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THE WHITE PEACOCK
the sudden fl ash of eyes and lips as they pass. Among all the
faces of the street my attention roved like a bee which clambers
drunkenly among blue fl owers. I became intoxicated with the
strange nectar which I sipped out of the eyes of the passers-by.
I did not know how time was hastening by on still bright
wings, till I saw the scarlet hawthorn fl aunting over the road,
and the lime buds lit up like wine drops in the sun, and the
pink scarves of the lime buds pretty as louse-wort a-blossom in
the gutters, and a silver-pink tangle of almond boughs against
the blue sky. The lilacs came out, and in the pensive stillness
of the suburb, at night, came the delicious tarry scent of lilac
fl owers, wakening a silent laughter of romance.
Across all this, strangely, came the bleak sounds of home.
Alice wrote to me at the end of May:
“Cyril dear, prepare yourself. Meg has got twins – yesterday. I went up to see how she was this afternoon, not knowing
anything, and there I found a pair of bubs in the nest, and old
Ma Stainwright bossing the show. I nearly fainted. Sybil dear,
I hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry when I saw those two
rummy little round heads, like two larch cones cheek by cheek
on a twig. One is a darkie, with lots of black hair, and the other
is red, would you believe it, just lit up with thin red hair like
a fl icker of fi relight. I gasped. I believe I did shed a few tears,
though what for, I don’t know.
“The old grandma is a perfect old wretch over it. She lies
chuckling and passing audible remarks in the next room, as
pleased as punch really, but so mad because Ma Stainwright
wouldn’t have them taken in to her. You should have heard
her when we took them in at last. They are both boys. She did
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
make a fuss, poor old woman. I think she’s going a bit funny
in the head. She seemed sometimes to think they were hers,
and you should have heard her, the way she talked to them,
it made me feel quite funny. She wanted them lying against
her on the pillow, so that she could feel them with her face.
I shed a few more tears, Sybil. I think I must be going dotty
also. But she came round when we took them away, and began
to chuckle to herself, and talk about the things she’d say to
George when he came – awful shocking things, Sybil, made
me blush dreadfully.
“Georgie didn’t know about it then. He was down at Bingham, buying some horses, I believe. He seems to have got
a craze for buying horses. He got in with Harry Jackson and
Mayhew’s sons – you know, they were horse dealers – at least
their father was. You remember he died bankrupt about three
years ago. There are Fred and Duncan left, and they pretend to
keep on the old business. They are always up at the Ram, and
Georgie is always driving about with them. I don’t like it –
they are a loose lot, rather common, and poor enough now.
“Well, I thought I’d wait and see Georgie. He came about
half-past fi ve. Meg had been fi dgeting about him, wondering
where he was, and how he was, and so on. Bless me if I’d worry
and whittle about a man. The old grandma heard the cart, and
before he could get down she shouted – you know her room is
in the front – ‘Hi, George, ma lad, sharpen thy shins an’ com’
an’ a’e a look at ’em-thee’r’s two on ’em, two on ’em!’ and she
laughed something awful.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“’‘Ello Granma, what art ter shoutin’ about?’ he said, and
at the sound of his voice Meg turned to me so pitiful, and said:
“‘He’s been wi’ them Mayhews.’
“‘Tha’s gotten twins, a couple at a go, ma lad!’ shouted the
old woman, and you know how she gives squeal before she
laughs! She made the horse shy, and he swore at it something
awful. Then Bill took it, and Georgie came upstairs. I saw Meg
seem to shrink when she heard him kick at the stairs as he
came up, and she went white. When he got to the top he came
in. He fairly reeked of whisky and horses. Bah, a man is hateful
when he reeks of drink! He stood by the side of the bed grinning like a fool, and saying, quite thick:
“‘You’ve bin in a bit of a ‘urry, ‘aven’t you Meg. An’ how are
ter feelin’ then?’
“‘Oh, I’m a’ right,’ said Meg.
“‘Is it twins, straight?’ he said; ‘Wheer is ’em?’
“Meg looked over at the cradle, and he went round the bed
to it, holding to the bed-rail. He had never kissed her, nor anything. When he saw the twins, asleep with their fi sts shut tight
as wax, he gave a laugh as if he was amused, and said:
“‘Two right enough – an’ one on ’em red! Which is the girl,
Meg, the black ’un?’
“‘They’re both boys,’ said Meg, quite timidly.
“He turned round, and his eyes went little.
“‘Blast ’em then!’ he said. He stood there looking like a devil. Sybil dear, I did not know our George could look like that.
I thought he could only look like a faithful dog or a wounded
stag. But he looked fi endish. He stood watching the poor little
twins, scowling at them, till at last the little red one began to
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
whine a bit. Ma Stainwright came pushing her fat carcass in
front of him and bent over the baby, saying:
“‘Why, my pretty, what are they doin’ to thee, what are
they? – What are they doin’ to thee?”
