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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“Its glitter and hardness, you mean. – You are a hard little
mistress. But why hope?”
“Why? – No reason whatever, like most things. No, that’s
not right. Hope! Oh – blindfolded – hugging a silly harp with
no strings. I wonder why she didn’t drop her harp framework
over the edge of the globe, and take the handkerchief off her
eyes, and have a look round! But of course she was a woman –
and a man’s woman. Do you know I believe most women can
sneak a look down their noses from underneath the handkerchief of hope they’ve tied over their eyes. They could take the
whole muffl er off – but they don’t do it, the dears.”
“I don’t believe you know what you’re talking about, and
I’m sure I don’t. Sapphires reminded me of your eyes – and
isn’t it ‘Blue that kept the faith’? I remember something about
it.”
“Here,” said she, pulling off the ring, “you ought to wear it
yourself, Faithful One, to keep me in constant mind.”
“Keep it on, keep it on. It holds you faster than that fair
damsel tied to a tree in Millais’s picture – I believe it’s Millais.”
She sat shaking with laughter.
“What a comparison! Who’ll be the brave knight to rescue
me – discreetly – from behind?”
“Ah,” he answered, “it doesn’t matter. You don’t want rescuing, do you?”
“Not yet,” she replied, teasing him.
They continued to talk half nonsense, making themselves
eloquent by quick looks and gestures, and communion of
warm closeness. The ironical tones went out of Lettie’s voice,
and they made love.
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
Marie drew me away into the dining-room, to leave them
alone.
Marie is a charming little maid, whose appearance is neatness, whose face is confi dent little goodness. Her hair is dark,
and lies low upon her neck in wavy coils. She does not affect
the fashion in coiffure, and generally is a little behind the
fashion in dress. Indeed she is a half-opened bud of a matron,
conservative, full of proprieties, and of gentle indulgence. She
now smiled at me with a warm delight in the romance upon
which she had just shed her grace, but her demureness allowed
nothing to be said. She glanced round the room, and out of the
window, and observed:
“I always love Woodside, it is restful – there is something
about it – oh – assuring – really – it comforts me – I’ve been
reading Maxim Gorky.”
“You shouldn’t,” said I.
“Dadda reads them – but I don’t like them – I shall read no
more. I like Woodside – it makes you feel – really at home –
it soothes one like the old wood does. It seems right – life is
proper here – not ulcery –”
“Just healthy living fl esh,” said I.
“No, I don’t mean that, because one feels – oh, as if the
world were old and good, not old and bad.”
“Young, and undisciplined, and mad,” said I.
“No – but here, you, and Lettie, and Leslie, and me – it is
so nice for us, and it seems so natural and good. Woodside is so
old, and so sweet and serene – it does reassure one.”
“Yes,” said I, “we just live, nothing abnormal, nothing cruel
and extravagant – just natural – like doves in a dovecote.”
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“Oh! – doves! – they are so – so mushy.”
“They are dear little birds, doves. You look like one yourself, with the black band round your neck. You a turtle-dove,
and Lettie a wood-pigeon.”
“Lettie is splendid, isn’t she? What a swing she has – what
a mastery! I wish I had her strength – she just marches straight
through in the right way – I think she’s fi ne.”
I laughed to see her so enthusiastic in her admiration of my
sister. Marie is such a gentle, serious little soul. She went to the
window. I kissed her, and pulled two berries off the mistletoe.
I made her a nest in the heavy curtains, and she sat there looking out on the snow.
“It is lovely,” she said refl ectively. “People must be ill when
they write like Maxim Gorky.”
“They live in town,” said I.
“Yes – but then look at Hardy – life seems so terrible – it
isn’t, is it?”
“If you don’t feel it, it isn’t – if you don’t see it. I don’t see
it for myself.”
“It’s lovely enough for heaven.”
“Eskimo’s heaven perhaps. And we’re the angels, eh? And
I’m an archangel.”
“No, you’re a vain, frivolous man. Is that – ? What is that
moving through the trees?”
“Somebody coming,” said I.
It was a big, burly fellow moving curiously through the
bushes.
“Doesn’t he walk funnily?” exclaimed Marie. He did. When
he came near enough we saw he was straddled upon Indian
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
snow-shoes. Marie peeped, and laughed, and peeped, and hid
again in the curtains laughing. He was very red, and looked
very hot, as he hauled the great meshes, shuffl ing over the
snow; his body rolled most comically. I went to the door and
admitted him, while Marie stood stroking her face with her
hands to smooth away the traces of her laughter.
He grasped my hand in a very large and heavy glove, with
which he then wiped his perspiring brow.
“Well, Beardsall, old man,” he said, “and how’s things?
God, I’m not ‘alf hot! Fine idea though –” He showed me his
snow-shoes.
