the dreariness⁵¹ of home, entered thoroughly⁵² into his father’s feelings about paying the creditors; and the poor lad brought his first quarter’s money, with a delicious sense of achievement, and gave it to his father to put into the tin box which held the savings⁵³. The little store of sovereigns in the tin box seemed to be the only sight that brought a faint beam of pleasure into the miller’s eyes,—faint and transient, for it was soon dispelled⁵⁴ by the thought that the time would be long—perhaps longer than his life,—before the narrow savings could remove the hateful incubus⁵⁵ of debt. A deficit⁵⁶ of more than five hundred pounds, with the accumulating interest, seemed a deep pit to fill with the savings from thirty shillings a-week, even when Tom’s probable savings were to be added. On this one point there was entire community of feeling in the four widely differing beings who sat round the dying fire of sticks, which made a cheap warmth for them on the verge⁵⁷ of bedtime. Mrs Tulliver carried the proud integrity of the Dodsons in her blood, and had been brought up to think that to wrong people of their money, which was another phrase for debt, was a sort of moral pillory⁵⁸; it would have been wickedness, to her mind, to have run counter to her husband’s desire to “do the right thing,” and retrieve⁵⁹ his name. She had a confused, dreamy notion that, if the creditors were all paid, her plate and linen⁶⁰ ought to come back to her; but she had an inbred perception that while people owed money they were unable to pay, they couldn’t rightly call anything their own. She murmured a little that Mr Tulliver so peremptorily⁶¹ refused to receive anything in repayment from Mr and Mrs Moss⁶²; but to all his requirements of household economy she was submissive to the point of denying herself the cheapest indulgences of mere⁹ flavour; her only rebellion was to smuggle⁶³ into the kitchen something that would make rather a better supper than usual for Tom.

These narrow notions about debt, held by the old fashioned Tullivers, may perhaps excite a smile on the faces of many readers in these days of wide commercial views and wide philosophy, according to which everything rights itself without any trouble of ours. The fact that my tradesman is out of pocket by me is to be looked at through the serene⁶⁴ certainty that somebody else’s tradesman is in pocket by somebody else; and since there must be bad debts in the world, why, it is mere egoism not to like that we in particular should make them instead of our fellow-citizens. I am telling the history of very simple people, who had never had any illuminating⁶⁵ doubts as to personal integrity and honour.

Under all this grim melancholy⁶⁶ and narrowing concentration of desire, Mr Tulliver retained the feeling toward his “little wench” which made her presence a need to him, though it would not suffice to cheer him. She was still the desire of his eyes; but the sweet spring of fatherly love was now mingled⁶⁷ with bitterness, like everything else. When Maggie laid down her work at night, it was her habit to get a low stool and sit by her father’s knee, leaning her cheek against it. How she wished he would stroke her head, or give some sign that he was soothed⁶⁸ by the sense that he had a daughter who loved him! But now she got no answer to her little caresses⁶⁹, either from her father or from Tom,—the two idols⁷⁰ of her life. Tom was weary and abstracted in the short intervals when he was at home, and her father was bitterly preoccupied⁷¹ with the thought that the girl was growing up, was shooting up into a woman; and how was she to do well in life? She had a poor chance for marrying, down in the world as they were. And he hated the thought of her marrying poorly, as her aunt Gritty had done; that would be a thing to make him turn in his grave,—the little wench so pulled down by children and toil⁷², as her aunt Moss was. When uncultured minds, confined to a narrow range of personal experience, are under the pressure of continued misfortune, their inward life is apt to become a perpetually repeated round of sad and bitter thoughts; the same words, the same scenes, are revolved⁷³ over and over again, the same mood accompanies them; the end of the year finds them as much what they were at the beginning as if they were machines set to a recurrent series of movements.

The sameness of the days was broken by few visitors. Uncles and aunts paid only short visits now; of course, they could not stay to meals, and the constraint⁷⁴ caused by Mr Tulliver’s savage⁷⁵ silence, which seemed to add to the hollow resonance⁷⁶ of the bare, uncarpeted room when the aunts were talking, heightened the unpleasantness of these family visits on all sides, and tended to make them rare. As for other acquaintances, there is a chill air surrounding those who are down in the world, and people are glad to get away from them, as from a cold room; human beings, mere men and women, without furniture, without anything to offer you, who have ceased to count as anybody, present an embarrassing negation⁷⁷ of reasons for wishing to see them, or of subjects on which to converse⁷⁸ with them. At that distant day, there was a dreary isolation⁷⁹ in the civilised Christian⁸⁰ society of these realms for families that had dropped below their original level, unless they belonged to a sectarian church, which gets some warmth of brotherhood⁸¹ by walling in the sacred fire.