Reflections on Madam Butterfly 1: The Opera

Poster for Madama Butterfly (1904) 

by Adolfo Hohenstein

Puccini's Madama Butterfly premiered at La Scala 116 years ago today ...

Based on a short story by the American author John Luther Long, the work has become a firm favourite with opera goers the world over, although, in its original two act version, it was poorly received, obliging Puccini to significantly revise it; dividing the second act in two, for example, and inserting the Humming Chorus as a bridge to what became Act III.

These and other changes did the trick, although Puccini continued to revise the work, producing a fifth and final version in 1907 - the composer's cut - which has become the one most often performed today.

And, rather surprisingly perhaps, Madama Butterfly is still frequently staged, despite our living in a politically woke era obsessively concerned with racism and sexual abuse, things that are central to this tragic tale of an American naval officer's exploitation and betrayal of a 15-year-old Japanese girl and her subsequent suicide.   

I suppose this shows that whilst some contemporary audience members - as well as some members of the cast and production team - may struggle to reconcile their enjoyment of this musical masterpiece with the fact that it was written by a dead white European male indulging in Orientalism of the first degree, most members of the paying public don't give a shit as long as they get to hear one of the most famous (and beautiful) of arias, Un bel dì vedremo.

The fact is, when most people pop along to the theatre, they do so hoping to be entertained; they don't buy tickets for Madama Butterfly because they are concerned about white male privilege or the sexual exploitation of vulnerable young women in the developing world, any more than when buying tickets to The Phantom of the Opera it's because they care about facial disfigurement or the condition of the sewers in 19th century Paris ...

Play: Maria Callas, 'Un bel dì vedremo', from The Very Best of Maria Callas, (EMI, 2002): click here. 

To read a sister post to this one, on Puccini's influence on pop and fashion - with reference to the work of Malcolm McLaren and John Galliano - please click here. 

 

The Shamrock and the Swastika: Notes on Irish Republicanism and National Socialism

Statue of Seán Russell
Fairview Park, Dublin

Oh here’s to Adolph Hitler / Who made the Britons squeal

Sure before the fight is ended / They will dance an Irish reel

I.

Whilst my knowledge of Irish history and politcs is rather limited, I was surprised to hear that Sinn Féin had polled almost a quarter of all votes cast in the recent general election; more than any other party, gaining them 37 of the 160 available seats.

A left-leaning republican party, Sinn Féin emerged in its current form during the Troubles, when it was linked to the IRA. Since the Good Friday Agreement (1998), however, they've successfully rebranded themselves as a populist movement and in 2018 they completed their transformation by announcing Mary Lou McDonald as party leader, succeeding the far more sinister figure of Gerry Adams.

However, whilst Ms McDonald might not carry the same paramilitary baggage as Adams, it might be noted that the other two main political parties in Ireland - Fine Gael and Fianna Fáil - continue to regard Sinn Féin as beyond the pale and have so far refused to consider any form of coalition with the latter.

We might also recall that Ms McDonald has also attracted criticism herself in the past; for example, for allowing her campaign office to sell IRA souvenirs and memorabilia and for speaking at a rally in Dublin in 2003 to commemorate Seán Russell -  an IRA leader with links to Nazi Germany.           

II.

I understand that, sometimes, it's strategically necessary and politically expedient to enter into alliances with the Devil himself. And the ancient proverb about the enemy of one's enemy being one's friend provides philosophical justification for such pact-making. But, even so, it's a bit shocking to discover just how far along a very slippery and dangerous slope Seán Russell was prepared to tread ...

In the summer of 1940, Russell occupied a villa outside Berlin where he was accorded every privilege possible by his Nazi hosts, including a chauffer driven car and the services of an interpreter. He was also, more significantly, given access to the Brandenberg military camp in order to study the latest techniques in sabotage and guerilla warfare. His liaison at this time was the SS officer Edmund Veesenmayer, who would later become an architect of the Final Solution in Hungary and Croatia.

