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Pan and the appleyness of landscape: dread of the procreative body in "The Princess".

"So much depends on one's attitude."--D. H. Lawrence, "Pan in America"


Characteristic praise for "The Princess" fails to acknowledge the integrative context of its excellence within the Lawrencian canon. This lengthy tale remains impressive for the seamless way that it connects Lawrence's developing stylistic notions on writing and painting with his doctrinal beliefs about Pan mythology during the last six years of his life. Yet for most critics, the versatile achievement of "The Princess" is related variously to the detailed evocation of the New Mexico landscape, to the fluid changes in a narrative tone that moves from satiric to lyric to somber, to the imaginative adaptation of a vignette Lawrence originally heard from Catherine Carswell, and to the violent and credible inevitability of the tale's conclusion. (1) While such critical perspectives provide relevant entrances into dimensions of the work's success, the story recalls a short essay, "Pan in America," that Lawrence wrote a few months before "The Princess," and anticipates, with unusual depth and precision, a major essay, "Introduction to These Paintings," written nearly five years later, an extensive piece that Lawrence described as "one of the best things I've ever done" (Letters VII 125). It is this brilliant and risky polemic on painting, written in January, 1929 as an introduction for the Mandrake Press edition of his paintings, that I wish to turn to first. (2)

In this essay, Lawrence is less interested in the technique or evaluation of his own skill as a painter than he is in outlining a scathing criticism of the quality of English painting through the centuries. He repeatedly insists with undiplomatic wit and subjective fervor--his signature rhetorical qualities as a critic--that the alleged failure of his country to produce great visual art involves fundamental issues of sexual self-definition and cultural taboo inherited by the English people for nearly five hundred years. His eclectic argument attempts to bridge the traditional boundaries between genres of literary art, different forms of artistic expression, and categories in his own life of artistic creativity, impinging biography, and encompassing doctrine. Such a sweep of synthesis in "Introduction to These Paintings" is all in the service of some stern conclusions about national character, medical trauma, and conditioned fear. It must be stated that Lawrence's argument involves unsubstantiated judgments that even today are teasingly difficult to confirm or disprove. His general tactic is to rely on the force and conviction of his assertions to quiet the concerns of those historians, art critics, epidemiologists, and psychologists who must notice the scant evidence he provides for his provocative opinions.

Lawrence first declares, as his adamant but unsupported premise, that England has produced relatively few great painters. He finds the cause of such under-achievement in a lack of "instinctive, intuitional" ("Introduction to These Paintings" 558) consciousness that dates back to the Renaissance, and this insufficiency prevents the English from manifesting what he denotes as a sense of physical, "true awareness" (556) so crucial to painting. As Lawrence often suggested in less embattled ways earlier in his career, he now maintains that the Anglo-Saxons remain the most prominent victims of the historic movement from the physical to the ideal mental initiated by the Greeks and then, buttressed through the ages by the sacrificial symbology and flesh-denying didacticism of Christianity. It is in this essay by Lawrence, and for the first time in such sustained form, that he probes more deeply into the precise causes of such inadequacy in the English character. Certainly part of his motivation must be his accumulated anger over the intolerable (and intolerant) treatment of his own work by British authorities, a blindness by those "censor-morons" (3) that shortly would reach another level of conflict with the legalized confiscation of his own paintings.

Lawrence employs the metaphor of an infectious psyche to explain that the origin of such repression and anxiety has much to do with the sudden and epidemic appearance of syphilis in Europe in the sixteenth century, and the consequent unconscious fear of sex and the procreative body that this scourge engendered: "For an overmastering fear is poison to the human psyche. And this overmastering fear, like some horrible secret tumour, has been poisoning our consciousness ever since the Elizabethans, who first woke up with dread to the entry of the original syphilitic poison into the blood" (554). He further maintains that since the time of Shakespeare and the incursion of syphilis, the English people, in their unconscious need as well as in their painting, have sought an escape from "the reality of substantial bodies" (559), and that this escape continued to be evident through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when clothes and decorative elements on canvas became more significant to artists and art connoisseurs than the skin and bodies inside them. Lawrence anticipates an objection to his digressive methodology, and he responds in graphic and comparative terms:
   All this sounds very far from the art of painting. But it is not so far as
   it sounds. The appearance of syphilis in our midst gave a fearful blow to
   our sexual life. The real natural innocence of Chaucer was impossible after
   that. The very sexual act of procreation might bring as one of its
   consequences a foul disease, and the unborn might be tainted from the
   moment of conception. (555)

