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THE WHITE PEACOCK
Meg fetched more glasses and a decanter. I made a place for
her between me and George. We all had port wine. Meg, naïve
and unconscious, waited on us deliciously. Her cheeks gleamed
like satin when she laughed, save when the dimples held the
shadow. Her suave, tawny neck was bare and bewitching. She
turned suddenly to George as he asked her a question, and
they found their faces close together. He kissed her, and when
she started back, jumped and kissed her neck with warmth.
“La – là – dy – dà – là – dy – dà – dy – dà,” cried the old
woman in delight, and she clutched her wineglass.
“Come on – chink!” she cried, “all together – chink to
him!”
We four chinked and drank. George poured wine in a tumbler, and drank it off. He was getting excited, and all the energy and passion that normally were bound down by his caution
and self-instinct began to fl ame out.
“Here, Aunt!” said he, lifting his tumbler, “here’s to what
you want – you know!”
“I knowed tha’ wor as spunky as ony on’em,” she cried.
“Tha’ nobbut wanted warmin’ up. I’ll see as you’re all right.
It’s a bargain. Chink again, iverybody.”
“A bargain,” said he before he put his lips to the glass.
“What bargain’s that?” said Meg.
The old lady laughed loudly and winked at George, who,
with his lips wet with wine, got up and kissed Meg soundly,
saying:
“There it is – that seals it.”
Meg wiped her face with her big pinafore, and seemed uncomfortable.
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“Aren’t you comin’, Gran’ma?” she pleaded.
“Eh, tha’ wants ter ‘orry me off – what’s thaI say, George –
a deep un, isna ‘er?”
“Dunna go, Aunt, dunna be hustled off.”
“Tush – Pish,” snorted the old lady. “Yah, tha’ ‘rt a slow un,
an’ no mistakes! Get a candle, Meg, I’m ready.”
Meg brought a brass bedroom candlestick. Bill brought in
the money in a tin box, and delivered it into the hands of the
old lady.
“Go thy ways to bed now, lad,” said she to the ugly, wizened
serving-man. He sat in a corner and pulled off his boots.
“Come an’ kiss me good night, George,” said the old woman – and as he did so she whispered in his ear, whereat he
laughed loudly. She poured whisky into her glass and called to
the serving-man to drink it. Then, pulling herself up heavily,
she leaned on Meg and went upstairs. She had been a big woman, one could see, but now her shapeless, broken fi gure looked
pitiful beside Meg’s luxuriant form. We heard them slowly, laboriously climb the stairs. George sat pulling his moustache
and half smiling; his eyes were alight with that peculiar childish look they had when he was experiencing new and doubtful
sensations. Then he poured himself more whisky.
“I say, steady!” I admonished.
“What for!” he replied, indulging himself like a spoiled
child and laughing.
Bill, who had sat for some time looking at the hole in
his stocking, drained his glass, and with a sad “Good night,”
creaked off upstairs.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
Presently Meg came down, and I rose and said we must be
going.
“I’ll just come an’ lock the door after you,” said she, standing uneasily waiting.
George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady
himself; then he got his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg,
said:
“‘Ere!” he nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax
thee sumwhat.”
She looked at him, half smiling, half doubtful. He put his
arm round her and looking down into her eyes, with his face
very close to hers, said:
“Let’s ha’e a kiss.”
Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at
him intently with her bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and
pressed her closely to him.
“I’m going to marry thee,” he said.
“Go on!” she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful.
“I am an’ all,” he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him.
I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway
looking out into the night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard
the thin voice of the old woman at the top of the stairs:
“Meg! Meg! Send ’im off now. Come on!”
In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices,
and then they came into the passage.
“Good night, my lad, good luck to thee!” cried the voice like
a ghoul from upper regions.
He kissed his betrothed a rather hurried good night at the
door.
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“Good night,” she replied softly, watching him retreat.
Then we heard her shoot the heavy bolts.
“You know,” he began, and he tried to clear his throat. His
voice was husky and strangulated with excitement. He tried
again:
“You know – she – she’s a clinker.”
I did not reply, but he took no notice.
“Damn!” he ejaculated. “What did I let her go for!”
We walked along in silence – his excitement abated somewhat.