It was Russell's hope that the German high command would enlist the services of the IRA to strike at British forces in Northern Ireland and on the UK mainland and that, following the planned invasion of Britain, he and his comrades would be duly rewarded. Unfortunately for him, on his return to Ireland aboard a U-boat, he suffered the rupturing of a gastric ulcer and this proved fatal. 

None of this, of course, proves that Russell was sympathetic to or in agreement with Nazi doctrine. But it should surely give us all pause for thought about the way in which romantic nationalism and political idealism can easily collapse into the black hole of fascism. At best, Russell was outrageously naive - though whether that excuses him of his active collaboration with the Nazis (who were busy at that time occupying Western Europe) is debatable.

It might also be noted that Russell wasn't the only one within the IRA supporting the Third Reich. In July of 1940 the leadership issued a joint statement declaring that German forces would be welcomed as friends and liberators should they land in Ireland. The public was assured that the Nazis had no interest in occupying the country or further frustrating the dream of independence, but merely wished to see Ireland play an active role in the new Europe.  

Worse still was the fact that the IRA's main publication - War News - began to adopt openly anti-Semitic language and expressed their satisfaction at what was happening on the Continent, as the cleansing fires of the Wehrmacht drove the Jews from Europe. Shamefully, the leaders of Sinn Féin at this time also indulged in such rhetoric, repeatedly attacking the alleged Jewish influence in Ireland.

One dreads to imagine what would have happened to Ireland's tiny Jewish community (numbering only a few thousand) had the Nazis chosen to invade the Emerald Isle and paint it black. As the Irish historian Brian Hanley notes:

"Across Europe a variety of ethnic and political groups collaborated with the Nazis in order to further their own agendas. Inevitably this meant active involvement in Nazi persecution of Jews and political opponents. It also meant becoming a part of the Nazi governmental machine. Does anyone seriously believe that the IRA would have avoided playing this role?"   

Ultimately, I don't like nationalisms of any variety: Irish, German, Scottish, Catalan ... even English. As Nietzsche pointed out, subscribing to such a politics in its vulgar modern form, is, for free spirits, profoundly mistaken; a deliberate deadening of our higher natures.    

See: Brian Hanley, "'Oh here's to Adolph Hitler" ... The IRA and the Nazis', History Ireland, Vol. 13, Issue 3 (May/June 2005): click here to read online.

Repress Nothing! In Memory of Otto Gross

Otto Gross (1877 - 1920)

Otto Gross - the maverick psychoanalyst and utopian anarchist whom radicals and exponents of free love continue to revere - died 100 years ago today: from pneumonia; aged 42; in a Berlin hospital, having been found lying in the street, starving, penniless, and half-frozen to death.

A sad and premature (arguably all-too-predictable) end to the life of a charismatic drug-addict who spent much of his adult life in and out of psychiatric institutions and who rejected all caution and restraint; a man who was even evicted from the community of bohemians at Ascona for trying to instigate orgies at which participants could openly explore their bisexual desires. [1]    

Inspired by his readings of Max Stirner, Nietzsche and Kropotkin, it's said that Gross influenced in turn many artists and writers with his neo-pagan (and proto-feminist) attempt to revalue all values, including D. H. Lawrence - which, of course, is where my interest in him comes from, rather than his relationship to Freud and Jung, who basically thought him a hopeless madman about whom the less said the better.

