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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?”
“Oh, wait till Christmas – till I am twenty-one.”
“Nearly three months! Why on earth –”
“It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of
my own free choice then.”
“But three months!”
“I shall consider thee engaged – it doesn’t matter about
other people.”
“I thought we should be married in three months.”
“Ah – married in haste – But what will your mother say?”
“Say! Oh, she’ll say it’s the fi rst wise thing I’ve done. You’ll
make a fi ne wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that.”
“You will fl utter brilliantly.”
“We will.”
“No – you’ll be the moth – I’ll paint your wings – gaudy
feather-dust. Then when you lose your coloured dust, when
you fl y too near the light, or when you play dodge with a butterfl y-net – away goes my part – you can’t fl y – I – alas, poor
me! What becomes of the feather-dust when the moth brushes
his wings against a butterfl y-net?”
“What are you making so many words about? You don’t
know now, do you?”
“No – that I don’t.”
“Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your
eyes.”
“Narcissus, Narcissus! – Do you see yourself well? Does the
image fl atter you? – Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your
fair lineaments?”
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“I can’t see anything – only feel you looking – you are
laughing at me. – What have you behind there – what joke?”
“I – I’m thinking you’re just like Narcissus – a sweet, beautiful youth.”
“Be serious – do.”
“It would be dangerous. You’d die of it, and I – I should –”
“What!”
“Be just like I am now – serious.”
He looked proudly, thinking she referred to the earnestness of her love.
In the wood the wind rumbled and roared hoarsely overhead, but not a breath stirred among the saddened bracken.
An occasional raindrop was shaken out of the trees; I slipped
on the wet paths. Black bars striped the grey tree-trunks,
where water had trickled down; the bracken was overthrown,
its yellow ranks broken. I slid down the steep path to the gate,
out of the wood.
Armies of cloud marched in rank across the sky, heavily
laden, almost brushing the gorse on the common. The wind
was cold and disheartening. The ground sobbed at every step.
The brook was full, swirling along, hurrying, talking to itself,
in absorbed intent tones. The clouds darkened; I felt the rain.
Careless of the mud, I ran, and burst into the farm kitchen.
The children were painting, and they immediately claimed
my help.
“Emily – and George – are in the front room,” said the
mother quietly, for it was Sunday afternoon. I satisfi ed the little ones; I said a few words to the mother, and sat down to take
off my clogs.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
In the parlour, the father, big and comfortable, was sleeping in an arm-chair. Emily was writing at the table – she hurriedly hid her papers when I entered. George was sitting by the
fi re, reading. He looked up as I entered, and I loved him when
he looked up at me, and as he lingered on his quiet “Hullo!”
His eyes were beautifully eloquent – as eloquent as a kiss.
We talked in subdued murmurs, because the father was
asleep, opulently asleep, his tanned face as still as a brown pear
against the wall. The clock itself went slowly, with languid
throbs. We gathered round the fi re, and talked quietly, about
nothing – blissful merely in the sound of our voices, a murmured, soothing sound – a grateful, dispassionate love trio.
At last George rose, put down his book – looked at his father – and went out.
In the barn there was a sound of the pulper crunching the
turnips. The crisp strips of turnip sprinkled quietly down on
to a heap of gold which grew beneath the pulper. The smell of
pulped turnips, keen and sweet, brings back to me the feeling
of many winter nights, when frozen hoof-prints crunch in the
yard, and Orion is in the south; when a friendship was at its
mystical best.
“Pulping on Sunday!” I exclaimed.
“Father didn’t do it yesterday; it’s his work; and I didn’t notice it. You know – Father often forgets – he doesn’t like to
have to work in the afternoon – now.”
The cattle stirred in their stalls; the chains rattled round
the posts; a cow coughed noisily. When George had fi nished
pulping, and it was quiet enough for talk, just as he was spreading the fi rst layers of chop and turnip and meal – in ran Em-
133
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
ily – with her hair in silken, twining confusion, her eyes glowing – to bid us go in to tea before the milking was begun. It
was the custom to milk before tea on Sunday – but George
abandoned it without demur – his father willed it so, and his
father was master, not to be questioned on farm matters, however one disagreed.
The last day in October had been dreary enough; the night
could not come too early. We had tea by lamplight, merrily,
with the father radiating comfort as, the lamp shone yellow
light. Sunday tea was imperfect without a visitor; with me,
they always declared, it was perfect. I loved to hear them say so.