“It’s the way she swings her body – an’ the curves as she
stands. It’s when you look at her – you feel – you know.”
I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so.
“You know – if ever I dream in the night – of women –
you know – it’s always Meg; she seems to look so soft, and to
curve her body –”
Gradually his feet began to drag. When we came to the
place where the colliery railway crossed the road, he stumbled,
and pitched forward, only just recovering himself. I took hold
of his arm.
“Good Lord, Cyril, am I drunk?” he said.
“Not quite,” said I.
“No,” he muttered, “couldn’t be.”
But his feet dragged again, and he began to stagger from
side to side. I took hold of his arm. He murmured angrily –
then, subsiding again, muttered, with slovenly articulation:
“I feel fi t to drop with sleep.”
Along the dead, silent roadway, and through the uneven
blackness of the wood, we lurched and stumbled. He was very
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
heavy and diffi cult to direct. When at last we came to the
brook we splashed straight through the water. I urged him to
walk steadily and quietly across the yard. He did his best, and
we made a fairly still entry into the farm. He dropped with all
his weight on the sofa, and leaning down, began to unfasten
his leggings. In the midst of his fumblings he fell asleep, and
I was afraid he would pitch forward on to his head. I took off
his leggings and his wet boots and his collar. Then, as I was
pushing and shaking him awake to get off his coat, I heard
a creaking on the stairs, and my heart sank, for I thought it
was his mother. But it was Emily, in her long white nightgown.
She looked at us with great dark eyes of terror, and whispered:
“What’s the matter?”
I shook my head and looked at him. His head had dropped
down on his chest again.
“Is he hurt?” she asked, her voice becoming audible, and
dangerous. He lifted his head, and looked at her with heavy,
angry eyes.
“George!” she said sharply, in bewilderment and fear. His
eyes seemed to contract evilly.
“Is he drunk?” she whispered, shrinking away, and looking
at me. “Have you made him drunk – you?”
I nodded. I too was angry.
“Oh, if Mother gets up! I must get him to bed! Oh, how
could you!”
This sibilant whispering irritated him, and me. I tugged at
his coat. He snarled incoherently, and swore. She caught her
breath. He looked at her sharply, and I was afraid he would
wake himself into a rage.
215
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“Go upstairs!” I whispered to her. She shook her head.
I could see him taking heavy breaths, and the veins of his neck
were swelling. I was furious at her disobedience.
“Go at once,” I said fi ercely, and she went, still hesitating
and looking back.
I had hauled off his coat and waistcoat, so I let him sink
again into stupidity while I took off my boots. Then I got him
to his feet, and, walking behind him, impelled him slowly upstairs. I lit a candle in his bedroom. There was no sound from
the other rooms. So I undressed him, and got him in bed at last,
somehow. I covered him up and put over him the calfskin rug,
because the night was cold. Almost immediately he began to
breathe heavily. I dragged him over to his side, and pillowed
his head comfortably. He looked like a tired boy, asleep.
I stood still, now I felt myself alone, and looked round. Up
to the low roof rose the carven pillars of dark mahogany; there
was a chair by the bed, and a little yellow chest of drawers
by the windows; that was all the furniture, save the calf-skin
rug on the fl oor. In the drawers I noticed a book. It was a copy
of Omar Khayyam, that Lettie had given him in her Khayyam
days, a little shilling book with coloured illustrations.
I blew out the candle, when I had looked at him again. As
I crept on to the landing, Emily peeped from her room, whispering, “Is he in bed?”
I nodded, and whispered good night. Then I went home,
heavily.
After the evening at the farm, Lettie and Leslie drew closer together. They eddied unevenly down the little stream of
courtship, jostling and drifting together and apart. He was
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
unsatisfi ed and strove with every effort to bring her closer to
him, submissive. Gradually she yielded, and submitted to him.
She folded round her and him the snug curtain of the present,
and they sat like children playing a game behind the hangings
of an old bed. She shut out all distant outlooks, as an Arab
unfolds his tent and conquers the mystery and space of the
desert. So she lived gleefully in a little tent of present pleasures
and fancies.
