I read (and inevitably wrote about) St. Mawr only six months ago, but here it is paired with The Virgin and the Gypsy in an edition which I bought new from a book store in Camberwell back in the nineties. So nearly three decades passed before I developed the necessary attention span and somehow I just can't skip St. Mawr simply because I read it back in October. I can't let this specific sequence of inky marks remain ignored.
What I wrote back in October regarding St. Mawr still seems to apply for the most part, and although it hasn't spontaneously transformed into a different story, there are details and elements I apparently failed to notice first time around.
People performing outward acts of loyalty, piety, self-sacrifice. But inwardly undermining, betraying. Directing all their subtle evil will against any positive living thing. Masquerading as the ideal, in order to poison the real.
Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror. But go on saving life, the ghastly salvation army of ideal mankind. At the same time secretly, viciously, potently undermine the natural creation, betray it with kiss after kiss, destroy it from the inside, till you have the swollen rottenness of teeming existences.
Masquerading as the ideal, in order to poison the real pretty much describes most social media right now, even before we consider any of the rest. Lawrence's pseudo-philosophical train of thought chugs with unusual vigour in this one.
The other aspect which struck me this time around is that the model of Mrs. Witt as the author's punch bag doesn't stand up to scrutiny regardless of her being quite clearly inspired by Mabel Dodge Luhan; and it doesn't stand up to scrutiny - despite what we read in at least a couple of introductions - because she more or less expresses Lawrence's views regarding his world in their entirety, and she expresses them forcibly; and if life kicks her in the teeth a few times, this reflects the author's own life more than whatever disregard he may have held for the woman upon whom she was loosely based. So if this rereading didn't quite bring any fresh revelations, it certainly brought what I'd already taken from the story into sharp focus. I'm still not convinced it counts as one of his greatest hits, but it has a lot to recommend it.
Conversely, The Virgin and The Gypsy reads like an early effort, inhabiting the world of uptight clergymen, drawing rooms, and impertinent daughters while lacking ten page existential digressions. Brenda Maddox reckons this is because it was written and then sent to a potential publisher in haste, which makes sense, although my first reaction was that he got tired of all that prog rock and went back to Ramones covers, figuratively speaking. It takes place in a stifling and conservative home environment based on what Frieda left behind when she ran off with Dave, following the story of Yvette who finds herself attracted to a young gypsy against everyone's wishes. Given the religious overtones, notably that Yvette's father happens to be the local vicar, it reads a little like an inversion of parts of the Old Testament, where Yvette is Eve and it all ends with an apocalyptic flood - although Adam is nowhere to be seen and there's more than one serpent, which is probably deliberate.
Paired with St. Mawr, initial impressions are that it's hardly a world-beating combination, but as with most D.H. Lawrence, second or third readings may be greatly rewarding. As ever, there's a lot to digest.
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