D.H. Lawrence's Short Stories Thread

[Dark Muse]

I will try and get it read on time, but I will have to squeeze it in between a bunch of other stuff I have to do.

[Janine]

I will try and get it read on time, but I will have to squeeze it in between a bunch of other stuff I have to do.

Take your time; that is understandable. We won't start discussing without you. We can all wait till we all have it read. I have some notes on it also in a few other books which should help with our full understanding. I want a chance to read those first anyway.

[Virgil]

I will try and get it read on time, but I will have to squeeze it in between a bunch of other stuff I have to do.

Do you need another weekend for this D-M? We can wait until Sunday. I have very busy week.

[Dark Muse]

I have just started reading the story today. If it is not inconvenient to wait that would be good for me, but I don't want to hold up the discussion.

[Virgil]

We will defintely wait. I suspect you will really like this one. So is starting Sunday reasonable?

[Dark Muse]

Yes, that should be enough time for me to get the story finnished.

[Janine]

Yeah, Sunday would be good for me, as well. This week seems kind of busy already. I did read the story last night and like it very much. I will probably look at some other books that refer to the story and get some other perspectives on it. This will give me time to do so.

[Dark Muse]

I just finished reading The Princess, and for the most part I LOVED it. It was an awesome story, by far my favorite thing I have read by Lawrence so far. At least short story wise.

But when I got to the end, that very last sentence was really disappointing, and I felt like it cheapened the whole of the story. It felt so much like a cheesy "Hollywood" ending.

It felt just tagged on there unnecessary serving no real purpose. It is like Lawrence just went too far and spoiled the masterpiece.

If that last line was left out. It would have been so much more powerful and left such a greater stronger impression.

When I read:

"Since my accident in the mountains, when a man went mad and shot my horse from under me, and my guide had to shoot him dead, I have never felt quite myself."

So she put it.

That was totally just like BAM!

Then you read the last tagged on sentence and it is totally crippling. And deflated what I felt.

[Virgil]

I knew you would love this one Muse. I guess we'll discuss that last line when we get to it.

[Dark Muse]

LOL in my mind I just want to edit that line out and pretend it does not exisist

[Janine]

Dark Muse, you could have your version and Lawrence's version.

[Dark Muse]

Hahaha, yes that is quite tempting

[Virgil]

Ok it's Sunday, how about we start. How about we discuss the early years of Dollie's life.

To her father, she was The Princess. To her Boston aunts and uncles she was just Dollie Urquhart, poor little thing.

Colin Urquhart was just a bit mad. He was of an old Scottish family, and he claimed royal blood. The blood of Scottish kings flowed in his veins. On this point, his American relatives said, he was just a bit "off". They could not bear any more to be told which royal blood of Scotland blued his veins. The whole thing was rather ridiculous, and a sore point. The only fact they remembered was that it was not Stuart.

He was a handsome man, with a wide-open blue eye that seemed sometimes to be looking at nothing, soft black hair brushed rather low on his low, broad brow, and a very attractive body. Add to this a most beautiful speaking voice, usually rather hushed and diffident, but sometimes resonant and powerful like bronze, and you have the sum of his charms. He looked like some old Celtic hero. He looked as if he should have worn a greyish kilt and a sporran, and shown his knees. His voice came direct out of the hushed Ossianic past.

For the rest, he was one of those gentlemen of sufficient but not excessive means who fifty years ago wandered vaguely about, never arriving anywhere, never doing anything, and never definitely being anything, yet well received in the good society of more than one country.

He did not marry till he was nearly forty, and then it was a wealthy Miss Prescott, from New England. Hannah Prescott at twenty-two was fascinated by the man with the soft black hair not yet touched by grey, and the wide, rather vague blue eyes. Many women had been fascinated before her. But Colin Urquhart, by his very vagueness, had avoided any decisive connection.

Mrs. Urquhart lived three years in the mist and glamour of her husband's presence. And then it broke her. It was like living with a fascinating spectre. About most things he was completely, even ghostly oblivious. He was always charming, courteous, perfectly gracious in that hushed, musical voice of his. But absent. When all came to all, he just wasn't there. "Not all there," as the vulgar say.

He was the father of the little girl she bore at the end of the first year. But this did not substantiate him the more. His very beauty and his haunting musical quality became dreadful to her after the first few months. The strange echo: he was like a living echo! His very flesh, when you touched it, did not seem quite the flesh of a real man.

Perhaps it was that he was a little bit mad. She thought it definitely the night her baby was born.

"Ah, so my little princess has come at last!" he said, in his throaty, singing Celtic voice, like a glad chant, swaying absorbed.

It was a tiny, frail baby, with wide, amazed blue eyes. They christened it Mary Henrietta. She called the little thing My Dollie. He called it always My Princess.

It was useless to fly at him. He just opened his wide blue eyes wider, and took a child-like, silent dignity there was no getting past.

Hannah Prescott had never been robust. She had no great desire to live. So when the baby was two years old she suddenly died.

A couple of things cross my mind as I look at this beginning. First her name, "Dollie". It echoes A Doll's House and for similar reasons it I think characterizes Dollie as child like. She sort remains in her childish outlook throughout her life.