Occasionally, only occasionally, she would peep from her
tent into the out space. Then she sat poring over books, and
nothing would be able to draw her away; or she sat in her
room looking out of the window for hours together. She pleaded headaches; Mother said liver; he, angry like a spoilt child
denied his wish, declared it moodiness and perversity.
CHAPTER II
A SHADOW IN SPRING
With spring came trouble. The Saxtons declared they were
being bitten off the estate by rabbits. Suddenly, in a fi t of despair, the father bought a gun. Although he knew that the
squire would not for one moment tolerate the shooting of that
manna, the rabbits, yet he was out in the fi rst cold morning
twilight banging away. At fi rst he but scared the brutes, and
brought Annable on the scene; then, blooded by the use of
the weapon, he played havoc among the furry beasts, bringing
home some eight or nine couples.
George entirely approved of this measure; it rejoiced him
even; yet he had never had the initiative to begin the like himself, or even to urge his father to it. He prophesied trouble, and
possible loss of the farm. It disturbed him somewhat, to think
they must look out for another place, but he postponed the
thought of the evil day till the time should be upon him.
A vendetta was established between the Mill and the keeper, Annable. The latter cherished his rabbits:
“Call ’em vermin!” he said. “I only know one sort of vermin – and that’s the talkin’ sort.” So he set himself to thwart
and harass the rabbit-slayers.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
It was about this time I cultivated the acquaintance of the
keeper. All the world hated him – to the people in the villages
he was like a devil of the woods. Some miners had sworn vengeance on him for having caused their committal to gaol. But
he had a great attraction for me; his magnifi cent physique, his
great vigour and vitality, and his swarthy, gloomy face drew me.
He was a man of one idea: that all civilisation was the painted fungus of rottenness. He hated any sign of culture. I won his
respect one afternoon when he found me trespassing in the
woods because I was watching some maggots at work in a dead
rabbit. That led us to a discussion of life. He was a thorough
materialist – he scorned religion and all mysticism. He spent
his days sleeping, making intricate traps for weasels and men,
putting together a gun, or doing some amateur forestry, cutting down timber, splitting it in logs for use in the hall, and
planting young trees. When he thought, he refl ected on the
decay of mankind – the decline of the human race into folly
and weakness and rottenness. “Be a good animal, true to your
animal instinct,” was his motto. With all this, he was fundamentally very unhappy – and he made me also wretched. It
was this power to communicate his unhappiness that made
me somewhat dear to him, I think. He treated me as an affectionate father treats a delicate son; I noticed he liked to put
his hand on my shoulder or my knee as we talked; yet withal,
he asked me questions, and saved his thoughts to tell me, and
believed in my knowledge like any acolyte.
I went up to the quarry woods one evening in early April,
taking a look for Annable. I could not fi nd him, however, in
the wood. So I left the wildlands, and went along by the old
219
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
red wall of the kitchen garden, along the main road as far as
the mouldering church which stands high on a bank by the
roadside, just where the trees tunnel the darkness, and the
gloom of the highway startles the travellers at noon. Great
trees growing on the banks suddenly fold over everything at
this point in the swinging road, and in the obscurity rots the
Hall church, black and melancholy above the shrinking head
of the traveller.
The grassy path to the churchyard was still clogged with
decayed leaves. The church is abandoned. As I drew near an
owl fl oated softly out of the black tower. Grass overgrew the
threshold. I pushed open the door, grinding back a heap of
fallen plaster and rubbish and entered the place. In the twilight the pews were leaning in ghostly disorder, the prayerbooks dragged from their ledges, scattered on the fl oor in
the dust and rubble, torn by mice and birds. Birds scuffl ed
in the darkness of the roof. I looked up. In the upward well
of the tower I could see a bell hanging. I stooped and picked
up a piece of plaster from the ragged confusion of feathers,
and broken nests, and remnants of dead birds. Up into the
vault overhead I tossed pieces of plaster until one hit the bell,
and it “tonged” out its faint remonstrance. There was a rustle
of many birds like spirits. I sounded the bell again, and dark
forms moved with cries of alarm overhead, and something fell
heavily. I shivered in the dark, evil-smelling place, and hurried to get out of doors. I clutched my hands with relief and
pleasure when I saw the sky above me quivering with the last
crystal lights, and the lowest red of sunset behind the yew-
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