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Language and Communication in The White Peacock

Jacqueline Gouirand
p. 45-59

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  • 1 The Letters of D.H. Lawrence (Cambridge Edition, Vol. 1, 1979), 273.
  • 2 Edward Nehls (ed.). D.H. Lawrence: A Composite Biography (University of Wisconsin Press, 1957-59, V (...)
  • 3 Nethermere is the course of a stream called the Dumbles with steep and wooded hills to the north an (...)

1It seems that The White Peacock has been much condescended to by critics. Even Lawrence declared: “I was very young when I wrote The Peacock. I began it at twenty. Let that be my apology.”1 Generally the heroes are twenty, not the novelists who create them. He happened to reread the novel in 1925 for the first time in fifteen years and he wrote: “It seemed strange and far off and as if written by somebody else. I wonder how I could have thought of some of the things or how I could have written them. And then I’d come on something that showed I may have changed in style or form, but I haven’t changed fundamentally.”2 It is obvious that he exploded form when composing The Sisters only two years after the publication of The White Peacock. When I reread The White Peacock myself several months ago and for the first time in thirty years or more, I understood what Lawrence meant by “fundamentally.” Custom has it that at the beginning of a psychoanalysis, the first session or the first dream contains the essential in a nutshell. The White Peacock has the same characteristics in so far as it is pregnant with suggestions and intimations of the deadly powers of woman—a theme discreetly exposed but that is present everywhere and reveals the alienating dimension of love in the dialogues between men and women. Importantly Nethermere3 as “absolute space” necessary for man’s ontological balance heralds other Nethermeres from Sons and Lovers to Lady Chatterley’s Lover, with the local bucolic intensity filling the earlier fiction more than it did the later. For while Lawrence may have chosen to live far from his origins he never wrote better than about the mining community and his local countryside.

2When he began to think about his first novel in 1906 he said to Jessie:

  • 4 E.T. [Jessie Chambers]: D.H. Lawrence, a Personal Record (London: Cape, 1935), 103.

The usual plan is to take two couples and develop their relationships […]. Most of George Eliot’s are on that plan. Anyhow I don’t want a plot, I should be bored with it. I shall try two couples for a start.4

  • 5 Phoenix II, ed. By Warren Roberts and H.T. Moore (London, Heinemann, 1968), 593.

3The accomplishment of the project proved harder than he had expected, since he rewrote the whole text several times revising it heavily and changing the titles of the chapters before publishing it in January 1911. Over a period of four years Lawrence wrote and rewrote The White Peacock “with something rising to obsession”: “I had been tussling away for four years getting out The White Peacock in inchoate bits, from the underground of my consciousness.”5

4Though the novel is set in the woods and fields surrounding the Haggs Farm, it contains nothing of his home and family, except the undeveloped relationship between Cyril and Emily, the relationship which was at the centre of his emotional life at the time. Lawrence was always a voracious reader, but he read particularly avidly during the Croydon years, his absorption in materialist philosophy generating the fatalistic view of life that is reflected in the novel. As a critic of the work in progress, he was unsurpassed:

  • 6 The Letters, vol. 1, 144.

All about love—and rhapsodies of spring scattered here and there—heroines galore—no plot- nine-tenths adjectives—every colour in the spectrum discanted upon—a poem or two—scraps of Latin and French—altogether a sloppy, spicy mess.6

5A few months later he added that the text was “cloyed with metaphoric fancy.”

6His correspondence with Blanche Jennings in 1908 reveals that he was not only preoccupied with form, he also had anxieties about the theme (“The theme is abominable. I blush for myself”).

7Lawrence was at the time beginning to feel the growing tension between his aesthetic demands and his constant concern to express the truth, that is to make meaningful choices in the reality he observed. How was he to deal with one of the most ordinary conflicts of the novel, that between the poetry of the heart and the prose of social relations and the chance of external circumstances? “The florid prose poem” which he was coming to write is obscured by the suffering destructive powers of the unknown, by the suffering and violence that are pervasive in the novel’s depiction of men and women as the hapless victims of the life force, who can only engage in damaging relationships. Over the years, his work would become more complex. When he declares that “he had been tussling away for four years getting out The White Peacock […] from the underground of his consciousness” (see note 5), it seems impossible to ignore young Lawrence’s factual experience, his tormented feeling about the misery of male/female relationships. To understand what Lawrence was striving towards, we shall quote Paul Ricoeur:

  • 7 Paul Ricœur, La Configuration dans le récit de fiction (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1984), 129.

