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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“G,” said the father, winking and laughing – the mother
looked daggers at him.
“It isn’t nothink,” said David naïvely, forgetting his confusion at being in the presence of a lady in his shirt. Mollie
remarked in her cool way:
“It might be a ‘hess’ – if you couldn’t write.”
“Or an ‘L’,” I added. Lettie looked over at me imperiously,
and I was angry.
“What do you say, Emily?” she asked.
“Nay,” said Emily. “It’s only you can see the right letter.”
“Tell us what’s the right letter,” said George to her.
“I!” exclaimed Lettie. “Who can look into the seeds of
Time?”
“Those who have set ’em and watched ’em sprout,” said I.
She fl ung the peel into the fi re, laughing a short laugh, and
went on with her work.
Mrs Saxton leaned over to her daughter and said softly, so
that he should not hear, that George was pulling the fl esh out
of the raisins.
“George!” said Emily sharply, “you’re leaving nothing but
the husks.”
He too was angry.
“‘And he would fain fi ll his belly with the husks that the
swine did eat,’” he said quietly, taking a handful of the fruit
he had picked and putting some in his mouth. Emily snatched
away the basin.
“It is too bad!” she said.
“Here,” said Lettie, handing him an apple she had peeled.
“You may have an apple, greedy boy.”
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
He took it and looked at it. Then a malicious smile twinkled round his eyes – as he said:
“If you give me the apple, to whom will you give the peel?”
“The swine,” she said, as if she only understood his fi rst
reference to the Prodigal Son. He put the apple on the table.
“Don’t you want it?” she said.
“Mother,” he said comically, as if jesting. “She is offering me
the apple like Eve.”
Like a fl ash, she snatched the apple from him, hid it in her
skirts a moment, looking at him with dilated eyes, and then
she fl ung it at the fi re. She missed, and the father leaned forward and picked it off the hob, saying:
“The pigs may as well have it. You were slow, George –
when a lady offers you a thing you don’t have to make mouths.”
“A ce qu’il paraît,” she cried, laughing now at her ease, boisterously.
“Is she making love, Emily?” asked the father, laughing
suggestively.
“She says it too fast for me,” said Emily.
George was leaning back in his chair, his hands in his
breeches pockets.
“We shall have to fi nish his raisins after all, Emily,” said
Lettie brightly. “Look what a lazy animal he is.”
“He likes his comfort,” said Emily, with irony.
“The picture of content – solid, healthy, easy-moving content –” continued Lettie. As he sat thus, with his head thrown
back against the end of the ingle-seat, coatless, his red neck
seen in repose, he did indeed look remarkably comfortable.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“I shall never fret my fat away,” he said stolidly. “No – you
and I – we are not like Cyril. We do not burn our bodies in our
heads – or our hearts, do we?”
“We have it in common,” said he, looking at her indifferently beneath his lashes, as his head was tilted back.
Lettie went on with the paring and coring of her apples –
then she took the raisins. Meanwhile, Emily was making the
house ring as she chopped the suet in a wooden bowl. The
children were ready for bed. They kissed us all “Good night” –
save George. At last they were gone, accompanied by their
mother. Emily put down her chopper, and sighed that her
arm was aching, so I relieved her. The chopping went on for
a long time, while the father read, Lettie worked, and George
sat tilted back looking on. When at length the mincemeat was
fi nished we were all out of work. Lettie helped to clear away –
sat down – talked a little with effort – jumped up and said:
“Oh, I’m too excited to sit still – it’s so near Christmas – let
us play at something.”
“A dance?” said Emily.
“A dance – a dance!”
He suddenly sat straight and got up.
“Come on!” he said.
He kicked off his slippers, regardless of the holes in his
stocking feet, and put away the chairs. He held out his arm to
her – she came with a laugh, and away they went, dancing over
the great fl agged kitchen at an incredible speed. Her light fl ying steps followed his leaps; you could hear the quick light tap
of her toes more plainly than the thud of his stockinged feet.
