Notes on 'The Ladybird' (Pt. 2)

If I were a little ladybird

And had four little wings

I'd fly to thee -

 

 

This post is a continuation of Notes on 'The Ladybird' (Pt.1): click here. 

 

 

V. 

 

And speaking of secret knowledge ... The Count, it turns out, subscribes to occultism and is a member of a secret society. One of his beliefs concerns the true (invisible) nature of fire and the blackness of the sun. As I have discussed this in a previous post, I won't go into details here [g]. 

 

Essentially, the Count's point is that, like fire, true love isn't white and ideal; it may look that way on the surface, but underneath it's dark; "a throbbing together in darkness" [180]. Daphne is unconvinced. Nevertheless, she could see the darkness in his eyes and perceived the "invisible, cat-like fire stirring deep inside them [...] coming towards her" [181]. And so she turns and hurries away. 

 

During the summer, she rather forgets about Count Dionys and remembers she has a husband; one who was shortly to return. Nevertheless, the Count's words have penetrated her unconscious: "So it was that in her own way she thought often enough of the Count's world inside-out." [181] And so it was she shivered when thinking of Basil, whose love had made her nerve-worn. 

 

She determined not to think of the Count and the secret love he offered: he was not merely an "impudent little fellow" [182], but a madman. Better off with Basil; "an adorable, tall, well-bred Englishman" [182] with a penchant for silk underwear. He might get on her nerves, but better that than the Count and his foreign unreality. 

 

"But still she used the Count's thimble." [183] Until, that is, she loses it (down the back of the sofa, as we shall see).

 

 

VI. 

 

In late Autumn, Daphne decides to visit the Count once more. She finds him collecting chestnuts and thinking to himself that "'the same power which put up the mountains could pull them down again'" [186], a thought that makes him happy. In other words, the Count has found his god at last: and he's a god of destruction who tears down the world of man as well as the mountains. 

 

Daphne thinks him foolish as well as perverse. He calls her a plucked white lily and tells her that he cares only about her invisible root - that's what he wishes to discover, though not with kisses, but with the hammer that beats in his heart. She again bids him farewell and takes her leave. "And henceforth she thought only of her husband, of Basil. She made the Count die out of her." [189] 

 

But when Basil returns to England and she hears his terribly cultured voice - "like cold blue steel" [190] - on the telephone, her heart "contracted with fear" [189] (which is never a great sign). When he arrives home, within moments he is on his knees and kissing her feet in amorous worship. Again, I have commented elsewhere on this scene, so won't discuss it here in any detail [h]. 

 

Needless to say, Daphne is a little frightened - almost horrified - but she was also "thrilled deep down to her soul" [193] and a little giddy with the sense of her own pale power: "She really felt she could glow white and fill the universe [...]" [193] 

 

While Daphne is semi-enjoying her new goddess status, Basil plonks himself on the sofa and pushes his hands "between the deep upholstery of the back and the seat" [193]. And lo and behold, he pulls out a plum - or, rather, Daphne's lost thimble, which seems to fascinate him almost as much as it does her. He questions her about it and is told the tale of Count Dionys. 

 

Then Basil returns to worshipping his wife - this time admiring her sacred white hands and wonderful Prosperine fingers [i], begging her to accept the sacrifice of himself (which sounds suspiciously like a euphemism and it's probably la petite mort that he desires, rather than actual death) [j]. 

 

Placed back on a pedestal and subject to Basil's adoration-lust, Daphne is soon feeling ill again. For alas, she was not the goddess he thought her. And of course she starts to dream about Count Dionys and "to yearn wistfully for him" [196]. So she decides, shortly before Christmas, to go visit him again - though this time accompanied by Basil. 

 

 

VII. 

 

Perhaps wishing to seem mysterious and full of the darkness that Count Dionys so loves, Daphne wears black furs and a black lace veil for her visit. She is worried, however, that he will still find her too modern in her beauty and effective loveliness. 

 

Uncertain whether the Count is mocking her with his compliments and flattering remarks, Daphne is sure of one thing - he doesn't like Basil: "Nay more, she could feel that the presence of her tall, gaunt, idealistic husband was hateful to the little swarthy man" [199], despite his polite manner. 