“Georgie scowled blacker than ever, and went out, lurching against the wash-stand and making the pots rattle till my
heart jumped in my throat.
“‘Well, if you don’t call that scandylos – !’ said old Ma
“Stainwright, and Meg began to cry. You don’t know, Cyril!
She sobbed fi t to break her heart. I felt as if I could have killed
him.
“That old gran’ma began talking to him, and he laughed
at her. I do hate to hear a man laugh when he’s half drunk. It
makes my blood boil all of a sudden. That old grandmother
backs him up in everything, she’s a regular nuisance. Meg has
cried to me before over the pair of them. The wicked, vulgar
old thing that she is –”
I went home to Woodside early in September. Emily was
staying at the Ram. It was strange that everything was so different. Nethermere even had changed. Nethermere was no longer a complete, wonderful little world that held us charmed
inhabitants. It was a small, insignifi cant valley lost in the spaces of the earth. The tree that had drooped over the brook with
such delightful, romantic grace was a ridiculous thing when
I came home after a year of absence in the south. The old symbols were trite and foolish.
Emily and I went down one morning to Strelley Mill. The
house was occupied by a labourer and his wife, strangers from
the north. He was tall, very thin, and silent, strangely suggest-
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
ing kinship with the rats of the place. She was small and very
active, like some ragged domestic fowl run wild. Already Emily had visited her, so she invited us into the kitchen of the
mill, and set forward the chairs for us. The large room had the
barren air of a cell. There was a small table stranded towards
the fi replace, and a few chairs by the walls; for the rest, desert
spaces of fl agged fl oor retreating into shadow. On the walls by
the windows were fi ve cages of canaries, and the small sharp
movements of the birds made the room more strange in its
desolation. When we began to talk the birds began to sing, till
we were quite bewildered, for the little woman spoke Glasgow
Scotch, and she had a hare lip. She rose and ran towards the
cages, crying herself like some wild fowl, and fl apping a duster
at the warbling canaries.
“Stop it, stop it,” she cried, shaking her thin weird body at
them. “Silly little devils, fools, fools, fools!!” and she fl apped the
duster till the birds were subdued. Then she brought us delicious scones and apple jelly, urging us, almost nudging us with
her thin elbows to make us eat.
“Don’t you like ’em, don’t you? Well, eat ’em, eat ’em then.
Go on, Emily, go on, eat some more. Only don’t tell Tom –
don’t tell Tom when ‘e comes in” – she shook her head and
laughed her shrilling, weird laughter.
As we were going she came out with us, and went running
on in front. We could not help noting how ragged and unkempt was her short black skirt. But she hastened around us,
hither and thither like an excited fowl, talking in her highpitched, unintelligible manner. I could not believe the brooding mill was in her charge. I could not think this was the Strel-
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
ley Mill of a year ago. She fl uttered up the steep orchard bank
in front of us. Happening to turn round and see Emily and me
smiling at each other she began to laugh her strident, weird
laughter, saying, with a leer:
“Emily, he’s your sweetheart, your sweetheart, Emily! You
never told me!” and she laughed aloud.
We blushed furiously. She came away from the edge of the
sluice gully, nearer to us, crying:
“You’ve been here o’ nights, haven’t you, Emily – haven’t
you?” and she laughed again. Then she sat down suddenly, and
pointing above our heads, shrieked:
“Ah, look there “ – we looked and saw the mistletoe. “Look
at her, look at her! How many kisses a night, Emily? – Ha! Ha!
Kisses all the year! Kisses o’ nights in a lonely place.”
She went on wildly for a short time, then she dropped
her voice and talked in low, pathetic tones. She pressed on us
scones and jelly and oat-cakes, and we left her.
When we were out on the road by the brook Emily looked
at me with shamefaced, laughing eyes. I noticed a small movement of her lips, and in an instant I found myself kissing her,
laughing with some of the little woman’s wildness.
CHAPTER IV
DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE RAM
George was very anxious to receive me at his home. The
Ram had as yet only a six days’ licence, so on Sunday afternoon
I walked over to tea. It was very warm and still and sunny as
I came through Greymede. A few sweethearts were sauntering
under the horse-chestnut trees, or crossing the road to go into
the fi elds that lay smoothly carpeted after the hay-harvest.
As I came round the fl agged track to the kitchen door of
the inn I heard the slur of a baking-tin and the bang of the
oven door, and Meg saying crossly:
“No, don’t you take him, Emily – naughty little thing! Let
his father hold him.”
One of the babies was crying.