Lawrence, of course, never met Gross and doesn't directly refer to him in his writings. [2] But his wife, Frieda, had had an affair with the latter in 1908 (at the same time that Gross was also involved with Frieda's sister, Else) and so a lot of his revolutionary ideas to do with politics, culture, the unconscious and human sexuality, were transmitted via her. It's almost certain that Lawrence also read Gross's letters to Frieda (which she treasured throughout her life):

"They affirmed the idea of the saving sexual relationship outside the bonds of society: they stressed how a sexually liberated woman could escape the trammels of the ordinary and be an inspiration for intellectual and striving men; they showed a passionately thinking man struggling to come to terms with the new and to escape the past. In many ways, they offered Lawrence the themes for his next eight years of writing; and (above all) they offered a way of thinking about Frieda [whom Gross regarded as the woman of the future]." [3]

Having said that, it's important to stress that Lawrence would have mistrusted (and disliked) Gross in person and to note that he soon saw through his idealism - including his sexual and political idealism.

And for us, living here in 2020, does Gross's thinking still trouble, still challenge? Or does it only bore and depress? Unfortunately, that's a question that some also ask of Lawrence ...

Notes

[1] Perhaps more interesting from a thanatological perspective, is the fact that Gross affirmed the sovereign freedom of the individual not merely in sexual terms, but also as the right to be ill and to die in a manner (and at a time) of their own choosing. He regarded neurosis and suicide as legitimate expressions of protest against a repressive social order.    

[2] Lawrence gives us a fictionalised representation of Otto Gross in his unfinished novel Mr Noon (written 1921-22); the character of Eberhard appears in Part II of the work. 

[3] John Worthen, D. H. Lawrence: The Early Years 1885-1912 (Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 443-44.

See also: John Turner, Cornelia Rumpf-Worthen and Ruth Jenkins, 'The Otto Gross - Frieda Weekley Correspondence: Transcribed, Translated, and Annotated', in The D. H. Lawrence Review, Vol. 22, No. 2, (Summer, 1990), pp. 137-227. Click here to read online. 

On This Day I Complete My Fifty-Sixth Year

Richard Westall: Lord Byron (1813)

Oil on canvas (36" x 28")

National Portrait Gallery (NPG 4243)

I would describe my character as more ironic than Byronic. However, there are many things I admire about the Romantic English poet and traits which we might be said to have in common, including, for example, a fondness for animals.* 

We are also, Byron and I, astrological kin; each blessed by being born beneath the sign of Aquarius. But, like him, I'm also prone to a certain melancholy whenever another birthday rolls around and another step taken towards the Abyss: 


My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;
The worm - the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!**


That just about sums up how I'm feeling today ...

Still, as Byron also noted, the great object of life is to feel something, even if that something is pain or existential angst. Only when the heart is completely unmoved by anything should one consider seeking out a soldier's grave.

Notes

* Byron loved his dog, Boatswain, so much that when the latter contracted rabies, he nursed him without any thought or fear of infection and, although deep in debt at the time, he commissioned a large marble monument for Boatswain at Newstead Abbey when the dog succumbed to the disease. Byron also kept a tame bear whilst a student at Cambridge, thereby amusingly circumventing rules forbidding the keeping of pet dogs. At one point he even considered applying for a fellowship on the creature's behalf. 

** Byron, 'On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year', written on 22 January, 1824: click here to read in full on the Poetry Foundation website.  

Bad Boys (With Reference to the Cases of Johnny Strabler and George Costanza)

Two Bad Boys: Marlon Brando as Johnny Strabler 

and Jason Alexander as George Costanza

I.

Last night, on TV, they showed The Wild One (1953) - László Benedek's classic biker movie starring the impossibly beautiful Marlon Brando in an iconic role as Johnny Strabler, leader of the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club.

When Johnny meets good-girl Kathie Bleeker (played by Mary Murphy) working at the local café-bar, he asks her out to a dance. Although she politely (somewhat coyly) turns him down, she's clearly intrigued (and excited) by Johnny's brooding personality.

In other words, Kathie digs the bad boy ...

II.

I don't know if we should classify the bad boy as a cultural archetype, stereotype or trope, but I do know that there's something in the idea that at least some women - who probably should know better - find the rebellious rogue male or romantic outlaw figure irresistibly attractive.