He also insists that the lingering shock of this disease in the English and American soul is related to the development of a religion that is uncomfortable with the claims and urgencies of the human body: "The terror-horror element which had entered the imagination with regard to the sexual and procreative act was at least partly responsible for the rise of Puritanism, the beheading of King-Father Charles, and the establishment of the New England Colonies" (555-56). Because this discomfort with the procreative body stays well-entrenched, according to Lawrence, in national temperament, culture, and religion, the English painters gradually compensated by becoming adept at landscape, and especially in the less substantial, less corporeal medium of water-color. Although Lawrence admits that he has a special fondness for landscape water-colors by Turner, he argues that even these paintings lack a sense of instinctual vitality and energy, giving the impression of a background waiting to be occupied, of an escape "from the actual human body they so hate and fear" (561). Lawrence also considers the French Impressionists as lacking any well-defined inclination for bodily presence in their work, but he approvingly singles out Cezanne as crucial in galvanizing an attempted return "to form and substance and thereness" (564). What he essentially admires in Cezanne's work is the palpable search particularly evident in his memorable still-lifes for the special, luminous quality in existence reflected in a radical technique that offers more than realistic, literal embodiment: "I am convinced that what Cezanne himself wanted was representation. He wanted true-to-life representation. Only he wanted it more true to life." In this context, Lawrence ruminates on the recent innovations of photography and the resultant danger that versions of this "machine" might establish an artificial art-form and will overwhelm the ambition (and effectiveness) of painters who need to follow the mandate of Lawrence's aesthetic credo: "And once you have got photography, it is a very, very difficult thing to get representation more true-to-life; which it has to be" (577).

As he describes the best of Cezanne's still-lifes, Lawrence derives a wonderful phrase adapted from the most famous object in Cezanne's painting, praising his art for its "appleyness"--that is, for an ability to let the object "exist in its own separate entity," as the painter intuitively "let[s] it live of itself" (567). He associates this elusive appleyness with Cezanne's double-sided talent, defined by Lawrence in terms that echo the writer's own notions of "fourth dimensional" prose. (4) Here Cezanne manages to capture the integrity of the object in present time and space and to relate such individuality to the pervasive life-force that Lawrence, throughout his fiction, typically denotes as the "unknown" or the "beyond": "When he makes Madame most still, most appley, he starts making the universal slip uneasily about her. It was part of his desire: to make the human form, the life form, come to rest. Not static--on the contrary. Mobile but come to rest" (580). Lawrence suggests that this paradoxical element in Cezanne's work is caused by the painter's intuitive understanding as the writer confers upon him a species of Lawrencian insight "that nothing is really statically at rest" (580). It is here that Lawrence's notion of appleyness connects with his insistence on "the awareness of touch" (578) in successful landscape painting. He notices that in the best of Cezanne's late landscapes, "our eyes encounter a vision on canvas" (580) that displaces "mental-visual" cliches with the "real revolution" of "intuitive consciousness" (578). As Lawrence will clarify throughout "Introduction to These Paintings," it is precisely this sense of animate vitality, of procreative livingness, that was so diminished by the onset of syphilis in the Renaissance period.


In the same essay, Lawrence elaborates on the effects of this disease, offering an apocalyptic, but unsupported, synthesis of investigative pathology and genetic speculation. He emphasizes that by the late sixteenth century, syphilis was well-established in the royal families of England and Scotland. Lawrence then outlines a depressing roll-call of illness theory in a tone that reveals bitterness toward England:
   Edward VI and Elizabeth born with the inherited consequences of the
   disease. Edward VI died of it, while still a boy. Mary died childless and
   in utter depression. Elizabeth had no eyebrows, her teeth went rotten; she
   must have felt herself, somewhere, utterly unfit for marriage, poor thing
   ... And so the Tudors died out and another syphilitic-born unfortunate came
   to the throne, in the person of James I. Mary Queen of Scots had no more
   luck than the Tudors, apparently. Apparently Darnley was reeking with the
   pox, though probably at first she did not know it. But when the Archbishop
   of St. Andrews was christening her baby James, afterwards James I of
   England, the old clergyman was so dripping with pox that she was terrified
   lest he should give it to the infant. And she need not have troubled, for
   the wretched infant had brought it into the world with him, from that fool
   Darnley; So James I of England slobbered and shambled, and was the wisest
   fool in Christendom, and the Stuarts likewise died out, the stock enfeebled
   by the disease. (552-53)

In such a hyperbolic and undifferentiating summary, Lawrence takes considerable historical license. Most conspicuously, he employs questionable diagnoses to place all the symptomologies of the royal line under the single cause of syphilis, when a variety of other illnesses (e.g., scrofula, smallpox, leprosy, congenital defects, etc.) may also be relevant in individual cases. (5) Whatever were the exact causes of such disturbing physical symptoms from the Tudors through the Stuarts, Lawrence at the very least properly emphasizes a recognizable pattern of physical and emotional disease that corresponds with the outbreak of the syphilis epidemic in England. He understandably insists that syphilis is the primary problem because he wishes to dramatize the prominence and pervasiveness of this originating dread of the procreative body. As he moves from the physical to the organic-metaphoric, he further maintains that after syphilis "had entered the blood, it entered the consciousness and hit the vital imagination" (553).

