Symbol
and Metaphor: The Language of D.H. Lawrence
“It
shines!” she cried, looking up, “It shines like the eye of a creature at night,
the eye of a wolf in the doorway.” (Lawrence,
196)
For Martha, Lawrence depicts
the precedence given to the rationality of the mind as it seeks to understand
and interpret the emotion of living. In the horse serf, Lawrence depicts the
vitality of the mind seeking to experience the emotion of living directly. Lawrence
sees these two processes as acting in opposition to one another but it is the
precedence given to the rationality of the mind that is harmful, he says, for
it exists in its superior position at the expense of the vitality of the mind’s
direct experience of life. His stories of the triumphs and failures of human
passion record the struggles of these two opposite, yet necessarily
complementary, forces operating within the human psyche. His rich depiction of
landscape and people both evoke and symbolize those warring and dynamic
internal landscapes of the mind. In each of his stories there is a similar
preoccupation, a similar search for truth: to understand and accept our
unconscious, emotional selves or face the consequences in denying them.
In his use of allusion, symbol
and metaphor, Lawrence attempts to direct the reader to examine the underlying
context of a given setting, event or relationship. Thematically, Lawrence was
preoccupied with the discovery of the unconscious, true motivators of human
behaviour, and his use of such literary techniques serves the purpose of
allowing his readers to make this same discovery. In describing an event, for
example, or a landscape, Lawrence will supply the passage with a particular
allusion or metaphor, and because such references are intended to reveal an
individual character’s unconscious, hidden processes (or to reveal, at times,
as in descriptions of landscape, broader social processes, equally hidden), the
reader is drawn to reflect upon the semantic contradictions and ambiguities
such juxtapositions create until the surface reality of the passage is no
longer as it first appears, and what lay beneath is fully revealed. In the
richly symbolic story, A Fragment of
Stained Glass, we see such techniques at work.
In the opening paragraphs,
Lawrence uses a third
person [D1] narration
to provide us with a description of the story’s setting: the parish of Beauvale
and a description of its vicar, Mr. Colbran. In a curiously awkward opening
sentence, Lawrence begins the presentation of his ‘subtext’ with: “Beauvale is,
or was, the largest parish in England.” (187) by qualifying the omniscience of
his narrative persona (the narrator apparently does not know the current geographical
status of the parish) Lawrence also qualifies the importance of the size and state of the parish for the reader. It
is not significant, he seems to be saying, what size the parish is because the
parish itself is insignificant and unimportant. Lawrence develops this idea
further with his biblical allusion to the clergy as fishers of men when he
refers to the scope of the parish’s authority as “only just netting the
stragglers from the shoals of houses in three large mining villages.” (187) The
parish, it seems, is thinly populated with parishioners, its waters shallow and
its ‘catch’ poor.
The narration continues with a
prosaic account of the physical features of the parish lands, ending with a
description of the Cistercian abbey ruins and its surround. Here, Lawrence
introduces another allusive image: The Cistercian religious order was noted for
its austere, isolated and highly disciplined cloistered regimens. The chancel
of the Beauvale abbey—that part of the church containing the altar and used
exclusively by clergy—has remaining intact its eastern wall, the only part of
the entire structure left standing. It stands in a “still rich meadow”
surrounded by “a blue of hyacinths, like water, in Maytime.” (187) Somewhat
ambiguous here, Lawrence may be directing us to note the highly ironic contrast
between a religious order that practiced the denial of the experience of
sensual life, with that very life and sensuality that is still apparent and
existing closely around the ruins of its monastery. Lawrence’s imagery also
focuses the reader’s attention from the general to the specific, from the view
of the parish as a whole to a specific spot—a window in a ruined wall.
Next is described the vicar,
Mr. Colbran, as an isolated, somewhat un-personable man, out of touch with his
parishioners, and someone whom, the narrator tells us, “would be hard to get near to.” (187) Mr.
Colbran is also portrayed as a man of some sensibilities, though because he is
misunderstood, his positive attributes are overlooked. We also note he has a
physical handicap resulting from a childhood illness.