I entered, and found Meg all fl ushed and untidy, wearing a large white apron, just rising from the oven. Emily, in
a cream dress, was taking a red-haired, crying baby from out
of the cradle. George sat in the small arm-chair, smoking and
looking cross.
“I can’t shake hands,” said Meg, rather fl urried. “I am all
fl oury. Sit down, will you –” and she hurried out of the room.
Emily looked up from the complaining baby to me and smiled
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
a woman’s rare, intimate smile, which says: “See, I am engaged
thus for a moment, but I keep my heart for you all the time.”
George rose and offered me the round arm-chair. It was the
highest honour he could do me. He asked me what I would
drink. When I refused everything, he sat down heavily on the
sofa, frowning, and angrily cudgelling his wits for something
to say – in vain.
The room was large and comfortably furnished with
rush-chairs, a glass-knobbed dresser, a cupboard with glass
doors, perched on a shelf in the corner, and the usual large
sofa whose cosy loose-bed and pillows were covered with red
cotton stuff. There was a peculiar reminiscence of victuals and
drink in the room; beer, and a touch of spirits, and bacon. Teenie, the sullen, black-browed servant girl came in carrying the
other baby, and Meg called from the scullery to ask her if the
child were asleep. Meg was evidently in a bustle and a fl urry,
a most uncomfortable state.
“No,” replied Teenie, “he’s not for sleep this day.”
“Mend the fi re and see to the oven, and then put him his
frock on,” replied Meg testily. Teenie set the black-haired baby
in the second cradle. Immediately he began to cry, or rather to
shout his remonstrance. George went across to him and picked
up a white furry rabbit, which he held before the child.
“Here, look at bun-bun! Have your nice rabbit! Hark at it
squeaking”
The baby listened for a moment, then, deciding that this
was only a put-off, began to cry again. George threw down the
rabbit and took the baby, swearing inwardly. He dandled the
child on his knee.
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THE WHITE PEACOCK
“What’s up then? – What’s up wi’ thee? Have a ride then –
dee-dedee-dedee.”
But the baby knew quite well what was the father’s feeling
towards him, and he continued to cry.
“Hurry up, Teenie” said George as the maid rattled the coal
on the fi re. Emily was walking about hushing her charge, and
smiling at me, so that I had a peculiar pleasure in gathering for
myself the honey of endearment which she shed on the lips of
the baby. George handed over his child to the maid, and said
to me with patient sarcasm:
“Will you come in the garden?”
I rose and followed him across the sunny fl agged yard,
along the path between the bushes. He lit his pipe and sauntered along as a man on his own estate does, feeling as if he
were untrammeled by laws or conventions.
“You know,” he said, “she’s a dam rotten manager.”
I laughed, and remarked how full of plums the trees were.
“Yes” he replied heedlessly – “you know she ought to have
sent the girl out with the kids this afternoon, and have got
dressed directly. But no, she must sit gossiping with Emily all
the time they were asleep, and then as soon as they wake up
she begins to make cake –”
“I suppose she felt she’d enjoy a pleasant chat, all quiet,”
I answered.
“But she knew quite well you were coming, and what it
would be. But a woman’s no dam foresight.”
“Nay, what does it matter” said I.
“Sunday’s the only day we can have a bit of peace, so she
might keep ’em quiet then.”
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“I suppose it was the only time, too, that she could have
a quiet gossip,” I replied.
“But you don’t know,” he said, “there seems to be never
a minute of freedom. Teenie sleeps in now, and lives with us in
the kitchen – Oswald as well – so I never know what it is to
have a moment private. There doesn’t seem a single spot anywhere where I can sit quiet. It’s the kids all day, and the kids all
night, and the servants, and then all the men in the house –
I sometimes feel as if I should like to get away. I shall leave the
pub as soon as I can – only Meg doesn’t want to.”
“But if you leave the public-house – what then?”
“I should like to get back on a farm. This is no sort of
a place, really, for farming. I’ve always got some business on
hand. There’s a traveller to see, or I’ve got to go to the brewers, or I’ve somebody to look at a horse, or something. Your
life’s all messed up. If I had a place of my own, and farmed it
in peace –”
“You’d be as miserable as you could be,” I said.
“Perhaps so,” he assented, in his old refl ective manner.
“Perhaps so! Anyhow, I needn’t bother, for I feel as if I never
shall go back – to the land.”
“Which means at the bottom of your heart you don’t intend to,” I said, laughing.
“Perhaps so” he again yielded. “You see, I’m doing pretty
well here – apart from the public-house: I always think that’s
Meg’s. Come and look in the stable. I’ve got a shire mare and
two nags: pretty good; I went down to Melton Mowbray with
Tom Mayhew, to a chap they’ve had dealings with. Tom’s all
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