Resorting to the notion of the narrative voice enables narratology to make room for the subjectivity thus preventing it from being confused with that of the real author.7

  • 8 Michael Bell, Language and Being (CUP, 1991), 16.
  • 9 The Letters, vol. 1, 61.
  • 10 The Letters, vol. 1, 69.

8When Lawrence chooses Cyril as first person narrator, his intention is to remain detached from the whole thing. However as Michael Bell notes, Cyril’s voice cannot encompass the novel so the narration is finally shared by a combined Cyril/Lawrence voice.8 As a character among others characters Cyril did not satisfy the novelist in the first version of the novel: “Would you have liked Cyril analyzed as a personnage? It would never do, he is a young fool at the best of times and a frightful bore at worst.”9 He went on discussing the case with Blanche Jennings, taking her remarks into account, promising to write the thing again in order to stop up the mouth of Cyril: “I will kick him out—I hate the fellow—I will leave out Cyril, the fool.”10

  • 11 John Worthen: D.H. Lawrence and the Idea of the Novel (London: the Macmillan Press, 1979), 6 and 10

9When the story was entirely rewritten and was radically altered through the establishment of the game-keeper theme, Cyril became the emotional focus, responding to the experience of the others. He was necessary to the novel as an observer, witness, catalyst of the loves of others, or—according to Worthen—tragic chorus.11

  • 12 Barbary Hardy, The Appropriate Form (The Athlone Press, 1964), 133.

10The treatment of the first person narrator is not an easy task (“the model of how not to do it”) as Barbara Hardy notes.12 Yet the story is held together by the narrator’s decade-long search for a sustaining relation to others. We shall see how the narrator communicates the remorseless process he contemplates, examining his relation to events and characters. But before that, we shall deal with the mediation of language which distinguishes the characters, translating the emotional patterns at work.

The language of Nethermere

  • 13 The Letters, vol. 1, 53.

11The White Peacock has its seed in realism. Lawrence is thus trying to find an appropriate language, though he preferred to write about artistic “utterance” or “voice” rather than language. When he was working on his first novel he declared “I must flaw my English if I am to be anything but a stilted, starched person. How can I be willful and whimsical in good English?”13

12A little later, he was still searching for that appropriate form: “I want to write live things if crude and half-formed rather than beautiful dying decadent things with sad odours” (Letters, January 1909). The Nethermere community is immersed in local custom, tradition and history, for the forces which shape history travel down the words we say. Traditions and historical associations are part and parcel of the language of Nethermere celebrated by Cyril (“We were the children of the valley of Nethermere, a small nation with language and blood of our own.”):

  • 14 Tony Pinkney, D.H. Lawrence and Modernism (University of Iowa Press, 1990), 19.

It is through him that the novel articulates a viewpoint which might straddle the two sides of its broken world thinking in a single instant both Saxon and Roman thoughts.14

13Such localism is the condition of true robust Englishness which is represented by the young farmer George (his name is Saxton). He is addressed to as “a primitive man” by Lettie (27). She is certain he will provide “the realistic touch” when joining the group in a picnic organized by her upper class friends. He is the only one within the group “to call a heifer a heifer” (19); he represents the old rural world, a world close to nature, and he is conscious of being part of it: “The old feelings of the old folks stick to you like the lichens on the walls” (200).

  • 15 George scandalizes the company by announcing that he has felt the “gristles” (underbelly) of a preg (...)