Such a compromised vitality of imagination, in Lawrence's inflated reading, reverberates through the centuries in emotional repression, unsensual national character, and compromised artistic expression. In this regard, it is interesting to note that early in "The Princess," Lawrence conjoins (and anticipates) key aspects of his argument five years later in the essay on painting:
   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 in
   his veins. (159)

Neither unstable Colin nor his frail wife is drawn to passion or spontaneity: their marriage seems created out of a dread of the procreative body, for it is a union between a man whose skin "was not all there" (159) and a New England virgin conditioned to the aversions of her engrained Puritanism. Living with "a fascinating spectre," Hannah suspects "he was a little bit mad" the night her baby was born. It is tempting to see Colin's lack of embodied physicality as an extreme, ghostly reminder of the trauma of syphilis that Lawrence describes in "Introduction to These Paintings": for he "was like a living echo" and "his very flesh, when you touched it, did not seem quite the flesh of a real man." (6) Hannah dies early in this ethereal marriage, and the daughter, Dollie, grows up in an insulated world, over-protected and spoiled by an idiosyncratic father-guru who grooms her to be his acquiescent pet, travel-companion, and professional virgin. Her sexual immaturity and superficial prettiness appear to reflect, in a potentially volatile combination for men, the eternal pre-pubescence of Peter Pan and the photographic, but desexualized, beauty of Rapunzel: "She was a quick, dainty little thing with dark gold hair that went soft brown, and wide, slightly prominent blue eyes that were at once so candid and knowing. Always strongly wise, and always childish" (160).

When Colin makes his memorable and deranged speech to Dollie in which he stresses the glory of their allegedly noble blood and the way their pedigree calls for caution and control in their relations with others, he concludes the advice with a tactile metaphor that eerily invokes memories of disease in Shakespearean England:
   "And so darling, you must treat all people very politely, because noblesse
   oblige. But you must never forget, that you alone are the last of
   Princesses, and that all others are less than you are: less noble, more
   vulgar. Treat them politely and gently and kindly, darling. But you are the
   Princess, and they are commoners. Never try to think of them as if they
   were like you. They are not. You will find, always, that they are lacking,
   lacking in the royal touch, which only you have." (161, my emphasis)

Lawrence makes Colin look back to an unusual custom of the past, and Lawrence may have been led to the memory by some relevant reading. Just a few months before he began work on "The Princess," it is quite likely that Lawrence reread Frazer's The Golden Bough, a probability further enhanced by a fascinating passage in Frazer's capacious study that directly bears upon Colin's speech and his Stuart ancestry:
   In the Middle Ages, when Waldor I, King of Denmark, traveled in Germany,
   mothers brought their infants and husbandmen their seed for him to lay his
   hands on, thinking that children would both thrive the better for the royal
   touch ... Perhaps the last relic of such superstitions which lingered about
   our English kings was the notion that they could heal scrofula by their
   touch. The disease was accordingly known as the King's Evil. Queen
   Elizabeth often exercised this miraculous gift of healing. On Mid-summer
   Day 1633, Charles the First cured a hundred patients at one swoop in the
   chapel royal at Holyrood. But it was under his son Charles the Second that
   the practice seemed to have attained its highest vogue. It is said that in
   the course of his reign Charles the Second touched near a hundred thousand
   persons for scrofula. (7) (103-04, my emphases)

The difference between the eras compared in Frazer's comments sound familiar Recall Lawrence's assertion that in the pre-Renaissance generations, before the syphilis scourge hit England, the "natural innocence of Chaucer," with its frank celebration of "the very sexual act of procreation" ("Introduction TT Paintings" 555) was the passionate temperature of the time, and Chaucer embodied this exuberance without, the fear that venereal disease would begin to foment in the next century. However, significant questions remain about the reliability of the information provided by Frazer and Lawrence. Does Frazer possibly misconstrue cases of syphilis and/or smallpox for scrofula, and/or does Lawrence overestimate the omnipresence of syphilis? In any case, it is intriguing that Frazer's perspective insists that the significance of "the royal touch" moves from a literal celebration of procreative seed in the Middle Ages to a totemic belief in its curative properties by the late sixteenth century, a transition that precisely corresponds to the metaphors, dateline, and substance of Lawrence's argument in "Introduction to These Paintings." Also, whatever were the actual diseases engaged through this benedictive touching by the Kings and Queens of England, might not the huge crowds stated by Frazer, along with the closeness of so many potentially contaminating bodies, suggest a contagion of disease affecting the Royal lineage, with the tragic effect that such undiscriminating touching possibly exacerbated the prevalence of the very illness that it proposed to cure?


That Lawrence writes "Pan in America" while he rereads Frazer in April, 1924 deserves further comment in relation to Lawrence's preoccupations in this period, shortly before he writes "The Princess" in September. The essay is a short, despairing, and admonishing piece about Lawrence's evaluation of a gradual change in civilization from unself-conscious expressions of natural energy and intuitive belief to an easy dependency on modern machines and materialist sentiment. It offers a nostalgic lament over the adulteration of "Pan-power" that, for Lawrence, means the diminishing of instinctual primacy in our culture, along with the gradual loss of the awareness of a sensuous relationship among all things including the animate and the inanimate. He further insists that the remnants of Pan in the world reside only in an individual's engaged and changing relation to the livingness of natural landscapes. Such a limited context of Pan-survival is a long way from what Lawrence describes as the original demonic force associated with the mythological Pan, for he believes that this force has been domesticated through the centuries by Christianity's Manichean imagery and by the rampant pantheism of the nineteenth- century American Romantics.

