Of all of Lawrence's novels, this one is the most classical. The themes are introduced up front and then get expanded and developed as it moves along. It's almost like a symphony. Let it suffice to say that the themes of the novel are introduced in the openning dialogue between Ursula and Gudrun: Marriage, experience, and the relationship between men and women. No need to elaborate on that. You'll see it as the novel progresses. The writing is really worth commenting on. It's marvelous.
Wasn't the wedding party scene of chapter two so beautifully portrayed?
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The women wandered about in a little confusion, chased hither and thither by the three married daughters of the house. All the while there could be heard the characteristic, imperious voice of one Crich woman or another calling `Helen, come here a minute,' `Marjory, I want you -- here.' `Oh, I say, Mrs Witham --.' There was a great rustling of skirts, swift glimpses of smartly-dressed women, a child danced through the hall and back again, a maidservant came and went hurriedly.
Meanwhile the men stood in calm little groups, chatting, smoking, pretending to pay no heed to the rustling animation of the women's world. But they could not really talk, because of the glassy ravel of women's excited, cold laughter and running voices. They waited, uneasy, suspended, rather bored. But Gerald remained as if genial and happy, unaware that he was waiting or unoccupied, knowing himself the very pivot of the occasion.
Suddenly Mrs Crich came noiselessly into the room, peering about with her strong, clear face. She was still wearing her hat, and her sac coat of blue silk.
`What is it, mother?' said Gerald.
`Nothing, nothing!' she answered vaguely. And she went straight towards Birkin, who was talking to a Crich brother-in-law.
`How do you do, Mr Birkin,' she said, in her low voice, that seemed to take no count of her guests. She held out her hand to him.
and
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There was a moment's lull, as everybody looked at the bors d'oeuvres that were being handed round. And out of this lull, a girl of thirteen or fourteen, with her long hair down her back, said in a calm, self-possessed voice:
`Gerald, you forget father, when you make that unearthly noise.'
`Do I?' he answered. And then, to the company, `Father is lying down, he is not quite well.'
`How is he, really?' called one of the married daughters, peeping round the immense wedding cake that towered up in the middle of the table shedding its artificial flowers.
`He has no pain, but he feels tired,' replied Winifred, the girl with the hair down her back.
The wine was filled, and everybody was talking boisterously. At the far end of the table sat the mother, with her loosely-looped hair. She had Birkin for a neighbour. Sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows of faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously. And she would say in a low voice to Birkin:
`Who is that young man?'
`I don't know,' Birkin answered discreetly.
`Have I seen him before?' she asked.
`I don't think so. I haven't,' he replied. And she was satisfied. Her eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face, she looked like a queen in repose. Then she started, a little social smile came on her face, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment she bent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. And then immediately the shadow came back, a sullen, eagle look was on her face, she glanced from under her brows like a sinister creature at bay, hating them all.
`Mother,' called Diana, a handsome girl a little older than Winifred, `I may have wine, mayn't I?'
`Yes, you may have wine,' replied the mother automatically, for she was perfectly indifferent to the question.
And Diana beckoned to the footman to fill her glass.
`Gerald shouldn't forbid me,' she said calmly, to the company at large.
`All right, Di,' said her brother amiably. And she glanced challenge at him as she drank from her glass.
And so on as conversation develops. And such strange conversation. So far I've read three chapters and ecah chapter has characters in some sort of dialectic dialogue. It caused me to remember what my teacher said about this novel (I think it was twenty-five years ago) that it's structure was sort of like a Platonic dialogue. Ideas are constantly being drawn out and ruminated as the events and action takes place around the characters. But the characters are three dimensional, not allegories. Here's a particularly interesting bit of dialogue between Rupert and Gerald:
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`You don't believe in having any standard of behaviour at all, do you?' he challenged Birkin, censoriously.
`Standard -- no. I hate standards. But they're necessary for the common ruck. Anybody who is anything can just be himself and do as he likes.'
`But what do you mean by being himself?' said Gerald. `Is that an aphorism or a cliche?'
`I mean just doing what you want to do. I think it was perfect good form in Laura to bolt from Lupton to the church door. It was almost a masterpiece in good form. It's the hardest thing in the world to act spontaneously on one's impulses -- and it's the only really gentlemanly thing to do -- provided you're fit to do it.'
`You don't expect me to take you seriously, do you?' asked Gerald.
`Yes, Gerald, you're one of the very few people I do expect that of.'
`Then I'm afraid I can't come up to your expectations here, at any rate. You think people should just do as they like.'
`I think they always do. But I should like them to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness. And they only like to do the collective thing.'
`And I,' said Gerald grimly, `shouldn't like to be in a world of people who acted individually and spontaneously, as you call it. We should have everybody cutting everybody else's throat in five minutes.'
`That means you would like to be cutting everybody's throat,' said Birkin.
`How does that follow?' asked Gerald crossly.
`No man,' said Birkin, `cuts another man's throat unless he wants to cut it, and unless the other man wants it cutting. This is a complete truth. It takes two people to make a murder: a murderer and a murderee. And a murderee is a man who is murderable. And a man who is murderable is a man who in a profound if hidden lust desires to be murdered.'
`Sometimes you talk pure nonsense,' said Gerald to Birkin. `As a matter of fact, none of us wants our throat cut, and most other people would like to cut it for us -- some time or other --'
`It's a nasty view of things, Gerald,' said Birkin, `and no wonder you are afraid of yourself and your own unhappiness.'
`How am I afraid of myself?' said Gerald; `and I don't think I am unhappy.'
`You seem to have a lurking desire to have your gizzard slit, and imagine every man has his knife up his sleeve for you,' Birkin said.