These women might claim to want caring, sharing boyfriends who are in touch with their feminine side and happy to help with the housework, but the evidence suggests otherwise; namely, that self-obsessed psychopaths with a cool persona and striking good looks always triumph over  the former when it comes to getting the girl.

There are many types of bad boy - including the punk, the pirate, the gangster, and the mad, bad and dangerous poet in all his Byronic splendour - but they all share a dark triad of personality traits: narcissism, thrill-seeking, and deceitfulness. I don't know if these traits have a genetic component - or if the women who find them attractive are genetically predisposed to do so - but it wouldn't suprise me if that were the case.

III.

The female susceptibility to bastards was very amusingly spoofed in a season eight episode of Seinfeld, when George suddenly finds himself playing the role of bad boy (which mostly consists of chewing gum). 

Elaine warns her colleague Anna (Rebecca McFarland) to keep her distance from her friend George, even though he seems harmless: "He's a bad seed. He's a horrible seed. He's one of the worst seeds I've ever seen." Of course, this immediately makes Anna interested in him.

Jerry, of course, is familiar with the syndrome and so when George expresses his surprise at being contacted out of the blue by Anna - after she has previously rebuffed his advances with extreme prejudice - he knows exactly what's going on: "Anna digs the bad boy" - much to George's bemusement ...

For George has never been the bad boy before. He likes the role, however, and intends to exploit his new (unfounded) reputation for badness, setting up a rendezvous with Anna in the park. Elaine's attempt to put an immediate stop to their relationship only makes Anna more attracted to George and soon she's wearing his Yankees jacket. 

Things only cool off when Elaine persuades Anna that, actually, George is a good and decent soul - a fine seed. Desperate to prove his bad boy credentials, George attempts to bootleg a movie. Of course, George being George, he bungles the operation and is arrested.

Worse, when the police officer shouts at him, George begins to cry and has to be comforted by Anna. Now, of course, it's really over; for girls hate cry babies as much as they love bad boys.

Watch: Seinfeld, 'The Little Kicks' (S8/E4), written by Spike Feresten, directed by Andy Ackerman (NBC, 10 October, 1996): the bad boy scenes between George and Anna can be viewed by clicking here. 

In Memory of Dollie Radford

Robert Bryden: Dollie Radford 
Woodcut (1902)

The English poet and playwright Caroline Maitland - better known as Dollie Radford - died 100 years ago today. 

I know this not because I'm a great fan of her work, which combines a conservative aesthetic with radical politics - Radford was a close friend of Eleanor Marx - but because of the D. H. Lawrence connection.

She first met the latter in the spring of 1915 and, unusually, found him to be rather sweet; "so simple and kind, touchingly childlike, and brim full of sensibility and perception".*

Responding to her warmth and generosity, Lawrence and his wife, Frieda, became firm friends with Radford. In a letter written to Dollie in January 1916, Lawrence told her that whilst her poems were exquisite, they made him feel rather sad:

"They make me think of the small birds in the twilight, whistling brief little tunes, but so clear, they seem almost like little lights in the twilight, such clear, vivid sounds."** 

Which is just about as nice a thing as Lawrence ever said to anyone ... 

Notes

* Quoted in Edward Nehls, ed. D. H. Lawrence: A Composite Biography (3 Vols.), (University of Wisconsin Press, 1957-59), Vol. I., p. 292.

** The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. II, ed. George J. Zytaruk and James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1981), p. 515.

Mila is a Punk Rocker

Je ne regrette rien ...

I.

Does anyone else remember the Dead Kennedys hardcore classic 'Religious Vomit'?

It was the first track on the eight-track EP In God We Trust, Inc. and I believe it opened with the lines:

All religions make me want to throw up 

All religions make me sick

All religions make me want to throw up 
All religions suck

It's a succinct but nonetheless powerful critique of all nausea-inducing systems of belief that claim to possess a divine form of Truth and to act in the name of God.    

II.