The gradual loss of Pan-energy in the twentieth century amounts to the metaphoric equivalent of the move away from the procreative body that Lawrence ties to the outbreak of syphilis. In "Pan in America," he deplores the way that the growth of mechanical inventions and materialistic narcissism has separated most people from an active apprehension of their physical environment. Just as Lawrence the artist values the appleyness of a fully revealed object or landscape in a painting, he writes admiringly in "Pan in America" virtually offering it as an exemplum of how the American Indian respects the animus of a tree even when he has cut it down to provide him with heat: "And what does life consist in save a vivid relatedness between the man and the living universe that surrounds him? Yet man insulates himself more and more into mechanism, and repudiates everything but the machine and the contrivance of which he himself is master, god in the machine" ("Pan in America" 27). (8) As an Englishman transplanted to America's Southwest, Lawrence claims in this essay that "here, on this little ranch under the Rocky Mountains" (24), the power of Pan is alive and well in the primitive landscape of New Mexico, amid its pine trees, catkins, wolves, chipmunks, valleys, and mountains. The central image for Lawrence of living-Pan is the tree, with its firm, nourishing, and resistant grounding within the earth, and its proud, naked, and assertive prominence in the air. This duality of resistance and assertion, the dialectic at the heart of the static-mobility paradox of appleyness, is what painters generally cannot reflect in their landscape art, and it comprises the elusive element that Lawrence seeks to portray in "The Princess."

In "Introduction to These Paintings," Lawrence offers precise examples of the way that the mechanization of modern culture has served to further diminish the waning Pan-power he describes in "Pan in America." He emphasizes that the development of photography has brought us images, however exact they may be, that lack the life-resonance, the appleyness of real perception that a Cezanne still life (or a later landscape) can capture. Lawrence explains in another relevant essay, "Art and Morality," written a year after "The Princess," that people unfortunately have been trained "in the slowly formed habit of seeing just as the photographic camera sees," and consequently man "does not, even now, see for himself. He sees what the Kodak has taught him to see. And man, try as he may, is not a Kodak" ("Art and Morality" 164). In the same essay, Lawrence further contemplates this lazy habit of contenting oneself with the "outer image": "The identifying of ourselves with the visual image of ourselves has become an instinct; the habit is already old. The picture of me, the me that is seen, is me" (165). But it is fair to say that certain characters, whether in fiction or the real world, may convey as their determining "aura of life" ("Pan in America" 24) a mechanical finality, an unappley absoluteness, so that the camera can reproduce their inherent stasis with confident accuracy. It is significant that from the moment Dollie Urquhart is introduced in "The Princess," she "looked as if she had stepped out of a picture" (162). Thus Lawrence implies a relation between her invested virginity and the fact that she seems so supremely unvarying as to be not merely photogenic but, quite literally, picture-like, with a plastic lack of corporeality that effortlessly fits into a pre-measured frame. Such an absence of changeability is directly opposed to the kinetic power Lawrence connects with appleyness, and Dollie's engrained stasis informs her view of the world as well as her contemporaries' view of her. When she rides alone with Romero amid the shimmering landscape, "she felt quite in the picture" (179) as she presumptuously even reduces the animate scenery to the reductive terms of her own bearing in life.

Lawrence underlines the unchanging qualities of Dollie as she ages: "So the years passed, imperceptibly. And so she had that quality of the sexless fairies, she did not change. At thirty-three she looked twenty-three" (164). When her father died, after he descended into a madness of which he showed symptoms earlier in his life, she remained "quite unchanged. She was still tiny, and like a dignified, scentless flower," with her face described as "apple-blossom" (165) rather than appley; she stays just as unvital as the beautiful but dormant still-lifes that Lawrence criticizes in "Introduction to These Paintings," with Dollie "modeled with an arched nose like a proud old Florentine portrait" (165), the kind of art that provokes only "cerebral excitation," for the "deeper responses, down in the intuitive and instinctive body, are not touched" ("Introduction TT Paintings" 556). Lawrence offers here a version of the tactile metaphor that recalls the use of "the royal touch" in "The Princess," and in the essay the image of untouchability further suggests bodies that "are dead" to intuitive awareness ("Introduction TT Paintings" 507). This "finished" quality in Dollie in both the organic and artistic meanings is related to the absence of any unrehearsed connection to other people, for she regards them as either serving her needs or irrelevant. After the death of Dollie's father, Miss Cummins joins her in this willed isolation from the normal rhythms of humanity, and this companion also caters to Dollie's demands and supervises the idiosyncrasies of the Princess's often willful desires. Lawrence makes it clear that the serious consideration of other men and the possibility of matrimony are unattractive to Dollie not because of their conventional association with concepts of comfort and material well-being; marriage remains unappealing to her because of the distinct reality of its sexual component. She thinks of such a union in terms that highlight both her dread of the procreative body and her irrepressible fondness for the convenient distancing from the sensual and the concrete afforded by ideas: "She was still neither interested nor attracted toward men vitally. But marriage, that peculiar abstraction, had imposed a sort of spell on her. She thought that marriage, in the blank abstract, was the thing she ought to do" (166).