 

Strangely, however, Basil is fascinated by the Count. And before long Daphne is ignored by both men, as they exchange their philosophies of life: "She might just as well have been an ugly little nobody, for all the notice that was taken of her." [200] Nevertheless, she follows the argument between Basil and the Count - sympathetic to the latter, but agreeing with the former, whose words she believed to be true. 

 

In brief: Basil argues for love and the Count says there is something else; something unnameable beyond love (we know, of course, as readers of Lawrence, what this is: it's power and the so-called sacred responsibility of power as exercised by natural aristocrats). 

 

Daphne is not impressed by the Count's arguments, even though Basil finds what the latter says terribly amusing. And curiously enough, "it was now Basil who was attracted by the Count, and Daphne who was repelled" [204]. But if she now almost hates the Count, her grudge against her "white-faced, spiritually intense husband was sharp as vinegar" [205]. In all honesty, she feels let down by the pair of them - men!

 

What next? A gay romance? A queer threesome? No - that's not quite Lawrence's style. But Basil does invite the Count to stay with him and Daphne, at his in-laws mansion, for a fortnight before being shipped back to Austria. Of course, this was rather naively inviting trouble ... 

 

 

VIII. 

 

Whilst staying at her parents place, the house in which she was born, Daphne thinks with fondness of the working-people and regrets the fact that, ultimately, her consciousness "seemed to make a great gulf between her and the lower classes" [211]. She accepted this as a form of fate - even as her doom: "She could never meet in real contact anyone but a super-conscious finished being like herself: or like her husband [...]" [211] 

 

That said, there was the Count: he had something that was hot and invisible; "a dark flame of life that might warm the cold white fire of her own blood" [211]. However, whilst he stays at her home, she mostly avoids contact with him. In fact, all three - Daphne, Basil, and their queer guest - avoided one another as much as possible. And the days slipped by ... 

 

At night, when alone in his room and alone in his soul, the Count likes to sing "the old songs of his childhood" [212], in a small, high-pitched voice: "It was a curious noise: the sound of a man who is alone in his own blood: almost the sound of a man who is going to be executed." [212] 

 

One night, Daphne hears this strange "bat-like sound of the Count's singing to himself" [212]. And, even though unable to understand a word, the crooning made her forget everything. And so, after that first night, she listens out for the sound of his voice. Indeed, it became "almost an obsession with her" [212]; she had to hear him - and she had to respond to this call from the beyond that promised to transport her out of herself and out of her world. 

 

When the singing stopped, Daphne went to sleep; "a queer, light, bewitched sleep" [213]. This enchantment continues into the daytime: "She felt strange and light, as if pressure had been removed from around her [...] her feet felt so light, and her breathing delicate and exquisite" [213]. 

 

One night, the Count doesn't sing and Daphne is terrified lest the spell be broken and she is thrown back into her old life. She waits like one doomed throughout the following day. Happily, that night the singing resumes - and Daphne can resist no longer; she goes to his room, answering his peculiar call.

 

Whilst sitting outside his room and trying to find the courage to enter, a new song begins; the most terrible song of all, a kind of inhuman serenade: "It began with a rather dreary, slow, horrible sound, like death." [214] Still, this does the trick and Daphne knocks desperately on his door and pushes her way past the astonished figure of the Count when he answers, into the darkness of his room. 

 

There's an awkward silence as they sit together in the dark. If she remained more or less spellbound, he was genuinely a little embarrassed by her presence in his room and unsure what to do: 

 

"Then suddenly, without knowing, he went across in the dark [...] And he sat beside her on the couch. But he did not touch her. Neither did she move. The darkness flowed about them thick like blood, and time seemed dissolved in it. They sat with the small, invisible distance between them, motionless, speechless, thoughtless." [215] 

 

Lawrence continues, in his own unique manner: 

 

"Then suddenly he felt her fingertips touch on his arm, and a flame went over him that left him no more a man. He was something seated in flame [...] like an Egyptian king-god [...]" [216] 

 

