The White Peacock

D. H. LAWRENCE

Description

The White Peacock is a novel by the famous writer D. H. Lawrence. The novel involves themes of mismatched marriage and the damage they can cause in the no man's land between town and country. Featuring famous descriptions of nature and the impact of the industrial revolution on the countryside. Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. Pomona Press are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

Sujets

• Romance
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Read Books Ltd.
• Date de parution: 08 janvier 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781447486268
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE WHITE PEACOCK
By
D. H. LAWRENCE

First published in 1911



Copyright © 2022 Read & Co. Classics
This edition is published by Read & Co. Classics, an imprint of Read & Co.
This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or copied in any way without the express permission of the publisher in writing.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd. For more information visit www.readandcobooks.co.uk


"A book of real distinction both of style and thought. Many of the descriptive passages have an almost lyrical charm and the characterisation is generally speaking deft and life-like. The White Peacock is a book not only worth reading but worth reckoning with, for we are inclined to think the author has come to stay."
— The Morning Post
"That it has elements of greatness few will deny. Mr. Heinemann is, once again, to be congratulated on a writer of promise."
— The Observer


Contents
D. H. Lawrence
PART I
CHAPTER I
THE PEOPLE O F NETHERMERE
CHAPTER II
DANGLI NG THE APPLE
CHAPTER III
A VENDO R OF VISIONS
CHAPTER IV
THE FATHER
CHAPTER V
THE SC ENT OF BLOOD
CHAPTER VI
THE EDUCATI ON OF GEORGE
CHAPTER VII
LETTIE PULLS DOWN THE SMALL GOLD GRAPES
CHAPTER VIII
THE RIOT OF CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER IX
LETTIE COMES OF AGE
PART II
CHAPTER I
STRANGE BLOSSOMS AND STRANGE NEW BUDDING
CHAPTER II
A SHAD OW IN SPRING
CHAPTER III
THE IRONY OF INSP IRED MOMENTS
CHAPTER IV
KISS WHEN SHE'S RI PE FOR TEARS
CHAPTER V
AN ARROW FROM THE I MPATIENT GOD
CHAPTER VI
THE COURTING
CHAPTER VII
THE FASCINATION OF THE FOR BIDDEN APPLE
CHAPTER VIII
A POEM O F FRIENDSHIP
CHAPTER IX
PASTORALS AND PEONIES
PART III
CHAPTER I
A NEW S TART IN LIFE
CHAPTER II
PUFFS OF WIND IN THE SAIL
CHAPTER III
THE FIRST PAGES OF SEVE RAL ROMANCES
CHAPTER IV
DOMESTIC LIF E AT THE RAM
CHAPTER V
THE DOMINANT MOTIF OF SUFFERING
CHAPTER VI
PISGAH
CHAPTER VII
NETHERMTHE SC ARP SLOPEERE
CHAPTER VIII
A PROSPECT AMONG THE MARS HES OF LETHE




D. H. Lawrence
David Herbert Lawrence was born on 11 September 1885 at Eastwood, a small mining town in the North of England. He was a prolific novelist and poet, responsible for some of the finest modernist works of the twentieth century. Taken as a whole, Lawrence’s oeuvre reflects the unsettling effects of industrialisation and renewal, but all within the remit of individual concerns; the emotions, extemporaneity and character. Lawrence’s style, both as a novelist, but also as a literary critic, earned him many enemies and he suffered both in terms of personal reputation and professional status, especially during the latter half of his life. He was the fourth child of Arthur Lawrence, a working-class miner from Nottinghamshire. David Lawrence was an intellectually gifted child and attended the local Beauvale Board School , winning a scholarship to Nottingham High School in 1898. He left education in 1901 to become a Junior Clerk at a surgical appliances factory, but after contracting pneumonia and reputedly being accosted by a group of factory girls, Lawrence took time off to convalesce. During this period, he worked on his first short stories and the draft of a novel which was eventually to become The White Peacock. In 1908 Lawrence moved to London, where his poetry was noticed by Ford Madox Ford, the editor of The English Review, as well as the influential publisher William Heinemann. This support enabled Lawrence to publish The White Peacock (1910) , his first major novel, followed by The Trespasser (1911); a novel based on the intimate diaries of a friend experiencing an unhappy love affair. It was at this time that he met Frieda Richthofen, a married woman with three young children. Richthofen and Lawrence embarked on a life-long romance and eloped to her parents’ home in Metz, Germany. The couple toured across Germany, over the Alps and into Italy – a journey during which Lawrence wrote Sons and Lovers (1913), an intense portrayal of the grim actuality of working-class provincial life. This was the start of Lawrence’s controversial private sexual life; Frieda later accused him of a homosexual relationship with a Cornish farmer, William Henry Hocking. This was a shocking accusation for a man living in early twentieth century Britain, and caused a great deal of scandal. The accusation was not aided by the added suspicion of spying and signalling to German submarines off the coast of Cornwall. Lawrence’s next novel, The Rainbow (1915) was suppressed after an investigation into its alleged obscenity; a bleak vision of humanity, it depicted the reflections of four major characters on friendship, sexuality, art and politics. Unfit for war-time Britain, it remained unpublished until 1920. After constant harassment by the authorities, Lawrence was forced to leave Cornwall in 1917, given three days notice under the Defence of the Realm Act. He moved to Derbyshire, but soon escaped Britain to travel the world; Australia, America, Sri Lanka, Mexico, Italy and France. Lawrence spent the remainder of his life peripatetic and only returned to Britain for two short visits. He continued writing during this period, producing some of his finest works; The Lost Girl and Mr Noon as well as several travelogues. It was in Italy that Lawrence wrote Lady Chatterley’s Lover (1928). Published in Florence and Paris, it cemented Lawrence’s scandalous reputation. Although the author responded robustly and penned many short tracts and satirical poems against those ‘shocked sensibilities’, the novel was not published in Britain until 1960. Lawrence continued writing into his final days, despite rapidly declining health. He died on 2 March, 1930, at the Villa Robermond, France, from t uberculosis.


