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The White Peacock is the first novel by D. H. Lawrence, published in , though with on the title page. Lawrence started the novel in and then  Author‎: ‎D. H. Lawrence.
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The painting had "a profound effect" on Lawrence, who wrote: "As for Greiffenhagen's 'Idyll', it moves me almost as if I were in love myself.

Under its intoxication, I have flirted madly this Christmas. The novel is set in the Eastwood area of his youth and is narrated in the first person by a character named Cyril Beardsall. It involves themes such as the damage associated with mismatched marriages, and the border country between town and country. A misanthropic gamekeeper makes an appearance, in some ways the prototype of Mellors in Lawrence's last novel, Lady Chatterley's Lover. The book includes some notable description of nature and the impact of industrialisation on the countryside and the town.

The novel is set in Nethermere fictional name for real-life Eastwood and is narrated by Cyril Beardsall, whose sister Laetitia Lettie is involved in a love triangle with two young men, George and Leslie Temple.

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She eventually marries Leslie, even though she feels sexually drawn to George. Spurned by Lettie, George marries the conventional Meg. Both his and Lettie's marriages end in unhappiness, as George slides into alcoholism at the novel's close. Maddox writes in D. Lawrence: The Story of a Marriage that The White Peacock reflects the influence of the German philosophers Arthur Schopenhauer and Friedrich Nietzsche , and that its theme is "that Christianity has alienated humankind from nature and destroyed pagan wisdom".

Maddox describes it as "an uneven early work obscured by Lawrence's later books", but praises it for its "beauty and power" and for being "rich in images of a nature red in tooth and claw. He lifted his hat to her, thinking she was looking. He had that fine, lithe physique, suggestive of much animal vigour; his person was exceedingly attractive; one watched him move about, and felt pleasure.

His face was less pleasing than his person. He was not handsome; his eyebrows were too light, his nose was large and ugly, and his forehead, though high and fair, was without dignity. But he had a frank, good-natured expression, and a fine, wholesome laugh. He wondered why she did not move. As he came nearer he saw. Then he winked at me and came in. He tiptoed across the room to look at her. The sweet carelessness of her attitude, the appealing, half-pitiful girlishness of her face touched his responsive heart, and he leaned forward and kissed her cheek where already was a crimson stain of sunshine.

She roused half out of her sleep with a little, petulant "Oh! He sat down behind her, and gently drew her head against him, looking down at her with a tender, soothing smile. I thought she was going to fall asleep thus. But her eyelids quivered, and her eyes beneath them flickered into consciousness. He loosed her, and rose, looking at her reproachfully. She shook her dress, and went quickly to the mirror to arrange her hair. He laughed indulgently, saying, "You shouldn't go to sleep then and look so pretty. Who could help?

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I thought we were proud of our unconventionality. Why shouldn't I kiss you? The blood flushed into his cheeks. He went quietly into the hall and brought my cap. We went through the wood, and through the dishevelled border-land to the high road, through the border-land that should have been park-like, but which was shaggy with loose grass and yellow mole-hills, ragged with gorse and bramble and briar, with wandering old thorn-trees, and a queer clump of Scotch firs. On the highway the leaves were falling, and they chattered under our steps.

The water was mild and blue, and the corn stood drowsily in "stook. We climbed the hill behind Highclose, and walked on along the upland, looking across towards the hills of arid Derbyshire, and seeing them not, because it was autumn. We came in sight of the head-stocks of the pit at Selsby, and of the ugly village standing blank and naked on the brow of the hill. Lettie was in very high spirits. She laughed and joked continually. She picked bunches of hips and stuck them in her dress. Having got a thorn in her finger from a spray of blackberries, she went to Leslie to have it squeezed out.

We were all quite gay as we turned off the high road and went along the bridle path, with the woods on our right, the high Strelley hills shutting in our small valley in front, and the fields and the common to the left. About half way down the lane we heard the slurr of the scythestone on the scythe.

Lettie went to the hedge to see. It was George mowing the oats on the steep hillside where the machine could not go. His father was tying up the corn into sheaves. Straightening his back, Mr. Saxton saw us, and called to us to come and help.

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We pushed through a gap in the hedge and went up to him. No;—come, that sounds bad! Going a walk I guess. You see what it is to get fat," and he pulled a wry face as he bent over to tie the corn. He was a man beautifully ruddy and burly, in the prime of life.

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Hark at my hands"—he rubbed them together—"like sandpaper! It puts you in fine condition when you get over the first stiffness. We moved across to the standing corn. The sun being mild, George had thrown off his hat, and his black hair was moist and twisted into confused half-curls. Firmly planted, he swung with a beautiful rhythm from the waist. On the hip of his belted breeches hung the scythestone; his shirt, faded almost white, was torn just above the belt, and showed the muscles of his back playing like lights upon the white sand of a brook.

There was something exceedingly attractive in the rhythmic body. I spoke to him, and he turned round. He looked straight at Lettie with a flashing, betraying smile. He was remarkably handsome. He tried to say some words of greeting, then he bent down and gathered an armful of corn, and deliberately bound it up.

George said nothing, but turned to Lettie. He took some long straws, cleaned them, and showed her the way to hold them. Instead of attending, she looked at his hands, big, hard, inflamed by the snaith of the scythe. The latter who was wonderfully ready at everything, was doing fairly well, but he had not the invincible sweep of the other, nor did he make the same crisp crunching music. They are such a fine brown colour, and they look so hard. He held out one arm to her. She hesitated, then she swiftly put her finger tips on the smooth brown muscle, and drew them along.

Quickly she hid her hand into the folds of her skirt, blushing. He followed her look, and laughed quietly, with indulgent resignation. It's a pleasure to yourself—your own physique. George, who had been feeling one finger tip, now took out his pen-knife and proceeded to dig a thorn from his hand. George startled us with a sudden, "Holloa. The standing corn was a patch along the hill-side some fifty paces in length, and ten or so in width. We all followed. Look out! The bewildered little brute, scared by Leslie's wild running and crying, turned from its course, and dodged across the hill, threading its terrified course through the maze of lying sheaves, spurting on in a painful zigzag, now bounding over an untied bundle of corn, now swerving from the sound of a shout.

The little wretch was hard pressed; George rushed upon it. It darted into some fallen corn, but he had seen it, and had fallen on it. In an instant he was up again, and the little creature was dangling from his hand.

#Afternoontea# - Picture of The White Peacock, Leicester

We returned, panting, sweating, our eyes flashing, to the edge of the standing corn. I heard Lettie calling, and turning round saw Emily and the two children entering the field as they passed from school. I saw the oat-tops quiver. The animal leaped out, and made for the hedge. George and Leslie, who were on that side, dashed off, turned him, and he coursed back our way. I headed him off to the father who swept in pursuit for a short distance, but who was too heavy for the work.