Dollie's attraction to Romero initially is motivated by their shared inheritance of alienation from the masses. The last of a Spanish family that years earlier included major landowners, he is now no more than a Mexican peasant, an angry, dark, silent, and handsome young man, with a face described as "static ... waiting either to die, or to be roused into passion and hope." Lawrence then defines the agonized quality of Romero and his fellow peasants in a passage that integrates the characters' state of being with the New Mexico environment. The words hold ominous significance for the developing plot in the tale, for they outline what amounts to a Lawrencian unpardonable sin: "Unable to wrest a positive significance for themselves from the vast, beautiful, but vindictive landscape they were born into, they turned on their own selves and worshipped death through self-torture." In his non-communicative and smoldering discontent, his "spark in the midst of the blackness of static despair" (168), and his experienced insight into the New Mexico topography, Romero appears to embody the recognizable and meager remnants of the Pan-power that are discussed in "Pan in America." As I indicated earlier, Lawrence insists on the necessity of resistance and assertion as crucial to the energy of Pan, an energy now only present, in its pure form, in the primitive landscapes relatively untouched by machine. Until the tragic conclusion of the tale, Romero lacks any effective strategy of resistance or assertion, as he drifts in the victimized stasis that prefigures his end.

Yet that touch of an inscrutable Pan remains in his isolated bearing; it is also often reflected in his insightful comments about animals, mountains, and the habits of hunters, all part of an expertise that nearly echoes the intuitive awareness Lawrence praises in "Pan in America." More pertinently, Romero's conspicuous disinclination to talk about anything ("he wasn't chatty and cosy" [168]), including the very landscape through which he guides the tourists, echoes Lawrence's approving description in the essay of the man who "is careful never to utter one word of the mystery. Speech is the death of Pan" ("Pan in America" 27). When Romero instinctively .shows Dollie how to reposition herself near the stream to successfully land a fish, she immediately gets a catch. Given the silence and ease of his manner as he demonstrates to Dollie such a technique, Romero reveals the Pan characteristic of an affinity for prey emerging from "a primitive consciousness," Which he further specifies as "a psychic attraction, a sort of telepathy" (169). In the hyper-intuitive world of the original Pan, "the contact between all things is keen and wary" ("Pan in America" 30). Such caution informs "The Princess" when Romero rejoins Dollie at the end of her surprisingly unwary meeting with two opportunistic Indians who unsuccessfully attempt to conceal their recent illegal hunting in restricted areas by hiding a dead deer under one of their saddles. Romero realizes (although characteristically he never articulates his knowledge) that given Dollie's previous distance from him on the trail, given her chaste beauty that intrinsically provokes antagonism in other men, and given her unwise, accommodating offer of food to the Indians that too easily permits them to prolong the interlude with her, Dollie was fortunate to escape unharmed. The moment they leave the men's vicinity, Romero's stare reveals the admonition of a Pan-manque to a willful, child-like woman who can scarcely glimpse the turbulence at the edge of the previous encounter: "When they were alone, Romero turned and looked at her curiously, in a way she could not understand, with such a hard glint in his eyes. And for the first time, she wondered if she was rash" (181). An ominously limited and ego-circumscribed wonderment on her part, for Dollie fails to consider whether this "hard glint" in Romero's eyes also reveals the potential for rashness in her travel companion. The scene also suggests that those lawlessly self-reliant, "soiled," and "untidy" (179) Indians may be closer than Romero to incarnations of primitive Pan that Lawrence defines at the start of "Pan in America," but the writer is under no illusion that these unkempt poachers offer much of an alternative to the materialism infecting modern life: "And still, in America, among the Indians, the oldest Pan is alive. But here, also dying fast. It is useless to glorify the savage. For he will kill Pan with his own hands for the sake of a motor-car" ("Pan in America" 31).