Daphne slides to the floor and presses her face against his feet, her hair against ankles, and there she clung, crying, whilst he sat erect and motionless. Unable to offer her much of a future in this world, he promises that she will be his in the next life: 

 

"'In the dark you are mine. And when you die you are mine. But in the day, you are not mine, because I have no power in the day. In the night, in the dark, and in death, you are mine. [...] So don't forget - you are the night-wife of the ladybird [...]" [216-17] 

 

Is that really likely to satisfy a woman? I mean, it's nice to know you have someone waiting who wants you in the afterlife for all eternity. But that doesn't pay the bills and mostly it just seems an elaborate way for him to take his leave of her whilst, at the same time, making her feel - as Madonna would say - like a virgin / touched for the very first time [k]. 

 

 

IX.

 

After this, Daphne's face takes on a delicate stillness and purity, which even Basil notices. And this new innocence negates his ecstatic desire for her: "She was so still, like a virgin girl. And it was this quiet, intact quality of virginity in her which puzzled him most, puzzled his emotions and his ideas. He became suddenly ashamed to make love to her." [217-18] 

 

They decide to live more as brother and sister than man and wife from this point on. This suits Daphne, who has decided she belongs to the Count, but it also suits Basil: "The excitement of desire had left him, and now he seemed to see clear and feel true for the first time in his life." [218] 

 

The Count leaves, but not without giving another esoteric pep talk to Daphne: 

 

"'Don't forget me. Always remember me. I leave my soul in your hands and your womb. Nothing can ever separate us, unless we betray one another. [...] And never fail to believe in me. Because even on the other side of death I shall be watching for you. I shall be king in Hades when I am dead. And you will be at my side [...] since you are the wife of the ladybird." [220] 

 

One can't help wondering how many other women the Count has said this to ...? It seems a well-rehearsed speech to me.

 

And one can't help thinking that it's the kind of poisonous sweet nonsense which male cult leaders whisper into the ears of their female followers; one could easily imagine Charles Manson, for example, saying this to one of his devoted hippie girls. No wonder when he abandons Daphne, the Count laughs to himself. 

 

 

Notes

 

[g] Readers who are interested should see 'On the Scintillation of Being' (9 Jan 2018): click here. 

 

[h] Readers who are interested should see 'On the Transsexual Consummation of Foot Fetishism' (25 July 2013): click here. 

 

[i] For my thoughts on hand partialism, see the post of 27 Dec 2012: click here. 

 

[j] In many ways, Basil is similar to the character of Everard in Lawrence's novel Mr Noon: both men have a sensual nature which they disguise with their idealism; both like to kiss the feet of the woman they adore as a white goddess; and both are prepared to sacrifice themselves, if only they might receive their gratification first. See Mr Noon, ed. Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1984), pp. 191-92.

 

[k] Madonna, 'Like a Virgin', single release (31 Oct 1984) from the album of the same title (Sire Records, 1984), written by Tom Kelly and Billy Steinberg. Click here to watch the official video, dir. Mary Lambert, on YouTube.

Notes on 'The Ladybird' (Pt. 1)

Wenn ich ein Marienkäfer wär'

Und auch vier Flüglein hätt',

Flög' ich zu dir -

 

I. 

 

The first work by D. H. Lawrence that I ever wrote about was The Ladybird [a]. Along with The Fox and The Captain's Doll, it formed part of my English A-level syllabus. 

 

My teacher, Mr Woodward, was not impressed with my musings, however, and gave me the lowest mark I'd ever had for an essay (I think it was a D, but that may even have come with a minus symbol). Anyway, I'm hoping to improve upon that here, in this rather more considered series of reflections ... [b]

 

 

II. 

 

The Ladybird opens in a hospital for prisoners of war, in November 1917. 

 

Lady Beveridge was paying a visit to the sick and wounded out of the goodness of her pierced heart. For despite losing two sons and her brother in the War, she loved humanity; "and come what might, she would continue to love it" [157] - including her enemies. It was the Christian thing to do. And besides, she had been educated in Dresden and had many German friends. 

