George Eliot

 This passage is adapted from George Eliot, Silas Marner.
Originally published in 1861. Silas was a weaver and a
notorious miser, but then the gold he had hoarded was
stolen. Shortly after, Silas adopted a young child, Eppie, the
daughter of an impoverished woman who had died
suddenly.
Unlike the gold which needed nothing, and must
be worshipped in close-locked solitude—which was
hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to the song
of birds, and started to no human tones—Eppie was a
creature of endless claims and ever-growing desires,
seeking and loving sunshine, and living sounds, and
living movements; making trial of everything, with
trust in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in
all eyes that looked on her. The gold had kept his
thoughts in an ever-repeated circle, leading to
nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an object
compacted of changes and hopes that forced his
thoughts onward, and carried them far away from
their old eager pacing towards the same blank
limit—carried them away to the new things that
would come with the coming years, when Eppie
would have learned to understand how her father
Silas cared for her; and made him look for images of
that time in the ties and charities that bound together
the families of his neighbors. The gold had asked that
he should sit weaving longer and longer, deafened
and blinded more and more to all things except the
monotony of his loom and the repetition of his web;
but Eppie called him away from his weaving, and
made him think all its pauses a holiday, reawakening
his senses with her fresh life, even to the old
winter-flies that came crawling forth in the early
spring sunshine, and warming him into joy because
she had joy.
And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting,
so that the buttercups were thick in the meadows,
Silas might be seen in the sunny mid-day, or in the
late afternoon when the shadows were lengthening
under the hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered
head to carry Eppie beyond the Stone-pits to where
the flowers grew, till they reached some favorite bank
where he could sit down, while Eppie toddled to
pluck the flowers, and make remarks to the winged
things that murmured happily above the bright
petals, calling “Dad-dad’s” attention continually by
bringing him the flowers. Then she would turn her
ear to some sudden bird-note, and Silas learned to
please her by making signs of hushed stillness, that
they might listen for the note to come again: so that
when it came, she set up her small back and laughed
with gurgling triumph. Sitting on the banks in this
way, Silas began to look for the once familiar herbs
again; and as the leaves, with their unchanged outline
and markings, lay on his palm, there was a sense of
crowding remembrances from which he turned away
timidly, taking refuge in Eppie’s little world, that lay
lightly on his enfeebled spirit.
As the child’s mind was growing into knowledge,
his mind was growing into memory: as her life
unfolded, his soul, long stupefied in a cold narrow
prison, was unfolding too, and trembling gradually
into full consciousness.
It was an influence which must gather force with
every new year: the tones that stirred Silas’ heart
grew articulate, and called for more distinct answers;
shapes and sounds grew clearer for Eppie’s eyes and
ears, and there was more that “Dad-dad” was
imperatively required to notice and account for.
Also, by the time Eppie was three years old, she
developed a fine capacity for mischief, and for
devising ingenious ways of being troublesome, which
found much exercise, not only for Silas’ patience, but
for his watchfulness and penetration. Sorely was poor
Silas puzzled on such occasions by the incompatible
demands of love.

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