I smiled, rejoicing quietly into my teacup when the father said:
“It seems proper to have Cyril here at Sunday tea, it seems
natural.”
He was most loath to break the delightful bond of the
lamp-lit tea-table; he looked up with a half-appealing glance
when George at last pushed back his chair and said he supposed he’d better make a start.
“Ay,” said the father in a mild, conciliatory tone, “I’ll be out
in a minute.”
The lamp hung against the barn wall, softly illuminating
the lower part of the building, where bits of hay and white
dust lay in the hollows between the bricks, where the curled
chips of turnip scattered orange gleams over the earthen fl oor;
the lofty roof, with its swallows’ nests under the tiles, was deep
in shadow, and the corners were full of darkness, hiding, half
hiding, the hay, the chopper, the bins. The light shone along
the passages before the stalls, glistening on the moist noses of
the cattle, and on the whitewash of the walls.
134
THE WHITE PEACOCK
George was very cheerful; but I wanted to tell him my message. When he had fi nished the feeding, and had at last sat
down to milk, I said:
“I told you Leslie Tempest was at our house when I came
away.”
He sat with the bucket between his knees, his hands at the
cow’s udder, about to begin to milk. He looked up a question
at me.
“They are practically engaged now,” I said.
He did not turn his eyes away, but he ceased to look at me.
As one who is listening for a far-off noise, he sat with his eyes
fi xed. Then he bent his head, and leaned it against the side of
the cow, as if he would begin to milk. But he did not. The cow
looked round and stirred uneasily. He began to draw the milk,
and then to milk mechanically. I watched the movement of his
hands, listening to the rhythmic clang of the jets of milk on
the bucket, as a relief. After a while the movement of his hands
became slower, thoughtful – then stopped.
“She has really said yes?”
I nodded.
“And what does your mother say?”
“She is pleased.”
He began to milk again. The cow stirred uneasily, shifting
her legs. He looked at her angrily, and went on milking. Then,
quite upset, she shifted again, and swung her tail in his face.
“Stand still!” he shouted, striking her on the haunch. She
seemed to cower like a beaten ‘woman. He swore at her, and
continued to milk. She did not yield much that night; she was
very restive; he took the stool from beneath him and gave her
135
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
a good blow; I heard the stool knock on her prominent hipbone. After that she stood still, but her milk soon ceased to fl ow.
When he stood up, he paused before he went to the next
beast, and I thought he was going to talk. But just then the
father came along with his bucket. He looked in the shed, and,
laughing in his mature, pleasant way, said:
“So you’re an onlooker today, Cyril – I thought you’d have
milked a cow or two for me by now.”
“Nay,” said I, “Sunday is a day of rest – and milking makes
your hands ache.”
“You only want a bit more practice,” he said, joking in his
ripe fashion. “Why, George, is that all you’ve got from Julia?”
“It is.”
“H’m – she’s soon going dry. Julia, old lady, don’t go and
turn skinny.”
When he had gone, and the shed was still, the air seemed
colder. I heard his good-humoured “Stand over, old lass,” from
the other shed, and the drum-beats of the fi rst jets of milk on
the pail.
“He has a comfortable time,” said George, looking savage.
I laughed. He still waited.
“You really expected Lettie to have him,” I said.
“I suppose so,” he replied, “then she’d made up her mind to
it. It didn’t matter – what she wanted – at the bottom.”
“You?” said I.
“If it hadn’t been that he was a prize – with a ticket – she’d
have had –”
“You!” said I.
“She was afraid – look how she turned and kept away –”
136
THE WHITE PEACOCK
“From you?” said I.
“I should like to squeeze her till she screamed.”
“You should have gripped her before, and kept her,” said I.
“She – she’s like a woman, like a cat – running to comforts –
she strikes a bargain. Women are all tradesmen.”
“Don’t generalise, it’s no good.”
“She’s like a prostitute –”
“It’s banal! I believe she loves him.”
He started, and looked at me queerly. He looked quite
childish in his doubt and perplexity.
“She what –
“Loves him – honestly.”
“She’d ‘a loved me better,” he muttered, and turned to his
milking. I left him and went to talk to his father. When the
latter’s four beasts were fi nished, George’s light still shone in
the other shed.