Emily and I joined in. Emily’s movements are naturally slow,
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
but we danced at great speed. I was hot and perspiring, and she
was panting, when I put her in a chair. But they whirled on in
the dance, on and on till I was giddy, till the father, laughing,
cried that they should stop. But George continued the dance;
her hair was shaken loose, and fell in a great coil down her
back; her feet began to drag; you could hear a light slur on the
fl oor; she was panting – I could see her lips murmur to him,
begging him to stop; he was laughing with open mouth, holding her tight; at last her feet trailed; he lifted her, clasping her
tightly, and danced twice round the room with her thus. Then
he fell with a crash on the sofa, pulling her beside him. His
eyes glowed like coals; he was panting in sobs, and his hair was
wet and glistening. She lay back on the sofa, with his arm still
around her, not moving; she was quite overcome. Her hair was
wild about her face. Emily was anxious; the father said, with
a shade of inquietude:
“You’ve overdone it – it is very foolish.”
When at last she recovered her breath and her life, she got
up, and laughing in a queer way, began to put up her hair. She
went into the scullery where were the brush and combs, and
Emily followed with a candle. When she returned, ordered
once more, with a little pallor succeeding the fl ush, and with
a great black stain of sweat on her leathern belt where his
hand had held her, he looked up at her from his position on
the sofa, with a peculiar glance of triumph, smiling.
“You great brute,” she said, but her yoke was not as harsh
as her words. He gave a deep sigh, sat up, and laughed quietly.
“Another?” he said.
“Will you dance with me?”
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“At your pleasure.”
“Come then – a minuet.”
“Don’t know it.”
“Nevertheless, you must dance it. Come along.”
He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through
the steps, even dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was fi nished she bowed him to his seat,
and, wiping her hands on her handkerchief, because his shirt
where her hand had rested on his shoulders was moist, she
thanked him.
“I hope you enjoyed it,” he said.
“Ever so much,” she replied.
“You made me look a fool – so no doubt you did.”
“Do you think you could look a fool? Why, you are ironical!
Ca marche! In other words, you have come on. But it is a sweet
dance.”
He looked at her, lowered his eyelids, and said nothing.
“Ah, well,” she laughed, “some are bred for the minuet, and
some for –”
“ – Less tomfoolery,” he answered.
“Ah – you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like it – so –”
“And I can’t do it?”
“Could you? Did you? You are not built that way.”
“Sort of Clarence MacFadden,” he said, lighting a pipe as if
the conversation did not interest him.
“Yes – what ages since we sang that!”
‘Clarence MacFadden he wanted to dance But his feet were
not gaited that way . . . ’
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“I remember we sang it after one corn harvest – we had
a fi ne time. I never thought of you before as Clarence. It is very
funny. By the way – will you come to our party at Christmas?”
“When? Who’s coming?”
“The twenty-sixth – Oh! – only the old people – Alice –
Tom Smith – Fanny – those from Highclose.”
“And what will you do?”
“Sing – charades — dance a little – anything you like.”
“Polka?”
“And minuets – and valetas. Come and dance a valeta,
Cyril.”
She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she danced elegantly, but with a little of Carmen’s
ostentation – her dash and devilry. When we had fi nished, the
father said:
“Very pretty – very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don’t
they, George? I wish I was young.”
“As I am –” said George, laughing bitterly.
“Show me how to do them – some time, Cyril,” said Emily,
in her pleading way, which displeased Lettie so much. “Why
don’t you ask me?” said the latter quickly. “Well – but you are
not often here.”
“I am here now. Come –” and she waved Emily imperiously
to the attempt.
Lettie, as I have said, is tall, approaching six feet; she is lissome. but fi rmly moulded, by nature graceful; in her poise and
harmonious movement are revealed the subtle sympathies
of her artist’s soul. The other is shorter, much heavier. In her
every motion you can see the extravagance of her emotional
146
THE WHITE PEACOCK
nature. She quivers with feeling; emotion conquers and carries havoc through her, for she had not a strong intellect, nor
a heart of light humour; her nature is brooding and defenceless; she knows herself powerless in the tumult of her feelings,
and adds to her misfortunes a profound mistrust of herself.
As they danced together, Lettie and Emily, they showed in
striking contrast. My sister’s ease and beautiful poetic movement were exquisite; the other could not control her movements, but repeated the same error again and again. She
gripped Lettie’s hand fi ercely, and glanced up with eyes full
of humiliation and terror of her continued failure, and passionate, trembling, hopeless desire to succeed. To show her,
to explain, made matters worse. As soon as she trembled on
the brink of an action, the terror of not being able to perform
it properly blinded her, and she was conscious of nothing
but that she must do something – in a turmoil. At last Lettie ceased to talk, and merely swung her through the dances
haphazard. This way succeeded better. So long as Emily need
not think about her actions, she had a large, free grace; and the
swing and rhythm and time were imparted through her senses
rather than through her intelligence.
