The White Peacock. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

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       David Herbert Lawrence

      The White Peacock

      Published by Good Press, 2021

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066442033

Table of Contents

       The People of Nethermere

       Dangling the Apple

       A Vendor of Visions

       The Father

       The Scent of Blood

       The Education of George

       Lettie Pulls Down the Small Gold Grapes

       The Riot of Christmas

       Lettie Comes of Age

       Strange Blossoms and Strange New Budding

       A Shadow in Spring

       The Irony of Inspired Moments

       Kiss When She’s Ripe for Tears

       An Arrow from the Impatient God

       The Courting

       The Fascination of the Forbidden Apple

       A Poem of Friendship

       Pastorals and Peonies

       A New Start in Life

       Puffs of Wind in the Sail

       The First Pages of Several Romances

       Domestic Life at The Ram

       The Dominant Motif of Suffering

       Pisgah

       The Scarp Slope

       A Prospect Among the Marshes of Lethe

      The People of Nethermere

       Table of Contents

      PART I

       Table of Contents

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      CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      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.

      “Because you’ll be amusing,” 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 this 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 consternation.

      “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 beggar,” 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 try another.”

      “Leave them alone,” said I. “Let them run in the sun. They’re only just out of the shells. Don’t torment them into 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,