 

Whilst the narrator of the tale seems to admire Lady Beveridge's refusal to be swept up into a general form of hate, it's clear that he's scornful of her universal love and moral idealism, even if he doesn't openly jeer at her "out-of-date righteousness" [158] and bluestocking elegance, like some members of the younger generation.   

 

Whilst walking the wards, Lady Beveridge encounters someone she knows: Count Johann Dionys Psanek. As recently as the spring of 1914, he and his wife had stayed at her country house in Leicestershire. But now he's not in great shape, having had one bullet tear through the upper part of his chest and another bullet break one of his ribs:

 

"The black eyes opened: large, black, unseeing eyes, with curved black lashes. He was a small man, small as a boy, and his face too was rather small. But all the lines were fine, as if they had been fired with a keen male energy. Now the yellowish swarthy paste of his flesh seemed dead, and the fine black brows seemed drawn on the face of one dead. The eyes however were alive: but only just alive, unseeing and unknowing." [159] [c]

 

Poor Lady Beveridge "felt another sword-thrust of sorrow in her heart" [159] as she looked upon what appeared to be a dying man. Then, saddened, she went off to visit her daughter Daphne; yet another of those young women whom Lawrence likes to describe as poor, even though they live in flats overlooking Hyde Park. 

 

Lady Daphne, 25, is tall and good-looking; a natural beauty, with a splendid frame and "lovely, long, strong legs" [160-61]. But, alas, she is wasting away, due to the "wild energy damned up inside her" [161] for which she has no outlet. 

 

For Daphne had married an adorable husband (Basil) and adopted her mother's creed of universal love and benevolence, whereas she needed a daredevil and to be reckless like her father: 

 

"Daphne was not born for grief and philanthropy [...] So her own blood turned against her, beat on her nerves, and destroyed her. It was nothing but frustration and anger which made her ill, and made the doctors fear consumption." [160-61] 

This, of course, is a common theme in Lawrence's work and Lady Daphne is in much the same mould as Lady Chatterley [d]. No suprises then where this tale is headed ...   

 

III.

 

Daphne remembers Count Dionys with genuine fondness. He may have seemed a bit comical and resembled a monkey in her eyes, but he was a dapper little man nonetheless - not to mention "'an amazingly good dancer, small yet electric'" [164]. 

 

Daphne also recalls that Count Dionys presented her with a thimble on her seventeenth birthday. Now, as everybody knows, thimbles were traditionally associated with the ritual of courtship, so it was perhaps not the kind of gift that a married man ought to be giving to a teenage girl. Daphne's acceptance of the thimble, however, arguably indicated her willingness to be more than friends at some point ... 

 

At any rate, Daphne decides to visit the hospital (with her mother at her side, for appearances sake). She wears a black sealskin coat "with a skunk collar pulled up to her ears" [165]. Like many people, she finds being inside a hospital very distressing; "everything gave her a dull feeling of horror" [165]. 

 

But then, the Count finds her somewhat frightening: "He looked at her as if she were some strange creature standing near him." [165] She sits and attempts to make small talk. He tells her that he had wanted to die and that he wouldn't mind if they buried him alive "'if it were very deep, and dark, and the earth heavy above'" [167]. Which is a bit awkward. 

 

It's ten days before she next visits. But go back she does, unable to forget him. Happily, he's looking and feeling better, though his conversation still leaves much to be desired. As a rule, I would advise that when someone kindly brings you flowers and asks if you like them, it's best not to reply: 

 

"'No [...] Please do not bring flowers into this grave. Even in gardens, I do not like them. When they are upholstery to human life!'" [168]

 

Queer, obstinate, and rude only works with a very rare sort of woman - though fortunately for the Count, Daphne is one such: "She sat looking at him with a long, slow wondering look." [169] In other words, she's hooked and even when she's not sitting by his bedside she's thinking of him: "He seemed to come into her mind suddenly, as if by sorcery." [169]

 

And so, over the winter months, their relationship develops ... 

 

 

IV. 