I immediately thought of this song when reading about the case of a French teen who has been forced into hiding after remarks she made online sparked rape and death threats.

The pretty 16-year-old, known as Mila, who described Islam as a religion of hate and claimed all organised creeds made her sick, has been warned by the police not to attend her school in Southeast France and to keep a low public profile - even though, according to French law, she has done nothing wrong and so shouldn't have to restrict her freedom of movement due to the disgusting threats made by religious lunatics.  

Nor, of course, should she apologise for her remarks: freedom of speech is the freedom to offend and to blaspheme; the freedom enjoyed by Jello Biafra and the boys back in the day and which we should all cherish, protect, and insist upon as infinitely more important than the false right of hypersensitive believers not to be offended.

Play: Dead Kennedys, 'Religious Vomit', In God We Trust, Inc., (Alternative Tentacles, 1981): click here. 

Note: The DK logo is by Winston Smith

Why I Don't Like Fishnet Stockings (Or The Rocky Horror Picture Show)

Let's do the time warp again 

[No thanks]

Black fishnet stockings and tights, with their open, diamond-shaped knit, continue to be very popular with all types of women - not just goths and showgirls. They are one of those things that never quite go in or out of fashion. We might, therefore, describe them as a perennial favourite within the world of hoisery.  

Personally, however, I'm not a fan.

And that's because fishnets always remind me of Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter, the sweet transvestite from Transexual, Transylvania: nice face, shame about the legs (too chunky for my tastes). 

I've tried to break this visual association - to picture instead Marilyn Monroe wearing her fishnets in the famous 1956 photo by Milton H. Greene - but, alas, whenever I see anyone wearing them, I invariably think back to The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) - a charmless vision of camp outrageousness and gothic queerness that succeeds only in making one nostalgic for the world of fixed gender roles and heteronormativity that Brad and Janet belong to.

As someone once said, Rocky is ultimately an excuse for straight people to cross dress and pretend to be a little bit queer for the night: they don't want to be it, just dream it ...

Play: 'Sweet Transvestite' from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, (dir. Jim Sharman, 1975), performed by Tim Curry: click here.

Birkin's Cat (Notes on Sexual Politics and Feline Philosophy in Women in Love)

Portrait Gray Tabby Cat

Photograph by Maika 777

fineartamerica.com

I.

I wasn't surprised to discover that Rupert Birkin owned a grey tabby cat. Is there anything more noble, after all, than a young male cat with long legs and a slim back?

What was surprising, however, was to discover that Birkin based his sexual politics and philosophical thinking on star equilibrium as much upon observations of Mino the cat as upon his (mis)reading of Nietzsche.

Thus, when watching Mino amorously interact with a stray she-cat that has wandered into the garden from the woods, Birkin can't help metaphysically musing on gender relations and the need for superfine stability, even if this requires cruelty and, ultimately, the submission of the female to the male ... 


II.  

"The young cat trotted lordly down the path, waving his tail. He was an ordinary tabby with white paws, a slender young gentleman. A crouching, fluffy, brownish-grey cat was stealing up the side of the fence. The Mino walked statelily up to her, with manly nonchalance. She crouched before him and pressed herself on the ground in humility, a fluffy soft outcast, looking up at him with wild eyes that were green and lovely as great jewels. He looked casually down on her. So she crept a few inches further, proceeding on her way to the back door, crouching in a wonderful soft, self-obliterating manner, and moving like a shadow.
      He, going statlily on his slim legs, walked after her, then suddenly, for pure excess, he gave her a light cuff with his paw on the side of the face. She ran off a few steps, like a blown leaf along the ground, then crouched unobtrusively, in submissive, wild patience. The Mino pretended to take no notice of her. He blinked his eyes superbly at the landscape. In a minute she drew herself together and moved softly, a fleecy brown-grey shadow, a few paces forward. She began to quicken her pace, in a moment she would be gone like a dream, when the young grey lord sprang before her, and gave her a light handsome cuff. She subsided at once, submissively."    

