cover THE WHITE PEACOCK By D. H. LAWRENCE LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1911 “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 PART I CHAPTER I THE PEOPLE OF NETHERMERE CHAPTER II DANGLING THE APPLE CHAPTER III A VENDOR OF VISIONS CHAPTER IV THE FATHER CHAPTER V THE SCENT OF BLOOD CHAPTER VI THE EDUCATION 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 SHADOW IN SPRING CHAPTER III THE IRONY OF INSPIRED MOMENTS CHAPTER IV KISS WHEN SHE’S RIPE FOR TEARS CHAPTER V AN ARROW FROM THE IMPATIENT GOD CHAPTER VI THE COURTING CHAPTER VII THE FASCINATION OF THE FORBIDDEN APPLE CHAPTER VIII A POEM OF FRIENDSHIP CHAPTER IX PASTORALS AND PEONIES PART III CHAPTER I A NEW START IN LIFE CHAPTER II PUFFS OF WIND IN THE SAIL CHAPTER III THE FIRST PAGES OF SEVERAL ROMANCES CHAPTER IV DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE RAM CHAPTER V THE DOMINANT MOTIF OF SUFFERING CHAPTER VI PISGAH CHAPTER VII THE SCARP SLOPE CHAPTER VIII A PROSPECT AMONG THE MARSHES OF LETHE Transcriber’s Notes 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 voice 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 lazy curiosity. “I was thinking the place seemed old, brooding over 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 of the light. “Why shall you laugh?” he drawled.