 

One bright morning in February, the Count tells Daphne that he's a subject of the sun. He also reveals that he's a tricophile who believes in the magical healing power of female hair. He asks if, one day, she will allow him to wrap her golden locks round his hands. Whilst not consenting, neither does she rule out his kinky request: "'Let us wait till the day comes,' she said." [171]   

Another time, the Count asks Daphne if people tell her she is beautiful. Before then (rudely and rather cruelly) asking what kind of lover her husband is: "'Is he gentle? Is he tender? Is he a dear lover?'" [172] She replies yes, but curtly, to demonstrate her displeasure at the question - or perhaps at the thought of her husband and his lovemaking technique.  

The Count smiles and informs her that every creature finds its mate; not just the dove and the nightingale, but also the buzzard and the sea-eagle. And the adder with a mouthful of poison. Perhaps not quite sure what he is driving at, nevertheless the last thought makes her give a little laugh.

By the early spring, the Count is able to get up and get dressed. He and Daphne sit on the terrace in the sun, laughing and chatting. He asks her about the thimble and she tells him she still has it. And so he asks her to sew him a shirt [e] - one with his initial and his family crest: a seven-spotted ladybird [f]

However, even when he gets his handsewn shirt, the Count isn't particularly grateful: "'I want my anger to have room to grow'" [177], which is difficult in a shirt that doesn't fit. Daphne decides not to see him again. But, of course, she can't stay away - he has a subtle (but powerful) hold over her; "the strange thrill of secrecy was between them" [179].   

 

 

This post continues in part two (sections V-IX): click here. 

 

 

Notes

 

[a] The Ladybird was a completely rewritten and extended version of an earier short story by Lawrence - 'The Thimble' - which I have discussed here. It was published in a volume along with two other novellas in 1923. The edition I am using here is The Fox, The Captain's Doll, The Ladybird, ed. Dieter Mehl, (Cambridge University Press, 1992). All page references given in the post refer to this edition.

 

[b] It's arguable that all my work on Lawrence over the last 40-odd years has, in fact, been an attempt to to compensate for this one low grade and to erase the stain on my early academic record. I suppose also I wanted to find out what it was that I had overlooked in my initial engagement with The Ladybird, a work which, as one critic says, has provoked a wide range of "evaluative judgements, theoretical approaches, and invested interpretations". 

      See Peter Balbert, 'Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Ladybird: D. H. Lawrence, Lady Cynthia Asquith, And the Incremental Structure of Seduction', Studies in the Humanities, 1 June, 2009, (Indiana University of Pennsylvania): click here to read this essay online via The Free Library. 

[c] Lawrence is keen to emphasise the non-Aryan aspect of the Count's features, with his black hair and beard, and his "queer, dark, aboriginal little face" [159]. As Dieter Mehl writes: "It is made clear that Count Dionys is not of German but of Czech origin, with possible associations of Gipsy [...] blood. Throughout the story, the Count is associated with Eastern races and cultures rather than with Western civilisation." See Mehl's explanatory note 159:35 on p. 258.   

 

[d] It's very tempting to see Lady Daphne as an early version of Lady Chatterley; like the latter, for example, she has a thing for the work-people on her parents estate: 

      "She talked with everybody, gardener, groom, stableman, with the farm hands. [...] The curious feeling of intimacy across a [socio-cultural] breach fascinated her. [...] There was a gamekeeper she could have loved - an impudent, ruddy-faced, laughing, ingratiating fellow [...]" [211]

 

[e] One wonders if the Count shares the same thought as Basil when it comes to wearing a hand-sewn shirt: "'To think I should have it next to my skin! I shall feel you all round me, all over me. I say how marvellous that will be!'" [194] There's something very feminine about this I think; women often like to wear their partner's clothes in order to experience a similar feeling. Researchers have found that the scent of a loved one on clothing can lower the amount of stress hormone cortisol in the brain, making the wearer feel happier and more secure.

 

[f] Later in the story, Daphne's husband Basil asks the Count about the ladybird on his family crest. The latter says it's quite a heraldic insect in his view, with a long history that can be traced all the way back to the mysterious Egyptian scarab: "'So I connect myself to the Pharaohs: just through my ladybird.'" [209] The Count is also happy if this connects him - like the scarab, a type of African dung-beetle - to the principle of decomposition.