“Ripping! ain’t they? I’ve come like an Indian brave –”
He rolled his “r’s”, and lengthened out his “ah’s” tremendously – “brra-ave”.
“Couldn’t resist it though,” he continued.
“Remember your party last year – Girls turned up? On the
war-path, eh?” He pursed up his childish lips and rubbed his
fat chin.
Having removed his coat, and the white wrap which protected his collar, not to mention the snowfl akes, which Rebecca took almost as an insult to herself – he seated his fat,
hot body on a chair, and proceeded to take off his gaiters and
his boots. Then he donned his dancing-pumps, and I led him
upstairs.
“Lord, I skimmed here like a swallow!” he continued – and
I looked at his corpulence.
“Never met a soul, though they’ve had a snow-plough down
the road. I saw the marks of a cart up the drive, so I guessed
the Tempests were here. So Lettie’s put her nose in Tempest’s
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
nosebag – leaves nobody a chance, that – some women have
rum taste – only they’re like ravens, they go for the gilding –
don’t blame ’em-only it leaves nobody a chance. Madie Howitt’s coming, I suppose?”
I ventured something about the snow.
“She’ll come,” he said, “if it’s up to the neck. Her mother
saw me go past.”
He proceeded with his toilet. I told him that Leslie had sent
the carriage for Alice and Madie. He slapped his fat legs, and
exclaimed:
“Miss Gall – I smell sulphur! Beardsall, old boy, there’s
fun in the wind. Madie, and the coy little Tempest, and –” he
hissed a line of a music-hall song through his teeth.
During all this he had straightened his cream and lavender waistcoat.
“Little pink of a girl worked it for me – a real juicy little
peach – chipped somehow or other” – he had arranged his
white bow – he had drawn forth two rings, one a great signet,
the other gorgeous with diamonds, and had adjusted them on
his fat white fi ngers; he had run his fi ngers delicately through
his hair, which rippled backwards a trifl e tawdrily – being
fi ne and somewhat sapless; he had produced a box, containing
a cream carnation with suitable greenery; he had fl icked himself with a silk handkerchief, and had dusted his patent-leather shoes; lastly, he had pursed up his lips and surveyed himself
with great satisfaction in the mirror. Then he was ready to be
presented.
“Couldn’t forget today, Lettie. Wouldn’t have let old Pluto
and all the bunch of ’em keep me away. I skimmed here like
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
a ‘Brra-ave’ on my snow-shoes, like Hiawatha coming to Minnehaha.”
“Ah – that was famine,” said Marie softly.
“And this is a feast, a gorgeous feast, Miss Tempest,” he said,
bowing to Marie, who laughed.
“You have brought some music?” asked mother.
“Wish I was Orpheus,” he said, uttering his words with exaggerated enunciation, a trick he had caught from his singing,
I suppose.
“I see you’re in full feather, Tempest. Is she kind as she is
fair?”
“Who?”
Will pursed up his smooth sensuous face that looked as if it
had never needed shaving. Lettie went out with Marie, hearing
the bell ring.
“She’s an houri!” exclaimed William. “Gad, I’m almost done
for! She’s a lotus-blossom! – But is that your ring she’s wearing,
Tempest?”
“Keep off,” said Leslie.
“And don’t be a fool,” said I.
“Oh, 0-0-Oh!” drawled Will, “so we must look the other
way! ‘Le bel homme sans merci’!”
He sighed profoundly, and ran his fi ngers through his hair,
keeping one eye on himself in the mirror as he did so. Then
he adjusted his rings and went to the piano. At fi rst he only
splashed about brilliantly. Then he sorted the music, and took
a volume of Tchaikovsky’s songs. He began the long opening
of one song, was unsatisfi ed, and found another, a serenade of
Don Juan. Then at last he began to sing.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
His voice is a beautiful tenor, softer, more mellow, less
strong and brassy than Leslie’s. Now it was raised that it might
be heard upstairs. As the melting gush poured forth, the door
opened. William softened his tones, and sang ‘dolce’, but he
did not glance round.
“Rapture! – Choir of Angels,” exclaimed Alice, clasping
her hands and gazing up at the lintel of the door like a sainted
virgin.
“Persephone – Europa –” murmured Madie, at her side,
getting tangled in her mythology.
Alice pressed her clasped hands against her bosom in ecstasy as the notes rose higher.
“Hold me, Madie, or I shall rush to extinction in the arms
of this siren.” She clung to Madie. The song fi nished, and Will
turned round.
“Take it calmly, Miss Gall,” he said. “I hope you’re not hit
too badly.”
“Oh – how can you say ‘take it calmly’ – how can the savage beast be calm!”
“I’m sorry for you,” said Will.