14George is a young and handsome farmer whose language reflects his physical vigour. He works very hard at Strelley Mill farm. Cyril is his closest friend, often sharing George’s work in the fields, harvesting, milking cows occasionally. George is “educated” by his friend who lives at Woodside with his sister Lettie. Leslie Tempest’s home is on another level, “on a hill, beyond the farthest corner of the lake stands Highclose” (9). Leslie is the son of a mine owner. His world is opposed to George’s, not only geographically but culturally. His attitude to George is derogatory, he calls him “the common fellow,” “the milkman” (170), and he is shocked by the brutality of his language,15 whereas he is described as a classicist (perhaps superficially) using classical allusions through and through (he also happens to have quite a classic nose). He never resorts to local dialect or slang. His Britishness is in keeping with his bourgeois manners and is strongly opposed to George’s Englishness. Dialect is a class language uniting male and female of the working class. The game-keeper introduces dialect in the novel when he meets George and Cyril (61). Yet Annable uses much less dialect than the other game-keepers whom Lawrence will create in later novels. George uses some slang and resorts to local dialect, in particular with Meg’s family and Meg whom he chooses when Cyril’s sister, Lettie, becomes involved with Leslie and eventually marries him. She is from a local inn (“a clinker”); he is attracted to her “luxuriant form” and “the way she swings her body” (143):

“Ere!” He nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax thee summat”.
[…] “Let’s ha’e a kiss.” (142)

  • 16 Speaking about Cyril: “He’s a spoiled boy. I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can cade (...)

15“Thee, thou, tha, thysen” are generally addressed to Meg (204 and 240). Dialect derives its power from direct relation to the mood and circumstance and the relation to place is here of capital import. Even Lettie, who is a very sophisticated young lady, uses local forms of speech, almost unconsciously, when approaching Strelley Mill to join the Saxton household.16 Usually, she does not stop using literary and cultural allusions. She quotes scraps of Latin verse and she even happens to talk to herself in French.

The narrator’s communication

  • 17 George complaining to Cyril “You can’t call it farming. We’re a miserable mixture of farmer, milkma (...)

16In The White Peacock, Lawrence creates a dual world. The Young People of Nethermere gather in festivals, picnics, parties, receptions where they endlessly discuss literature, art and music. The idealization that is at work here involves an elevation of the social tone of some characters (particularly the members of the Beardsall family). Yet, beneath the surface, the initial reality is still there to be found: that of farm life, hard labour,17 the physical reality of life and nature generating violence and suffering. The game-keeper Annable symbolizes this primitive reality and his death signals that of old rural England:

He hated any sign of culture […] he scorned religion and all mysticism […]. When he thought, he reflected on the decline of the human race into folly and weakness and rottenness. “Be a good animal, true to your animal instinct” was his motto. (147)

17Young Lawrence‘s desire is to write a novel which is as close to life as fiction can be, but, at the same time, he is totally engaged and immersed in a literary enterprise. Time divides the book too, since part one and two are devoted to the characters’ young lives while in part three, which takes place a decade and a half later, “the bright sea of youth is crossed” and suffering dominates.

  • 18 Cf. Evelyn J. Hinz “Juno and The White Peacock” (The D.H. Lawrence Review, vol. 3, 1970), 115-135.

Externally at least, The White Peacock has a very formal framework: three major parts, with each part subdivided into nine chapters, their titles suggesting that Lawrence is working on an epic scale (“Vendors of Vision,” “An Arrow from the Impatient God” etc.).18

18When we meet the characters at the beginning of the novel, they are all about twenty (George and Emily, Cyril and Lettie, Leslie). They still live in

  • 19 Susan Stewart, On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection (...)

“[…] the imaginary” where loss and difference are unthinkable, where it seemed that the world was made for us and we for the world […] As long as we remain in an imaginary realm of being we misrecognize our own identities, seeing them as fixed and rounded and misrecognizing reality as something immutable.19

19Cyril, who clings passionately to Nethermere, “the hollow who held us all” (66), is the panoptic gaze on the Nethermere community and space, and the link between the members of the small community. “So, you’re an onlooker today Cyril. I thought you’d have milked a cow or two for me by now,” Mr Saxton exclaims (89). He is the artist who beholds the world more than the man of action. He is given a skill of observation, his gaze cuts into the real to offer us scenes, pictures, spectacles which are often accompanied by remarks revealing his competence as an observer, his knowing how to see. He is at his best when describing the ephemeral beauties of nature, the splendour of spring, the sweetness of September (the best of months) when

The earth is like a woman marrying and fading; she does not leap up with a laugh for the first fresh kiss of dawn, but slowly, quietly, unexpectantly lies watching the waking of each new day. The blue mist like memories in the eyes of a neglected wife never goes from the wooded hill, and only at noon creeps from the near hedges. (58)

  • 20 Jean-Paul Sartre, Situations II (Gallimard, 1948).