Between the bored savagery of the Indians and the morbid stasis of Romero, Pan-power can only reside for Lawrence in the very land that he appreciatively inhabits: "On this little ranch under the Rocky Mountains," where "a big pine tree rises like a guardian spirit in front of the cabin where we live" ("Pan in America" 24). And it is in precisely this landscape, depicted by Lawrence through the breathtaking journey to the shack undertaken by Dollie and Romero, that the notion of appleyness derived in "Introduction to These Paintings" provides relevant insights to Lawrence's stylistic achievement in the story. True appleyness in painting, for Lawrence, is distinguished from photography by its oxymoronic ability to convey an active stasis--that is, a scene which is "mobile but come to rest" ("Introduction TT Paintings" 580). As he praises this elusive quality of Cezanne's best work in "Introduction to These Paintings," Lawrence elaborates with a crucial passage that comes close to summarizing the same requirements for fictional narrative that he has mandated in other essays for his own, self-styled "fourth dimensional" prose. Lawrence's comments are concerned with the potential geometries of the eye's perspective in evaluating paintings, but their wonderful applicability to all forms of art seems beyond question: (9)
   The appleyness, which carries with it also the feeling of knowing the other
   side as well, the side you don't see, the hidden side of the moon. For the
   intuitive apperception of the apple is so tangibly aware of the apple that
   it is aware of it all around, not only just of the front. The eye sees only
   fronts; and the mind, on the whole, is satisfied with fronts. But intuition
   needs all-aroundness, and instinct needs insideness. The true imagination
   is forever curving round to the other side, to the back of presented
   appearance. (579)

Near the end of the couple's arduous trek through the mountains, Lawrence's prose provides a superb glimpse of this "hidden side of the moon" as he freeze-frames a fast-moving, living object to capture a rare view of "the other side" that normally evades human sight and conventional prose: "She was dazed and a little sick, at that height, and she could not see any more. Only she saw an eagle turning in the air beyond, and the light from the west showed the pattern on him underneath" ("Princess" 182).

When Lawrence focuses more intensely on the effectiveness of Cezanne's landscape paintings, the notion of appleyness comes closer to the texture of prose encountered in "The Princess":
   In the best landscapes we are fascinated by the mysterious shiftiness of
   the scene under our eyes: it shifts about as we watch it. And we realize,
   with a sort of transport, how intuitively true this is of landscape. It is
   not still. It has its own weird anima, and to our wide-eyed perception it
   changes like a living animal under our gaze. This is a quality that Cezanne
   sometimes got marvelously. ("Introduction TT Paintings" 580-81)

Lawrence creates the prose equivalent of this vibrancy of scene throughout the depiction of the changing landscape they move across in this tale. One paragraph of poetic incantation can illustrate the elements of "weird anima" so central to Lawrence's doctrine:
   It was a little valley or shell from which the stream was gently poured
   into the lower rocks and trees of the canyon. Around her was a fairy-like
   gentleness, the delicate sere grass, the groves of delicate-stemmed aspens
   dropping their flakes like petals. Almost like flowers the aspen trees
   stood in thickets, shedding their petals of bright yellow. And the
   delicate, quick little stream threading through the wild-sere grass.
   ("Princess" 178-79)

It is a beautiful passage informed by lyrical repetitions of sound and compelling urgencies of movement. Rhythmic reiterations of such phrases as "stream," "sere grass," "delicate," and "petals" are employed to establish an hypnotic back-and-forth motion that is then spurred to a forward momentum by the graphic and active verbs of "poured," "dripping," "shedding," and "threading." It is a profoundly appley landscape that conforms to Lawrence's seminal stipulation of mobility within stasis.

In "Art and Morality," he supplies further justification for the same intense and intermingling activity in landscapes that he later will designate as an essential component of appleyness: "What art has got to do, and will go on doing, is to reveal things in their different relationships," and the reason for this imperative on fluidity--even amidst the inanimate--concerns the endless adjustments that everything in existence constantly undergoes. In a sense, it is Lawrence's vitalistic answer to the depressing notion of entropy: "All moves. And nothing is true or good, or right, except in its own living relatedness to its own circumambient universe" ("Art and Morality" 166). In the mid-1920's, Lawrence has not yet derived the concept of appleyness to define the way an artist can embody this energy. The narration of "The Princess" offers an intriguing example of the living "design" Lawrence creates within landscape description, as he integrates the disparate elements of stream, flower, petal, canyon and tree, and all in the terms specified in "Art and Morality": "Design, in art, is the recognition of various elements in the creative flux. You can't invent a design. You recognize it, in the fourth dimension. That is, with your blood and your bones" (167). In Lawrence's prescriptive doctrine, a major aspect of the inadequacy of Romero and Dollie is that they lack the ability to change; whether it is Romero's morbidity and defeatism, or Dollie's immaturity and narcissism, there is no creative flux in them, a failure that is underlined in the tale by reiterations of the Princess's eternally young appearance and Romero's uninterrupted solipsism.