"The eyes of the stray cat flared round for a moment, like great green fires staring at Birkin. Then she had rushed in a soft swift rush, half way down the garden. There she paused to look round. The Mino turned his face in pure superiority to his master, and slowly closed his eyes, standing in statuesque young perfection. The wild cat's round, green, wondering eyes were staring all the while like uncanny fires. Then again, like a shadow, she slid towards the kitchen.
      In a lovely springing leap, like a wind, the Mino was upon her, and had boxed her twice, very definitely, with a white, delicate fist. She sank and slid back, unquestioning. He walked after her, and cuffed her once or twice, leisurely, with sudden little blows of his magic white paws."

- D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love

III.

Ursula, who happens to be watching this alongside Birkin, is angry and upset at the male cat's use of violence to bully the female, as she perceives it. Birkin, amused by her indignation, tries to explain that this is a normal part of feline intimacy and, it's true of course, that feline sexual behaviour does involve a certain amount of unpleasantness (spraying, fighting, biting, etc.).*

Ursula, however, is unconvinced and continues to insist that Mino is a bully - like all males. This clearly irritates Birkin, who replies:

"'He is not a bully. He is only insisting to the poor stray that she shall acknowledge him as a sort of fate, her own fate: because you can see she is fluffy and promiscuous as the wind. I am with him entirely. He wants superfine stability."  

Which, I suppose, is one way of putting it and one possible explanation. Though it could just be that Mino wants to penetrate the she-cat and that his male dignity and higher understanding are but fanciful notions belonging to Birkin. That's certainly what Ursula thinks: "'Oh it makes me so cross, this assumption of male superiority! And it is such a lie! One wouldn't mind if there were any justification for it.'"

Clearly, Birkin thinks there is some justification for it - and that it is neither a sadistic lust for cruelty nor a naked will to power, describing the latter as base and petty, even though, clearly, his reading of Nietzsche - like Lawrence's own - is a poor and selective one at best.

For Birkin, Mino's behaviour - and, presumably, male sexual behaviour in general - can best be thought of as a desire to impose upon female chaos masculine order and thus bring about a state of "transcendent and abiding rapport" between the sexes that benefits them both. Paradise is a state of pure equilibrium in which each party is a star balanced in conjunction.

And that, for Birkin, is what love is all about - fulfilment, not individual or personal freedom: "'Love is a direction which excludes all other directions. It's a freedom together, if you like." Ideal love and ideal freedom, he says, ultimately result in chaos and nihilism.

But, again, Ursula isn't having any of it: "'I don't trust you when you drag the stars in,' she said."

Notes

* Things probably aren't helped - speaking from the female cat's point of view - by the fact that the male has a barbed penis and that penetration therefore causes a certain amount of discomfort (although I'm not sure it's fair to describe the male cat's penis as a horrifying engine of pain, as one feminist commentator described it). Upon withdrawl, these keratinised penile spines rake the walls of the she-cats vagina, removing the semen of love rivals and helping to trigger ovulation. 

See: D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. David Farmer, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), Ch. XIII, pp. 148-152.

D. H. Lawrence: A Tale of Two Kitties

I. The Death of Mrs Nickie Ben

For cat lovers, there's a very distressing scene early on in D. H. Lawrence's first novel, The White Peacock (1911). Cyril, the narrator of the story, and his sister, Lettie, are out walking in the woods and fields surrounding the local reservoir, when the latter suddenly lets out a cry:

"On the bank before us lay a black cat, both hind-paws torn and bloody in a trap. It had no doubt been bounding forward after its prey when it was caught. It was gaunt and wild; no wonder it frightened the poor lapwings into cheeping hysteria. It glared at us fiercely, growling low."