Another thing that I see is the class distinctions that are in so many of Lawrence's works: the "Princess" versus the common people she encounters. I'm not sure I can piece together the significance of it, other than to say it has removed her from the vitality of life. For Lawrence the lower classes are more connected to blood consciousness. Dollie and her father are definitely ethereal. In fact Colin is described as "a fascinating spectre" and a "ghost." That's as far from blood vitality as possible.

Third there is the celtic and the Scottish and the American elements to the story. I'm not sure what Lawrence is after but there does seem to be associations that Lawrence is trying to make.

[Dark Muse]

For Lawrence the lower classes are more connected to blood consciousness. Dollie and her father are definitely ethereal. In fact Colin is described as "a fascinating spectre" and a "ghost." That's as far from blood vitality as possible

I will get back to the rest shortly, but I just wanted to take a moment to add a bit to this thought. As to what you say about her being more "etheral" she is always refered to as a fairy, or fairy-like throughout the story. Which can also reflect on the Scottish part of the star as well. Considering they have many myths and superstions which revolve around the fairy-folk, and it also gives if a sort of "Pagan" feeling. Her and her father seem to be more "old world"

[Dark Muse]

Colin Urquhart was just a bit mad. He was of an old Scottish family, and he claimed royal blood. The blood of Scottish kings flowed in his veins. On this point, his American relatives said, he was just a bit "off". They could not bear any more to be told which royal blood of Scotland blued his veins. The whole thing was rather ridiculous, and a sore point. The only fact they remembered was that it was not Stuart.

This reminds me of the Great Gatsby, towrd the begining, where Nick talks about how his family is in the habbit of bragging about be descended from Dukes, when in fact that was not the acutal truth. Though in his bragging, I do not find him to be truly mad, I take it more as just a genreal Scottish pride.

He was a handsome man, with a wide-open blue eye that seemed sometimes to be looking at nothing, soft black hair brushed rather low on his low, broad brow, and a very attractive body. Add to this a most beautiful speaking voice, usually rather hushed and diffident, but sometimes resonant and powerful like bronze, and you have the sum of his charms. He looked like some old Celtic hero. He looked as if he should have worn a greyish kilt and a sporran, and shown his knees. His voice came direct out of the hushed Ossianic past.

I just adored this description of the father. It really paints the image of this figure out of Celtic lore, some great chieftain king. And it also really sets him apart from the others, particularly the American relatives. Tough we do not really see much of them, they come off as a bit snobbish. I cannot help but to feel for him, for the way in which they treated him and seemed to look down to him. But he was so full of this robust pride. I found him to be really quite endearing, and charming.

with a wide-open blue eye that seemed sometimes to be looking at nothing

This line struck as a bit odd. It made me think of like lazy-eye, or something like that.

Add to this a most beautiful speaking voice, usually rather hushed and diffident, but sometimes resonant and powerful like bronze,

I loved this description of his voice. Soft, and yet powerful. He does not have to raise his voice to make himself heard. It adds to the sense of nobility about him.

He did not marry till he was nearly forty, and then it was a wealthy Miss Prescott, from New England. Hannah Prescott at twenty-two was fascinated by the man with the soft black hair not yet touched by grey, and the wide, rather vague blue eyes. Many women had been fascinated before her. But Colin Urquhart, by his very vagueness, had avoided any decisive connection.

Here we can see his disconnection from other people, as though he is set up to be an attractive man and one who is at least well off enough not to have to work, while still travel over the world, he does not marry until late in life. What makes him decide to marry now is unknown, perhaps it was for her wealth? For his very disconnectedness it does not seem as if he was driven by any true feelings of love.

Mrs. Urquhart lived three years in the mist and glamour of her husband's presence. And then it broke her. It was like living with a fascinating spectre. About most things he was completely, even ghostly oblivious. He was always charming, courteous, perfectly gracious in that hushed, musical voice of his. But absent. When all came to all, he just wasn't there. "Not all there," as the vulgar say.

I just love this line

Mrs. Urquhart lived three years in the mist and glamour of her husband's presence

The use of the word mist, seems to touch back to the old Scottishness of Mr. Uruhart. It also adds to that vague feeling about him. That there was something obsecure about him, something drifting and elusisive.

It was like living with a fascinating spectre. About most things he was completely, even ghostly oblivious. He was always charming, courteous, perfectly gracious in that hushed, musical voice of his. But absent. When all came to all, he just wasn't there. "Not all there," as the vulgar say.

This gives him the impression of being something of an empty shell. He lives within his own world, and has no real concern or care for the physical world around him. Though it is suggested again that he is not right in his mind. I think he is simply a bit eccentric, he does not fit into the norms of soceity and so it is presumed that something must be wrong with him.

He was the father of the little girl she bore at the end of the first year. But this did not substantiate him the more. His very beauty and his haunting musical quality became dreadful to her after the first few months. The strange echo: he was like a living echo! His very flesh, when you touched it, did not seem quite the flesh of a real man.

This is just stunningly beautiful.

he was like a living echo!

I love that.

The language in this passage is without compare. It has such a romanticism to it. It is quite poetic.

His very beauty and his haunting musical quality became dreadful to her after the first few months.

He is like something come from Avalon. Or some sort of Fae