Following in his third
paragraph, Lawrence interestingly provides us with a first person narrative
persona used for the remainder of the story. What appeared to be a third person
narrator we now can assume to be done from a first person perspective. Here
Lawrence’s use of language is significant. We have little sense of a character
experiencing or recalling or thinking about the parish of Beauvale in the
opening paragraph. In the second paragraph we have little sense of a character that
has an actual, personal relationship with the vicar. Instead, with few
exceptions, we are presented with an articulate, yet remote and objective set
of observations. It
is these exceptions, however, that provide the rule for Lawrence’s subtext. [D2]
The first person narrator
continues his dispassionate description of the vicar by describing his study
and the conversation that took place there. Lawrence provides the reader with
perhaps his most important clue to the character of the vicar when he describes
his room as containing, among other copies of classically inspired statuary, a
copy of the “Laocoon” (187). Here the reader reflects upon this allusion to the
mythical figure of Laocoon—high priest at Troy to the god Apollo, and of the
parallels that exist between this figure and that of the vicar; parallels that
are strikingly evident. Apollo was the god of youth and beauty. He was the god
of the Muses—poetry, music and song. He was also the god of prophesy. By
performing a sacrilege at the altar to Apollo, Laocoon fell into disfavour with
his god. As well, his people grew disaffected with him. He further condemned
himself in the eyes of the gods by warning the populace of Troy to beware of
the wooden horse that would bring their eventual downfall. For his
transgressions the god Poseidon unleashed giant snakes that crushed him. [D3]
Mr. Colbran is described as an
intellectual—an amateur archeologist; a man knowledgeable of renaissance art
and a writer on arcane historical events. The image of the Laocoon statue in
his study resonates with connotations as to the kind of man he is. His study
walls are described as “tawny” (187), a warm, rich, earthy colour. He is a man,
as previously mentioned, who is sensitive and compassionate, yet like the
priest Laocoon, he is not well received by his people. The image of the Laocoon
draws the reader closer to the vicar. His body, like that of Laocoon, has in a
sense been ‘crushed’. Is the reader to assume he has been punished for
transgressions against his god?
Perhaps, for there is evidence of his acceptance of unorthodox religious
beliefs as revealed in his “scandalous” (187) study an in his sensual, almost
heretical gloss of the Beauvale Abbey legend. But Lawrence provides us with a
clue which would seem to indicate that his ‘sin’ lay, not with his less than
perfect belief in his church, but rather with his failure to believe in
himself: “He does not take himself seriously, however, in his hobby” (187). The
reader also notes the irony of the Laocoon being a “copy” (187) and of Mr.
Colbran, by implication, being less than authentic (with himself).
While providing a seemingly
objective portrayal of character, Lawrence is using such clues to direct us to
examine his thematic subtext—that the vicar has failed to pay homage to his
‘gods’, in this case the gods of his passions. (Interestingly enough, Laocoon’s
sacrilege was the breaking of his vow of chastity.) Lawrence’s language,
through his narrator, is detached and slightly ironic, yet such allusions and
metaphors direct us to those deeper and more important hidden dynamics that
shape and motivate character. Even Lawrence’s use of simple adjectives and
adverbs belie the smooth surface of a passage. For example, the vicar, in an
ironic tone, tells the narrator that he has uncovered in his research “a jump
at God” (188), an oddly phrased, even satirical comment meaning that he had
uncovered what might be called a miracle. At this, the narrator is “startled”
(188). Previously, the character of the narrator was unclear. Generally
detached and observant, we note some sympathy, however, with the vicar (perhaps
relating more to the fact that they shared the same middle class values [D4] than
anything else). But the narrator is hardly someone that we would assume would
be interested in miracles, given the manner in which he dismissed the relevance
of the parish in his earlier passages. He, like the vicar, is remote and
observant, yet still potentially alive to his passions and ware of his own need
for a ‘miracle’.
The vicar, in turn, is
startled when the narrator makes the same imaginative leap he himself had in
puzzling out the mystery of the vision seen by the medieval monks in the window
of the Beauvale Abbey. Lawrence show us two men, of similar dispositions,
poised to examine, not some miracle found “only on parchment” (188) but rather
the miracle found within themselves. Lawrence’s allusions, metaphors and
imagery sit in the ‘ground’ of his
stories like markers or guideposts—figures to direct us to examine the
emotional part of each character.
The gloss, as told by the
vicar to explain the legend—the allegorical story within the story—comprises
over two-thirds of Lawrence’s work, yet we have already been given the
necessary information to understand its context. The gloss ‘explains’ the
legend of the Beauvale Abbey but we must ask if it explains the passion of
Martha and the horse-serf to two men who have lived their lives almost
exclusively in the world of rationality? The story is told in their context.