THE WHITE PEACOCK


PART I
CHAPTER I
THE PEOPLE OF NETHERMERE
I stood watching the shadowy fish slide through the gloom of the mill-pond. They were grey, descendants of the silvery things that had darted away from the monks, in the young days when the valley was lusty. The whole place was gathered in the musing of old age. The thick-piled trees on the far shore were too dark and sober to dally with the sun; the weeds stood crowded and motionless. Not even a little wind flickered the willows of the islets. The water lay softly, intensely still. Only the thin stream falling through the mill-race murmured to itself of the tumult of life which had once quickened the valley.
I was almost startled into the water from my perch on the alder roots by a v oice saying:
"Well, what is there to look at?" My friend was a young farmer, stoutly built, brown eyed, with a naturally fair skin burned dark and freckled in patches. He laughed, seeing me start, and looked down at me with laz y curiosity.
"I was thinking the place seemed old, brooding ove r its past."
He looked at me with a lazy indulgent smile, and lay down on his back on the bank, saying: "It's all right for a doss—here."
"Your life is nothing else but a doss. I shall laugh when somebody jerks you awake, " I replied.
He smiled comfortably and put his hands over his eyes because o f the light.
"Why shall you laugh?" he drawled.
"Because you'll be amusi ng," said I.
We were silent for a long time, when he rolled over and began to poke with his finger in the bank.
"I thought," he said in his leisurely fashion, "there was some cause for all th is buzzing."
I looked, and saw that he had poked out an old, papery nest of those pretty field bees which seem to have dipped their tails into bright amber dust. Some agitated insects ran round the cluster of eggs, most of which were empty now, the crowns gone; a few young bees staggered about in uncertain flight before they could gather power to wing away in a strong course. He watched the little ones that ran in and out among the shadows of the grass, hither and thither in co nsternation.
"Come here—come here!" he said, imprisoning one poor little bee under a grass stalk, while with another stalk he loosened the folded blue wings.
"Don't tease the little begg ar," I said.
"It doesn't hurt him—I wanted to see if it was because he couldn't spread his wings that he couldn't fly. There he goes—no, he doesn't. Let's t ry another."
"Leave them alone," said I. "Let them run in the sun. They're only just out of the shells. Don't torment them i nto flight."
He persisted, however, and broke the wing of the next.
"Oh, dear—pity!" said he, and he crushed the little thing between his fingers. Then he examined the eggs, and pulled out some silk from round the dead larva, and investigated it all in a desultory manner, asking of me all I knew about the insects. When he had finished he flung the clustered eggs into the water and rose, pulling out his watch from the depth of his breec hes' pocket.
"I thought it was about dinner-time," said he, smiling at me. "I always know when it's about twelve. Are you coming in?"
"I'm coming down at any rate," said I as we passed along the pond bank, and over the plank-bridge that crossed the brow of the falling sluice. The bankside where the grey orchard twisted its trees, was a steep declivity, long and sharp, dropping down to the garden.
The stones of the large house were burdened with ivy and honey-suckle, and the great lilac-bush that had once guarded the porch now almost blocked the doorway. We passed out of the front garden into the farm-yard, and walked along the brick path to th e back door.
"Shut the gate, will you?" he said to me over his shoulder,