Whilst Lettie stands looking on and lamenting the cruelty of man, Cyril takes action:

"I wrapped my cap and Lettie's scarf over my hands and bent to open the trap. The cat struck with her teeth, tearing the cloth convulsively. When it was free, it sprang away with one bound, and fell, panting, watching us."

This is no anonymous stray cat, however. This is a creature known to Cyril: Mrs Nickie Ben, who belongs at Strelley Mill, the home of his friend George Saxton. And so he wraps the poor creature in his jacket and carries her there. 

Unfortunately, however, she is too badly injured to be saved, one of her paws having been broken: "We laid the poor brute on the rug, and gave it warm milk. It drank very little, being too feeble." Even the presence of her mate, another fine-looking black cat, doesn't rouse her. And besides, he seems indifferent to her suffering: 

"Mr Nickie Benn looked, shrugged his sleek shoulders, and walked away with high steps. There was a general feminine outcry on masculine callousness."

George decides to put the cat out of her misery. His preferred method of doing so - and the quickest - is to "'swing her round and knock her head against the wall'", but Lettie protests. And so he decides to drown her: "We watched him morbidly, as he took a length of twine and fastened a noose round the animal's neck [...]"

George smiles as he walks to the garden pond and then drops "the poor writhing cat into the water, saying 'Goodbye, Mrs Nickie Ben'". Vile deed done, he hauls the cat out, amused by the grotesque character of the corpse.

He then buries her in a shallow grave, commenting to Cyril and Lettie: "'I had to drown her, out of mercy [...] If the poor old cat had made a prettier corpse, you'd have thrown violets on her.'"

II. Lady Chatterley's Pussy

Interestingly, there's another black cat who also comes to a sticky end in Lawrence's final novel. In chapter six of Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928), Connie goes for a walk in the woods - as she often did on one of her bad days. The sound of a gun shot nearby startles her out of her vague indifference to her surroundings.

Going to investigate, she hears the sound of a man's voice, followed by the sound of a child sobbing. The thought that someone might be ill-treating the latter rouses Connie's anger: "She strode surging down the wet drive, her sullen resentment uppermost. She felt just prepared to make a scene."

It was the keeper - Mellors - and a little girl, wearing a purple coat and moleskin cap. The latter was crying, to the irritation of the former: "'Ah, shut it up, tha false little bitch!' came the man's angry voice", though, not surprisingly, this only  made the child wail louder. 

Connie marches up to them, with her dark blue eyes blazing, demanding to know what's going on. He salutes her ladyship, but with a faint smile all too like a sneer on his face and he tells her - in broad vernacular - that she'd best ask the child, not him, what the problem is. And so Connie turns to the "ruddy, black-haired thing of nine or ten", saying: "'What' is it, dear?'" with conventionalised sweetness of tone.

     

The child, however, continues to sob; violently, but also self-consciously. In the end, Connie bribes her with a sixpence. This placates the brat and enables her to speak: "'It's the - it's the - pussy!'"

It turns out that the keeper - her father - has shot a poaching cat: a big black cat, that now lies stretched out and bleeding amongst the bramble. Connie is repulsed by the sight and she turns on her soon-to-be lover and tells him it's no wonder the child was upset.

She tries to further reassure the child (whilst secretly disliking the spoilt, false little female), before escorting her home to her grandmother, leaving Mellors to dispose of the dead moggie in a manner undisclosed.


III.

Whether these two scenes reveal anything of import about Lawrence's views on black cats, cruelty, and sexual politics is debatable.

But what they do demonstrate is that there's more than one way to kill a cat and that underlying all of Lawrence's fiction is not so much a naive or innocent vitalism, but a fascination with violence and death and the part these things play in life as a general economy of the whole. In other words, Lawrence's philosophy is a form of tragic pessimism - but a pessimism of strength.   

 

See:

D. H. Lawrence, The White Peacock, ed. Andrew Robertson, (Cambridge University Press, 1983), pp. 12-13.

D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, ed. Michael Squires, (Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 58-59.