Thus, this allegorical tale, though richly laden with symbol and metaphor, is
nevertheless relatively straightforward. The setting is Christmas Eve—our first
clue as to the nature of the story—that it is allegorical and symbolic of
Christian belief. The horse-serf (as Christ) works in a barn, an allusion to
the birth of Christ in the manger. Lawrence interestingly combines both the
birth and death of Christ in this tale. We see the horse-serf whipped, as
Christ was, “till they thought I was dead” (189). In allegory, the life and
passion of Christ are compressed into a two day saga, wherein the horse-serf
journeys through a wilderness “horrible so that it seemed to have made me
another man” (190). He is cut by “thorns” (190) and is symbolically crucified
at the end of the tale by wolves.
 |
| D.H. Lawrence 1885-1930 |
It is important to remember
that this tale is told by the vicar. The language used is lush and evocative;
nature is alive: “The branches were like hair” (180), “The wood seemed to
pursue me” (190-1), and the moon “fled us before” (194). But the language and
grammar are also somewhat archaic as we note in the spelling of the word
“faery” (194) and in the sentence “I gave it her” (196). Also, in an earlier
section, we note the introduction of elements of a ‘dream vision’ quest—a
common medieval literary form: “When I woke, she was rocking me” (192), and the
passages thereafter become dream-like and mysterious. The effect of Lawrence’s
use of such language, grammar and form tend to distance the reader from the
events, to render them less impactful by being more stylized and hence we tend
to observe more rather than experience. And as it is the vicar who is telling
the tale to the narrator, these constructions reflect upon his character. His
vision is rich and masterful but his acceptance of actual passion is limited.
The fragment of stained glass
is neither the Black Stone—the Islamic Black Stone of Mecca, representing
atonement and forgiveness, nor is it the Blood Stone—the gem stone of the
Middle Ages. It is in fact the Life stone of the horse-serf. It represents his
passion, and the tale ends with Martha accepting and understanding this gift
from the horse-serf and achieving her own passion by worshipping the passion of
the man. That the vicar cannot accept the full breadth of his vision—of passion
unto death—should not surprise us. He is a man who observes but does not act.
He will spend his life casting his net about the shallow waters of existence
instead of grasping the shining stone of passion from the window of life.
In A Sick Collier, Lawrence
presents the life of a young miner using a third person narration to record the
courtship, marriage and ensuing crisis of Willy Horsepool. The language is
simple and direct, the commentary by the narrator is brief and there is little
natural imagery or allusion used. Conversation is recorded in dialect—Willy’s
language is presented to us directly and is not ‘translated’. Events are recorded,
some with commentary, others without. The effect of all this is to force the
reader to closely examine the narrator’s commentary, both for clues as to
character, motivation and theme, as well as to review the context of the story
as presented by the narrator. It is important to note that Lawrence presents us
with a narrator who could be characterized as having an educated, middle class
perspective, who is presumable male and in whom we sense a great distance in
his understanding of the life of a miner. We see this lack of understanding and
empathy in the narrator’s condescending observation of a miner’s exclamation,
“Sorry!” (271), after which the narrator comments: “The word is a form of
address, corruption of “Sirrah.” (271) The narrator appears more interested in
analysis than in understanding. In his commentary on the potential for violence
in the striking miners: “They were kindling pitch. It only needed a shout to
rise them. Of this the careful authorities were aware” (271), we clearly see
the narrator’s sympathies lie with middle class values and control. And the
presence of a middle class narrator in this story is highly ironic.
Unsympathetic and proscriptive, he imposes upon the reader middle class
interpretations of behaviour. We see the narrator as a distant and fallible
recorder of events, no more so than when he describes the relationship between
Willy and Lucy.
In the opening paragraphs,
Lawrence uses conjunctions in the narrator’s observations. “Yet”, “but”,
“although”, and “nevertheless” (264) are used to qualify the conventional
images presented of a happy marriage. The reader is left with the impression
that there is little in fact that is not
problematic with the relationship. In a later example, near the story’s end, in
the passage where Willy threatens to kill Lucy, there is a reference to the
house as being “clean and pretty” (272), a bizarre reference within such a
context. We gain understanding of the true nature of Willy and Lucy’s
passionate lives by also examining what Lawrence leaves out from his narrator’s
descriptions. We see this clearly in his use of conventional, middle class
platitudes and clichés: “He was well married” or” He was a good husband.” (269)
Such uninformative surface analyses belie the truer, hidden realities, as when
we witness Lucy gazing at her husband’s naked torso while he washed himself.
The narrator states that she felt “rather sick” (268), but without further
commentary, and in the next line goes so far as to qualify this potentially
disturbing insight with “they were nevertheless very happy.” (268) Clearly,
there is either a failure to understand or a failure to acknowledge the hidden
nature of the relationship, for the narrator chooses to ignore Lucy’s apparent
revulsion toward her husband’s sexuality. We contrast this passage where Willy is “so intently himself, like a
vigorous animal” (268) with a similar passage from A Fragment of Stained Glass, where the horse-serf stands gazing at
the stained glass window of the Abbey, transfixed by the vision. He is alone
and complete within himself, and only “he could feel the spirits whirling and
blowing about.” (193) Whereupon Martha, witnessing this change in him is drawn
to him passionately: “she clung upon me kissing me lavishly.” (193)
Both Willy and Lucy try to
adopt the conventions of a happy married couple—at the expense of their
emotional selves, of course. For Willy, his role was that of a married miner.