It was time for supper. The mother came down for a while,
and we talked quietly, at random. Lettie did not utter a word
about her engagement, not a suggestion. She made it seem as if
things were just as before, although I am sure she had discovered that I had told George. She intended that we should play
as if ignorant of her bond.
After supper, when we were ready to go home, Lettie said
to him:
147
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“By the way – you must send us some mistletoe for the
party – with plenty of berries, you know. Are there many berries on your mistletoe this year?”
“I do not know – I have never looked. We will go and see –
if you like,” George answered.
“But will you come out into the cold?”
He pulled on his boots, and his coat, and twisted a scarf
round his neck. The young moon had gone. It was very dark –
the liquid stars wavered. The great night fi lled us with awe.
Lettie caught hold of my arm, and held it tightly. He passed
on in front to open the gates. We went down into the front
garden, over the turf bridge where the sluice rushed coldly
under, on to the broad slope of the bank. We could just distinguish the gnarled old apple trees leaning about us. We bent
our heads to avoid the boughs, and followed George. He hesitated a moment, saying:
“Let me see – I think they are there – the two trees with
mistletoe on.”
We again followed silently.
“Yes,” he said. “Here they are!”
We went close and peered into the old trees. We could just
see the dark bush of the mistletoe between the boughs of the
tree. Lettie began to laugh.
“Have we come to count the berries?” she said. “I can’t even
see the mistletoe.”
She leaned forward and upwards to pierce the darkness;
he, also straining to look, felt her breath on his cheek, and
turning, saw the pallor of her face close to his, and felt the
dark glow of her eyes. He caught her in his arms, and held her
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
mouth in a kiss. Then, when he released her, he turned away,
saying something incoherent about going to fetch the lantern
to look. She remained with her back towards me, and pretended to be feeling among the mistletoe for the berries. Soon I saw
the swing of the hurricane lamp below.
“He is bringing the lantern,” said I.
When he came up, he said, and his voice was strange and
subdued:
“Now we can see what it’s like.”
He went near, and held up the lamp, so that it illuminated
both their faces, and the fantastic boughs of the trees, and the
weird bush of mistletoe sparsely pearled with berries. Instead
of looking at the berries they looked into each other’s eyes; his
lids fl ickered, and he fl ushed, in the yellow light of the lamp
looking warm and handsome; he looked upwards in confusion
and said, “There are plenty of berries.”
As a matter of fact, there were very few.
She too looked up, and murmured her assent. The light
seemed to hold them as in a globe, in another world, apart
from the night in which I stood. He put up his hand and broke
off a sprig of mistletoe, with berries, and offered it to her. They
looked into each other’s eyes again. She put the mistletoe
among her furs, looking down at her bosom. They remained
still, in the centre of light, with the lamp uplifted; the red and
black scarf wrapped loosely round his neck gave him a luxurious, generous look. He lowered the lamp and said, affecting to
speak naturally:
“Yes – there is plenty this year.”
149
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“You will give me some,” she replied, turning away and fi nally breaking the spell.
“When shall I cut it?” – He strode beside her, swinging the
lamp, as we went down the bank to go home. He came as far
as the brooks without saying another word. Then he bade us
good night. When he had lighted her over the stepping-stones,
she did not take my arm as we walked home.
During the next two weeks we were busy preparing for
Christmas, ranging the woods for the reddest holly, and pulling the gleaming ivy-bunches from the trees. From the farms
around came the cruel yelling of pigs, and in the evening later,
was a scent of pork-pies. Far off on the high-way could be heard
the sharp trot of ponies hastening with Christmas goods.
There the carts of the hucksters dashed by to the expectant villagers, triumphant with great bunches of light foreign
mistletoe, gay with oranges peeping through the boxes, and
scarlet intrusion of apples, and wild confusion of cold, dead
poultry. The hucksters waved their whips triumphantly, the
little ponies rattled bravely under the sycamores, towards
Christmas.
In the late afternoon of the 24th, when dust was rising under the hazel brake, I was walking with Lettie. All among the
mesh of twigs overhead was tangled a dark red sky. The boles
of the trees grew denser – almost blue.
Tramping down the riding we met two boys, fi fteen or sixteen years old. Their clothes were largely patched with tough
cotton moleskin; scarves were knotted round their throats,
and in their pockets rolled tin bottles full of tea, and the white
knobs of their knotted snap-bags.
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