I went and found him at the fi fth, the last cow. When at
length he had fi nished he put down his pail, and going over
to poor Julia, stood scratching her back, and her poll, and her
nose, looking into her big, startled eye and murmuring. She
was afraid; she jerked her head, giving him a good blow on the
cheek with her horn.
“You can’t understand them,” he said sadly, rubbing his
face, and looking at me with his dark, serious eyes.
“I never knew I couldn’t understand them. I never thought
about it – till –”
“But you know, Cyril, she led me on.” I laughed at his rueful appearance.
CHAPTER VIII
THE RIOT OF CHRISTMAS
For some weeks, during the latter part of November and the
beginning of December, I was kept indoors by a cold. At last
came a frost which cleared the air and dried the mud. On the
second Saturday before Christmas the world was transformed;
tall, silver and pearl-grey trees rose pale against a dim blue
sky, like trees in some rare, pale Paradise; the whole woodland
was as if petrifi ed in marble and silver and snow; the hollyleaves and long leaves of the rhododendron were rimmed and
spangled with delicate tracery.
When the night came clear and bright, with a moon among
the hoar-frost, I rebelled against confi nement, and the house.
No longer the mists and dank weather made the home dear;
tonight even the glare of the distant little iron works was not
visible, for the low clouds were gone, and pale stars blinked
from beyond the moon.
Lettie was staying with me; Leslie was in London again. She
tried to remonstrate in a sisterly fashion when I said I would
go out.
“Only down to the Mill,” said I. Then she hesitated
a while – said she would come too. I suppose I looked at her
curiously, for she said:
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“Oh – if you would rather go alone – !”
“Come – come – yes, come!” said I, smiling to myself.
Lettie was in her old animated mood. She ran, leaping over
rough places, laughing, talking to herself in French. We came
to the Mill. Gyp did not bark. I opened the outer door and
we crept softly into the great dark scullery, peeping into the
kitchen through the crack of the door.
The mother sat by the hearth, where was a big bath half
full of soapy water, and at her feet, warming his bare legs at
the fi re, was David, who had just been bathed. The mother
was gently rubbing his fi ne fair hair into a cloud. Mollie was
combing out her brown curls, sitting by her father, who, in the
fi re-seat, was reading aloud in a hearty voice, with quaint precision. At the table sat Emily and George: she was quickly picking over a pile of little yellow raisins, and he, slowly, with his
head sunk, was stoning the large raisins. David kept reaching
forward to play with the sleepy cat – interrupting his mother’s
rubbing. There was no sound but the voice of the father, full of
zest; I am afraid they were not all listening carefully. I clicked
the latch and entered.
“Lettie!” exclaimed George.
“Cyril!” cried Emily.
“Cyril, ‘ooray!” shouted David.
“Hullo, Cyril!” said Mollie.
Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me.
They overwhelmed me with questions, and made much of us.
At length they were settled and quiet again.
139
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“Yes, I am a stranger,” said Lettie, who had taken off her
hat and furs and coat. “But you do not expect me often, do you?
I may come at times, eh?”
“We are only too glad,” replied the mother. “Nothing all
day long but the sound of the sluice – and mists, and rotten
leaves. I am thankful to hear a fresh voice.”
“Is Cyril really better, Lettie?” asked Emily softly.
“He’s a spoiled boy – I believe he keeps a little bit ill so
that we can cade him. Let me help you – let me peel the apples – yes, yes – I will.”
She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple-peeling. George had not spoken to her. So she said:
“I won’t help you, George, because I don’t like to feel my
fi ngers so sticky, and because I love to see you so domesticated.”
“You’ll enjoy the sight a long time, then, for these things
are numberless.”
“You should eat one now and then – I always do.”
“If I ate one I should eat the lot.”
“Then you may give me your one.”
He passed her a handful without speaking.
“That is too many, your mother is looking. Let me just fi nish this apple. There, I’ve not broken the peel!”
She stood up, holding up a long curling strip of peel. “How
many times must I swing it, Mrs Saxton?”
“Three times – but it’s not All Hallows’ Eve.”
“Never mind! Look! –” She carefully swung the long band
of green peel over her head three times, letting it fall the third.
The cat pounced on it, but Mollie swept him off again.
“What is it?” cried Lettie, blushing.
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