20In spite of some literary effects the reader is immersed in nature in a way that is sometimes tragic, sometimes ecstatic. This is one of the great charms of the book. Moments of life, of supreme harmony giving rise to ecstasy, are remarkably depicted by the narrator (an example of this is the famous bathing scene, so often commented upon in “A poem of Friendship,” where Cyril declares: “It was at these times we formed the almost passionate attachment which later years wore away” (219). In this scene as in other scenes in the novel, it is the power of suggestion which prevails, as will be the case in subsequent works. For “while Lawrence appears to be merely describing the shape and colour of objects, he excels in suggesting the underlying affective structures that make up his deeper reality,”20 as Sartre wrote.

21It is obvious that these young people fall in love. The narrator is caught up in his sister Lettie’s relationships with George Saxton and Leslie Tempest. Lettie is a very pretty girl, elegant, refined, concerned with her looks and the impression she produces in society, “the most distinguished among the belles in the countryside” (101) according to Cyril, who admires her and gives the reader a precise account of the dresses, the furs and the scarves she wears. Always ready to show off, sometimes catching the tone of a great actress (30), she most of the time displays her raillery and mockery in the presence of the two men who attract her. As a woman, she is associated with the white peacock described by the keeper:

The proud fool!—look at it! Perched on an angel too, as if it were a pedestal for vanity, that’s the soul of a woman—or it’s the devil […]. A woman to the end, I tell you, all vanity and screech and defilement. (149)

22For she is attracted to George’s physical beauty and strength (calling him “mon taureau, Taurus”). In the presence of George she often loses ground, whereas she masters the situation when she is with Leslie. Cyril is absent when Lettie and George are looking at some pictures and discussing them. A picture by G. Clausen plunges her into a deep reflection which she shares with George: “You have to suffer before you blossom in this life. When death is just touching a plant it forces it into a passion of flowering” (28). An exchange of looks follows their conversation about art, revealing their love and at the same time her fear: “[…] he looked up at her now his eyes wide with a declaration that made her shrink back as if a flame had leaped towards her face. She bent down her head. […] she sought almost in panic for something to say.” (30) When emotion prevails in the lovers’ discourse, words gradually become rare and sentences remain unfinished most of the time.

23Cyril intervenes, makes George conscious of his love for his sister: “It strikes me you’re in love” (65), then revealing an important flaw in his friend’s character: “Why don’t you scheme for getting what you want instead of dreaming fulfillments” (66). This will account for George’s permanent life-long resentment, insofar as his desire, which craves an illimitable satisfaction, cannot therefore be satisfied. It is natural he should yearn for freedom and the fulfillment of his unconscious desires, like the other members of the group. However man’s being requires a more profound foundation than the short-lived satisfaction of desire.

24George neither knows how to act nor how to speak at the right moment. Cyril is the witness of his friend’s hesitations. However in the long run, as his sister has set her heart on Leslie and is on the verge of getting married, he comes to realize that it is too late: “He has not asked her the idiot! I said to myself” (190). As his friend is miserable about losing Lettie, he reproaches him for his lack of courage: “You should have insisted and made your own destiny” (195). His destiny is at stake and George is conscious of it: “I built on Lettie […] You must found your castles on something and I founded mine on Lettie” (238). In fact Cyril does not know that his friend has tried to conquer Lettie in spite of his existing relationship with Meg. This time George is determined to fight for his life: “‘No, Lettie,’ he pleaded with terror and humility ‘don’t go. What should I do with my life! Nobody would love you like I do!’” (215). After torturing him, in one of the most moving scenes of the novel, she leaves him. Though George’s consciousness and will finally awaken it is too late. Both make wrong choices. The journey towards interiority has not taken place for any of them. In the relationships which they establish the suffering of their souls prevails (see the title of the chapters “The Dominant Motif of Suffering,” “A prospect towards the marshes of Lethe”).