“You are the cause of my trouble, dear boy,” replied Alice.
“I never thought you’d come,” said Madie.
“Skimmed here like an Indian ‘brra-ave’,” said Will. “Like
Hiawatha towards Minnehaha. I knew you were coming.”
“You know,” simpered Madie, “it gave me quite a fl utter
when I heard the piano. It is a year since I saw you. How did
you get here?”
“I came on snow-shoes,” said he. “Real Indian – came from
Canada – they’re just ripping.”
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“Oh – Aw-w do go and put them on and show us – do! –
do perform for us, Billy dear!” cried Alice.
“Out in the cold and driving sleet – no fear,” said he, and
he turned to talk to Madie. Alice sat chatting with Mother.
Soon Tom Smith came, and took a seat next to Marie; and sat
quietly looking over his spectacles with his sharp brown eyes,
full of scorn for William, full of misgiving for Leslie and Lettie.
Shortly after, George and Emily came in. They were rather
nervous. When they had changed their clogs, and Emily had
taken off her brown-paper leggings, and he his leather ones,
they were not anxious to go into the drawing-room. I was surprised – and so was Emily – to see that he had put on dancing
shoes.
Emily, ruddy from the cold air, was wearing a wine-coloured dress, which suited her luxurious beauty. George’s
clothes were well made – it was a point on which he was particular, being somewhat self-conscious. He wore a jacket and
a dark bow. The other men were in evening dress.
We took them into the drawing-room, where the lamp was
not lighted, and the glow of the fi re was becoming evident in
the dusk. We had taken up the carpet – the fl oor was all polished – and some of the furniture was taken away – so that
the room looked large and ample.
There was general hand-shaking, and the newcomers were
seated near the fi re. First Mother talked to them – then the
candles were lighted at the piano, and Will played to us. He is
an exquisite pianist, full of refi nement and poetry. It is astonishing, and it is a fact. Mother went out to attend to the tea,
and after a while, Lettie crossed over to Emily and George, and,
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
drawing up a low chair, sat down to talk to them. Leslie stood
in the window bay, looking out on the lawn where the snow
grew bluer and bluer and the sky almost purple.
Lettie put her hands on Emily’s lap, and said softly, “Look –
do you like it?”
“What! Engaged?” exclaimed Emily.
“I am of age, you see,” said Lettie.
“It is a beauty, isn’t it? Let me try it on, will you? Yes, I’ve
never had a ring. There, it won’t go over my knuckle-end –
I thought not. Aren’t my hands red? – it’s the cold – yes, it’s
too small for me. I do like it.”
George sat watching the play of the four hands in his sister’s
lap, two hands moving so white and fascinating in the twilight,
the other two rather red, with rather large bones, looking so
nervous, almost hysterical. The ring played between the four
hands, giving an occasional fl ash from the twilight or candlelight.
“You must congratulate me,” she said, in a very low voice,
and two of us knew she spoke to him.
“Ah, yes,” said Emily, “I do.”
“And you?” she said, turning to him, who was silent. “What
do you want me to say?” he asked.
“Say what you like.”
“Some time, when I’ve thought about it.”
“Cold dinners!” laughed Lettie, awaking Alice’s old sarcasm
at his slowness.
“What?” he exclaimed, looking up suddenly at her taunt.
She knew she was playing false; she put the ring on her fi nger
and went across the room to Leslie, laying her arm over his
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
shoulder, and leaning her head against him, murmuring softly
to him. He, poor fellow, was delighted with her, for she did not
display her fondness often.
We went in to tea. The yellow shaded lamp shone softly
over the table, where Christmas roses spread wide open among
some dark-coloured leaves; where the china and silver and the
coloured dishes shone delightfully. We were all very gay and
bright; who could be otherwise, seated round a well-laid table,
with young company, and the snow outside? George felt awkward when he noticed his hands over the table, but for the
rest, we enjoyed ourselves exceedingly.
The conversation veered inevitably to marriage.
“But what have you to say about it, Mr Smith?” asked little
Marie.
“Nothing yet,” replied he in his peculiar grating voice. “My
marriage is in the unanalysed solution of the future – when
I’ve done the analysis I’ll tell you.”
“But what do you think about it – ?”
“Do you remember, Lettie,” said Will Bancroft, “that little
red-haired girl who was in our year at college? She has just
married old Craven out of Physic’s department.”
“I wish her joy of it!” said Lettie; “Wasn’t she an old fl ame
of yours?”
“Among the rest,” he replied, smiling. “Don’t you remember you were one of them; you had your day.”
“What a joke that was!” exclaimed Lettie. “We used to go in
the arboretum at dinner-time. You lasted half one autumn. Do
you remember when we gave a concert, you and I, and Frank
Wishaw, in the small lecture theatre?”
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