Dollie's dread of the procreative body, nurtured in her since birth by an equally static father, is reflected characteristically on the journey by her need to look into the core of the mountain canyons from a safe distance that will not disrupt her with a perception of the "various elements" in the flux of life. It is as a species of voyeurism that she wants to witness this naked natural force and to perceive the spectacle as a titillating photo opportunity: "And she just had a fixed desire to go over the brim of the mountains, to look into the inner chaos of the rockies" ("Princess" 178). Later, when near the end of her trip with Romero, she regards the experience as a complete and successful look at the secret insides of the mountains. In this lack of resonance in her perspective, Dollie conveys no sense at all, in one critic's poised description, that she must recognize "the god of darkness and light," and must see "that real virginity or newness of being come only through accepting the same qualities of light and dark, of delicacy and oppressiveness, that mark the forest" (Harris 197). It is as if the vision of the mountains teaches her nothing, with one more item checked-off on her self-involved list of to do's, and one more stop completed on the rich girl's grand tour: "Now one of her desires was fulfilled. She had seen it, the massive, gruesome, repellant core of the Rockies ... She had looked into the intestinal knot of these mountains. She was frightened" (181). The Princess's fear of experiencing disruptive truths from her view of the mountains' procreative depths offers a telling index of the willful stasis in her character. Her apprehension of existence is so pre-rehearsed and inflexible that she fails to grasp the primary sexual element of Romero's interest in her from the moment they meet. She too conveniently categorizes his attentions as mere "male kindliness" (169), never acknowledging a shred of insight about his repressed passion. Her lack of perspective is not surprising, for Dollie's limited awareness of the erotic essence of his admiration is informed by the disjunctions of her own unorthodox upbringing. Recall that Dollie grew up without a mother and with the fastidious over-attentiveness of a neurotic father whom she willingly accepts as a desexualized partner in an ongoing domestic arrangement: "But Papa and I are such an odd couple, you see, such a crotchety old couple, living in a world of our own" (162).


When Dollie attempts to sleep that first night in the hut, predictably cold from the night air and disoriented from the assaults on her equilibrium during the journey, the sex with Romero is a secondary aspect of her request of him to supply the warmth she requires. He is merely the handy instrument of soothing for her own fears, frigidities, and confusions, and it is clear that an unLawrencian impetus leads her to the lovemaking: "She had willed that it should happen to her. And according to her will, she lay and let it happen. But she never wanted it" (188). After the mechanical sex, her dread of the procreative body, spurred by her own willful intensity, is even more pronounced, and she looks for petty opportunities to tell him that nothing has changed and she is back in command as the Princess. Notice the pattern of four aggressive comments that she uses--or orders that she gives--to produce the crisis of her open disavowal of Romero:
   "I want a fire," she said.

   He opened his brown eyes wide, and smiled with, a curious tender

   "I want you to make a fire," she said.

   He glanced at the chinks of light. His brown face hardened to the day.

   "All right," he said. "I'll make it."

   She hid her face while he dressed. She could not bear to look at him. He
   was so suffused with pride and luxury. She hid her face almost in despair.
   But feeling the cold blast of air as he opened the door, she wriggled down
   into the warm place where he had been. How soon the warmth ebbed, when he
   had gone.

   He made a fire and went out, returning after a while with water.

   "You stay in bed till the sun comes," he said. "It's very cold."

   "Hand me my cloak."

   She wrapped the cloak fast around her and sat up among the blankets. The
   warmth was already spreading from the fire. "I suppose we will start back
   as soon as we've had breakfast?" (189)

Lawrence knows his woman here very well, and she is all of a piece. The passage underlines how she wills her desire for "the warm place" he occupied merely as her need for direct heat. She still resists any possibility of sexual resonance, of creative flux, from her own procreative body. With the warmth from the fire then replacing the residual warmth of the blanket, she can ask that final, rhetorical question as the coup de grace. The fallen-Pan had made the dinner the night before, and now he cooks the breakfast like the obedient servant she wishes him to be. How different this scenario is from the primitive (and obviously outdated) sex roles that Lawrence too-nostalgically describes in "Pan in America," as he refers to that bygone time in the woods of Pan, before" the idea and the engine came between men and all things, like a death" (29). Here is the pre-industrial tableau that Lawrence includes more as idealized metaphor than as reactionary barbarism: "At evening, when the deer is killed, he went home to the tent, and threw down the deer-meat on the swept place before the tent of his women. And the women came out to greet him softly, with a sort of reverence, as he stood before the meat, the life-stuff" ("Pan in America" 30). When Romero is not sullen, he is domesticated and a willing caretaker until the moment that Dollie crosses the line of his remaining pride and indicts the only trace of Pan left in him: the force of his sexual self-definition with women. In "The Novel and the Feelings," Lawrence may shed light on the relative ease and completeness with which Romero has abrogated so much of his spirit and resistance during the previous years: "Man has pretty well tamed himself, and he calls his tameness civilization. True civilization would be something very different. But man is now tame. Tameness means the loss of the peculiar power of command" (203).