25Lettie hopes to find some enlightenment in choosing to live with Leslie (“There was a certain glory about him” Cyril declares (174) but she discovers a man spiritually hollow. While her feminine ideal (elegance, distinction, affluence, satisfaction in motherhood) is probably attained, the social masks she reveres are obstacles to the authenticity of desire. Moreover communication, from the start, is a problem for the two. From the beginning, Leslie was struck by the mystery of woman and declared to Lettie: “There’s no getting to the bottom of you” (86). The notion of subject is at the centre of communication, two subjects are facing each other and difficulties start cropping up since the subject is not only defined through its being unique but also through its inscrutability. Leslie complains at the beginning of their relationship and confesses to Cyril: “You know I don’t think she feels for me as I do for her.” (106). When Cyril and George meet the couple a few years later “a subtle observer might have noticed a little hardness about her mouth and a disillusion hanging slightly on her eyes” (283). The narrator’s (or rather Lawrence’s) following observation is illuminating: “[…] she had determined to ignore her own self, to empty her own potentialities into the vessel of another or others and to live her life at second hand” (284). Yet in the company of people she “overflowed with clever speeches and rapid brilliant observations.” Like George, Lettie has failed herself.

26As for Meg, her motherhood makes her invincible, using her children as weapons against a man to whom she has regretfully submitted. Communication between them is impossible, their natures contradicting each other; moreover he is always out, when they have friends visiting them, she cannot share anything; “As soon as they begin mincing their words I’m done for, I can no more talk than a lobster” (297). Even the link with Nethermere is broken when Cyril comes back after many years of absence: “I wandered around Nethermere which had now forgotten me […] I was a stranger, an intruder” (306). He must feel “rottenly lonely,” to use his friend’s words. He has missed the opportunity to live with Emily whose emotional nature and generosity could have contributed to his happiness. She used to believe that he was wise and spoke the truth even when “he lost her in a maze of words” (69). Whereas she is the only one in the novel who has found her place, “escaping from the torture of strange complex modern life” and conquering wisdom, so to speak. She is also the only one who accepts to take care of her brother rejected by Meg and his children. He has wrenched himself from the land and from nature, broken all the bonds, ruined his health through drinking. Even his words cannot be recognized as his: “He was lamentably decayed” Cyril says (323). The degradation of language is a consequence of George’s physical and moral degradation, since his very language alienates him from the group and in particular from Cyril: “He talked stupidly, with vulgar contumely of others […] the same babble of bragging and abuse. I was wearied and disgusted. He looked and he sounded so worthless” (323). Furthermore George’s total indifference to nature also alienates him from his friend. Nothing is left for them to share, as the last line of the novel indicates: George “sat apart and obscure among us like a condemned man,” a wreck of the modern world.

27Cyril realizes that man is doomed to solitude when he comes back to Nethermere only to discover that everything is so different. He visits Emily and feels “quite alone, neglected outside the glow which surrounded the woman and the baby” (277). Though he is not subservient to the Magna Mater who has defeated the other men of the story, he is left in an ambiguous position, isolated and detached, standing outside the tragedy. He has managed to remove himself from the battle and the sex war, establishing a relation with the male sphere through his admiration for Annable, the representative of elemental male force, through his attachment to George and the harmony uniting them. His contemplation of nature has enabled him to forget about human relations when they failed him, though it is difficult for him to find a saving connection with it. He does not deal directly with what is at the core of his emotional life (evidence of this is the lapwing scene (156). He is sensitive in a somewhat girlish way (some of his friends call him Sybil) but he knows he has no substance of his own and he is quite conscious of it. When coming back to Nethermere after several years of absence he reveals: “I was distressed with a sense of ephemerality, of pale, erratic fragility” (319). Cyril feels “the torture of strange, complex modern life.” He is also affected by the implacable law of change.

