The White Peacock (Romance Classic). D. H. Lawrence
“Would you say the same to me?” she asked.
“It depends what you’d answer,” he said, laughingly.
“Oh, you’re so bloomin’ cautious. I’d rather have a tack in my shoe than a cautious man, wouldn’t you, Lettie?”
“Well — it depends how far I had to walk,” was Lettie’s reply —“but if I hadn’t to limp too far ——”
Alice turned away from Lettie, whom she often found rather irritating.
“You do look glum, Sybil,” she said to me, “did somebody want to kiss you?”
I laughed — on the wrong side, understanding her malicious feminine reference — and answered:
“If they had, I should have looked happy.”
“Dear boy, smile now then”— and she tipped me under the chin. I drew away.
“Oh, Gum — we are solemn! What’s the matter with you? Georgie — say something — else I’s’ll begin to feel nervous.”
“What shall I say?” he asked, shifting his feet and resting his elbows on his knees. “Oh, Lor!” she cried in great impatience. He did not help her, but sat clasping his hands, smiling on one side of his face. He was nervous. He looked at the pictures, the ornaments, and everything in the room; Lettie got up to settle some flowers on the mantelpiece, and he scrutinised her closely. She was dressed in some blue foulard stuff, with lace at the throat, and lace cuffs to the elbow. She was tall and supple; her hair had a curling fluffiness very charming. He was no taller than she, and looked shorter, being strongly built. He too had a grace of his own, but not as he sat stiffly on a horse-hair chair. She was elegant in her movements.
After a little while Mother called us in to supper.
“Come,” said Lettie to him, “take me in to supper.” He rose, feeling very awkward.
“Give me your arm,” said she to tease him. He did so, and flushed under his tan, afraid of her round arm half hidden by lace, which lay among his sleeve.
When we were seated she flourished her spoon and asked him what he would have. He hesitated, looked at the strange dishes, and said he would have some cheese. They insisted on his eating new, complicated meats.
“I’m sure you like tantafflins, don’t you, Georgie?” said Alice, in her mocking fashion. He was not sure. He could not analyse the flavours, he felt confused and bewildered even through his sense of taste! Alice begged him to have salad.
“No, thanks,” said he. “I don’t like it.”
“Oh, George!” she said. “How can you say so when I’m offering it you.”
“Well — I’ve only had it once,” said he, “and that was when I was working with Flint, and he gave us fat bacon and bits of lettuce soaked in vinegar —‘Ave a bit more salt,’ he kept saying, but I’d had enough.”
“But all our lettuce,” said Alice with a wink, “is as sweet as a nut, no vinegar about our lettuce.” George laughed in much confusion at her pun on my sister’s name.
“I believe you,” he said, with pompous gallantry.
“Think of that!” cried Alice. “Our Georgie believes me. Oh, I am so, so pleased!”
He smiled painfully. His hand was resting on the table, the thumb tucked tight under the fingers, his knuckles white as he nervously gripped his thumb. At last supper was finished, and he picked up his serviette from the floor and began to fold it. Lettie also seemed ill at ease. She had teased him till the sense of his awkwardness had become uncomfortable. Now she felt sorry, and a trifle repentant, so she went to the piano, as she always did to dispel her moods. When she was angry she played tender fragments of Tchaikovsky, when she was miserable, Mozart. Now she played Handel in a manner that suggested the plains of heaven in the long notes, and in the little trills as if she were waltzing up the ladder of Jacob’s dream like the damsels in Blake’s pictures. I often told her she flattered herself scandalously through the piano; but generally she pretended not to understand me, and occasionally she surprised me by a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. For George’s sake, she played Gounod’s “Ave Maria”, knowing that the sentiment of the chant would appeal to him, and make him sad, forgetful of the petty evils of this life. I smiled as I watched the cheap spell working. When she had finished, her fingers lay motionless for a minute on the keys, then she spun round, and looked him straight in the eyes, giving promise of a smile. But she glanced down at her knee.
“You are tired of music,” she said.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head.
“Like it better than salad?” she asked with a flash of raillery.
He looked up at her with a sudden smile, but did not reply. He was not handsome; his features were too often in a heavy repose; but when he looked up and smiled unexpectedly, he flooded her with an access of tenderness.
“Then you’ll have a little more,” said she, and she turned again to the piano. She played soft, wistful morsels, then suddenly broke off in the midst of one sentimental plaint, and left the piano, dropping into a low chair by the fire. There she sat and looked at him. He was conscious that her eyes were fixed on him, but he dared not look back at her, so he pulled his moustache.
“You are only a boy, after all,” she said to him quietly. Then he turned and asked her why.
“It is a boy that you are,” she repeated, leaning back in her chair, and smiling lazily at him.
“I never thought so,” he replied seriously.
“Really?” she said, chuckling.
“No,” said he, trying to recall his previous impressions. She laughed heartily, saying:
“You’re growing up.”
“How?” he asked.
“Growing up,” she repeated, still laughing.
“But I’m sure I was never boyish,” said he.
“I’m teaching you,” said she, “and when you’re boyish you’ll be a very decent man. A mere man daren’t be a boy for fear of tumbling off his manly dignity, and then he’d be a fool, poor thing.”
He laughed, and sat still to think about it, as was his way. “Do you like pictures?” she asked suddenly, being tired of looking at him.
“Better than anything,” he replied.
“Except dinner, and a warm hearth and a lazy evening,” she said.
He looked at her suddenly, hardening at her insult, and biting his lips at the taste of this humiliation. She repented, and smiled her plaintive regret to him.
“I’ll show you some,” she said, rising and going out of the room. He felt he was nearer her. She returned, carrying a pile of great books.
“Jove — you’re pretty strong!” said he.
“You are charming in your compliment,” she said. He glanced at her to see if she were mocking.
“That’s the highest you could say of me, isn’t it?” she insisted.
“Is it?” he asked, unwilling to compromise himself.
“For sure,” she answered — and then, laying the books on the table, “I know how a man will compliment me by the way he looks at me”— she kneeled before the fire. “Some look at my hair, some watch the rise and fall of my breathing, some look at my neck, and a few — not you among them — look me in the eyes for my thoughts. To you, I’m a fine specimen, strong! Pretty strong! You primitive man!”
He sat twisting his fingers; she was very contrary.
“Bring your chair up,” she said, sitting down at the table and opening a book. She talked