He made himself “gaffer” (267) at home, bringing this role into his
relationship. It is interesting to note Lawrence’s references to time here: We
note the time Willy wakes up and returns home from work. Willy’s life is
measured out in terms of months between strikes; the length of the strikes
themselves; the length of time he is away from work. Thought we do not actually
see willy at work, the presence of the mine, its routines and dictates, are
ever present in his life. Willy has little time of his own to reflect upon his
life—until his illness.
The “peen” (269) Willy
experiences during the weeks of his convalescence is more than physical. In a
significant passage, we have the image of Willy staring out the window onto the
street of men, at a world he is no longer a part of. He is described here as
“bullet-headed” (270), an interesting metaphor with its suggestion of
explosiveness and violence. Next, Willy asks Lucy for a handkerchief, for he
cannot express his need otherwise. Lucy responds obliquely, with equal
avoidance, not acknowledging his pain or loss. Their conversation is at odds
with their emotions. In his anguish Willy explodes, threatening Lucy. Yet he
expresses his need for passion in conventionally acceptable terms: He was out
of his mind with pain at the time. The truly dangerous (but liberating) request
for a genuinely passionate relationship remains hidden in what seems to be a
momentary aberration. Lawrence’s use of the conjunction “only” in the passage
“you didn’t know what you were saying, Willy…only don’t do it again” (273), indicates Lucy’s awareness of
Willy’s true distress—her denial of passion and her suppression of Willy’s. Her
denial of passion complements the narrator’s own perspective aptly. In the
final passage, Lucy and Ethel Mellor, “the daughter of a well-to-do
check-weighman” (272) discuss the event with Lucy expressing concern, not over
Willy’s emotional well-being, but whether or not his sick benefits will be in
jeopardy. And Lawrence’s inclusion of the social status of Lucy’s neighbour as
somehow significant is in keeping with Lucy’s conventional concerns over social
propriety and status quo.
The lush imagery and symbolism
contained in Lawrence’s stories of the middle class belie the often great
distances that exist between individuals’ passions and their knowledge of their
passions. The simple, direct stories of miners portray passion and knowledge of
passion lying just beneath the surface. The hand that is raised momentarily in
anger, in the story Her Turn (44), or
the furious language used in Strike Pay
(53) show the miner’s acceptance of the need for restraint. The physicality of
their lives and their awareness of the weak bonds of middle class
conventions give them insight into the proper place and role of the “dark self”
in their lives. We sense Lawrence feels it ironic that people so capable of
expressing natural passion have their efforts so often thwarted by class and
poverty.
For the vicar standing at the window of the Beauvale
Abbey, the light shining out onto the snow is a metaphor for his passion. However, he would need to step some distance beyond the abbey's walls before
he can see it truly shine. For Willy Horsepool, the window he looks from is just a window, but the
light he sees shining there, however fleeting, comes from himself.
[D5]
References
Lawrence, D. H., The Complete Short Stories, Volume One.
Penguin Books Ltd., 1976, New York, New York.
I
was looking through a few old essays written back in the 90s at university and I
thought I would include this one on Lawrence. It was for a class whose prof was
also a writer and biographer, and she paid me the compliment of saying she enjoyed reading
my papers. A nice memory, and since I'm on a nostalgia kick these past few weeks, a nice memory doesn’t hurt to have, now and then. I include the
comments made by the marker.
[D1]Why
do you not conclude that the 2 opening paragraphs are spoken by the first
person narrator "I" who tells the reader this "allegorical"
narrative since the tone is consistent with paragraph 3? (OK I see--page 5)
[D2]unclear.
does this not give the narrator an identity unusual in a Lawrence story--He
seems a fictional novelist describing an eccentric friend to a modern,
skeptical audience whom he implies will miss the point
[D5]Very
good paper. I think you have caught the complexity of "A Fragment",
though I feel there is more consistency in the narrative voice. you make the
ambiguous ending exceedingly clear in your portrait of the cynicism of the
Vicar. Also fine analysis of "Sick Collier", particularly in the way
you expose the limitations of the narrative voice
You are reading at a much more sophisticated level than
most of the class.
Grade= A+
Grade= A+
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