28As narrator, he has been more than evasive on the subject of female domination in the story. He has not seen to what extent men are destroyed spiritually and physically accordingly as their women gather more power, become stately, arrogant, mere “towers of strength” (289). He is not always present when some important episodes take place, in particular in a significant one when George finally tries to conquer Lettie and remains dejected after her departure, “livid, haggard as if he had been ill for some weeks” (216). An episode which contributed to bring about his friend’s tragedy.

  • 21 Robert Scoles, The Nature of Narrative (Oxford University Press, 1966), 279.

29He is at his best when, like a painter, he depicts the local bucolic intensity, the passing seasons, the vibration of the non-human world, the glorious time of youth, the natural scenes (particularly the snowdrop scene (128-129). In such scenes, pregnant with meaning, however obscure, the reader is challenged with questions because it is then difficult to distinguish the first person narration from third-person omniscient narration, a flaw which some critics have noted when discussing the novelist’s control of point of view, going as far as to speak of “the disastrous bungling of The White Peacock.”21

30In spite of this flaw, in spite of the undeveloped themes and a number of contradictions which are never reconciled, Lawrence’s first step into fiction writing was an impressive one. With what is, for an inexperienced writer, a remarkable handling of language, he managed to deal with the conflict of cultures at the heart of The White Peacock. Immersed though he was in a literary enterprise, his desire to write a novel as close to life as fiction can be, seemed fulfilled. He explored the underlying, affective structures that make up his reality, showing that the emotional consciousness is first of all the consciousness of the world. His first novel is Lawrence’s timid flight into modernity in so far as he shows that a character can only be true if he is described as lost, uncertain, wavering, in a world whose mobile consistency can only be that of a kaleidoscope.

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1 The Letters of D.H. Lawrence (Cambridge Edition, Vol. 1, 1979), 273.

2 Edward Nehls (ed.). D.H. Lawrence: A Composite Biography (University of Wisconsin Press, 1957-59, Vol. 2), 414.

3 Nethermere is the course of a stream called the Dumbles with steep and wooded hills to the north and south but covering a smaller area than the description suggests.

4 E.T. [Jessie Chambers]: D.H. Lawrence, a Personal Record (London: Cape, 1935), 103.

5 Phoenix II, ed. By Warren Roberts and H.T. Moore (London, Heinemann, 1968), 593.

6 The Letters, vol. 1, 144.

7 Paul Ricœur, La Configuration dans le récit de fiction (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1984), 129.

8 Michael Bell, Language and Being (CUP, 1991), 16.

9 The Letters, vol. 1, 61.

10 The Letters, vol. 1, 69.

11 John Worthen: D.H. Lawrence and the Idea of the Novel (London: the Macmillan Press, 1979), 6 and 10.

12 Barbary Hardy, The Appropriate Form (The Athlone Press, 1964), 133.

13 The Letters, vol. 1, 53.

14 Tony Pinkney, D.H. Lawrence and Modernism (University of Iowa Press, 1990), 19.

15 George scandalizes the company by announcing that he has felt the “gristles” (underbelly) of a pregnant cow.

16 Speaking about Cyril: “He’s a spoiled boy. I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can cade (spoil) him.”

17 George complaining to Cyril “You can’t call it farming. We’re a miserable mixture of farmer, milkman, greengrocer and carting contractor. It’s a shabby business,” 61.

18 Cf. Evelyn J. Hinz “Juno and The White Peacock” (The D.H. Lawrence Review, vol. 3, 1970), 115-135.

19 Susan Stewart, On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection (Duke University Press, 1993).

20 Jean-Paul Sartre, Situations II (Gallimard, 1948).

21 Robert Scoles, The Nature of Narrative (Oxford University Press, 1966), 279.

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Jacqueline Gouirand

Jacqueline Gouirand is the author of a French biography of Frieda Lawrence (Frieda von Richthofen, muse de D.H. Lawrence, Paris: Autrement, 1998). She is the author of a checklist of D.H. Lawrence Translations, Criticism and Scholarship published in France,” D.H. Lawrence Review, 1988 and 2000. She has published many articles in Etudes lawrenciennes and is co-author (with Pierre Vitoux and Ginette Katz-Roy) of Lady Chatterley, Collection Figures Mythiques (Paris: Autrement, 1998).

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