Dollie's unchanging sense of self, her ice-solid ego structure, depends on a mastery of that limited and unprocreative role she has defined for herself; within this definition exist her dependency on the ministrations of Miss Cummins, her need for expensive and coordinated clothing ensembles, and her reliance on the easy amusement of constant travel. It is not surprising that the unmediated force of the natural landscape that she encounters in the journey through the mountains begins to overwhelm her narrow and enclosed conception of life. Similarly, it is little wonder that the dream Dollie experiences in the hut before she calls for Romero offers a perfectly appropriate example of the envelopment of the ego by the assertions of nature's power. The poetic wording Lawrence employs to describe the dream provocatively resembles the phrases and rhythmic participles that Joyce employs as he conveys the refracted perspective of Gabriel Conroy at the end of "The Dead": "She dreamed it was snowing, and the snow was falling on her through the roof, softly, softly, helplessly, and she was going to be buried alive. She was growing colder and colder, the snow was weighing down on her. The snow was going to absorb her" ("Princess" 187). But unlike Conroy, no swooning epiphany here about the pretenses of ego and no knowledge that this self-encroaching snow falls not just over her but is "falling faintly through the universe" (Joyce 224). In Dollie's unempathetic soul, even nature begins and ends with her.

Romero has noticed not only her fondness for impeccable clothes but also her frequent vulnerability to cold temperatures when she traversed the high trails and when she calls to him in her pajamas during the night. Dollie takes fastidious care in what she wears and exudes a special pride in her choice of outfits; on the journey she "wore a fleecy sweater of pale, sere buff, like the grass, and riding breeches of a pure orange-tawny colour. She felt quite in the picture" (179). Romero, on one level, is prompted by understandable anger when he throws her clothes into the pond; yet there is also an intuitive sense in him that this act of submerging her clothes might submerge her being--in short, her sense of self built on dread of the procreative body and a desire (in an unappley manner) to fit "in the picture." Lawrence includes another significant comment in "Art and Morality" on this hyperconscious habit of basing one's self-conception on what the person assumes the world sees on the outside. It sounds very much as if Lawrence is thinking here of the Dollie he recently created and of the landscape surrounding her: "There is your sweetheart, complete in herself, enjoying a sort of absolute objective reality: complete, perfect, all her surroundings contributing to her, incontestable. She is really a picture" (165). Once again in The Golden Bough, Frazer describes the folk superstition that Lawrence would reread in the spring of 1924:
   If you cannot catch a thief, the next best thing you can do is to get hold
   of a garment which he may have shed in his flight, for if you beat it
   soundly, the thief will fall sick. This belief is firmly rooted in the
   popular mind ... Again, magic may be wrought on a man sympathetically, not
   only through his clothes and severed parts of himself, but also through the
   impressions left by his body in sand or earth. (50)

All that Dollie retains after Romero takes her clothes are the pajamas she wore when Romero had sex with her and the cloak she demanded from him to keep her warm after she abandoned that impression left by his body when "she wriggled down into the warm place where he had been" (189), Lawrence remains astute enough in his pychologizing of Dollie's acquisitive and willful emotions that he even anticipates, just before Romero sleeps with her, Freud's famous question about women, as the narrator asks: "What did she want? Oh, what did she want?" (188). (10) Yet the story embodies sufficient balance in its assignment of "blame," as it depicts a reciprocity of insight in the characters that must drive the action to its inevitable conclusion: Romero and Dollie retain an unerring sense of the primary area of vulnerability in each other, as the man assaults the sexually unresponsive woman while she undermines the legitimacy of his masculine self-being.


While Dollie suffers the agony of vindictive rape by Romero, he kills himself, in effect, because he is victimized by the intense will and fierce determination of an emasculating woman who takes away the last vestiges of Pan in a man Lawrence earlier describes as "waiting either to die, or to be aroused into passion or hope" (168). While not a miner himself, Romero's one piece of property is the isolated mining shack that he occupies alone as he hunts in the mountains with distinct traces, apparently, of the "intuitive cunning" ("Pan in America" 29) Lawrence considers part of the Pan-mystery. "The Princess" concludes with a defeated and suicidal Romero, briefly aroused into passion and now courting death, killed in an encounter that he clearly provoked to end his misery; his body is laid out evocatively with "his hands clutching the earth" (195) from which he has long ceased to wrest significance or sustenance during his family's decline as landowners. In "Pan in America," Lawrence describes the blaze on the tree near his own cabin, and he emphasizes the vitality he receives from the trees and "the shivers of energy that cross my living plasm" (25). When a bored and tired Romero casually points out the blazes to Dollie, there is no sense from him of "Pantheistic" interest in the trees, but merely a passing notice of their directional relevance for the journey. "The Princess," in effect, is as much about the death of the human residue of Pan as it is about Dollie's dread of the procreative body. This double-drama in the tale emerges in the tragic intermingling of the two characters and the powerful appleyness of the New Mexico landscape.

John Worthen, a major biographer of Lawrence's early years and his formative relation to his parents, describes in some detail the changing perspective on his mother and father that Lawrence began to evolve in the mid-1920's. Lawrence is ever more sympathetic to the father in this revised retrospect, a miner who Lawrence increasingly felt had been defeated by an unforgiving and willful wife; when he writes "The Princess," Lawrence is only a few months from formulating his changing attitude in the first of several short essays. (11) As Worthen trenchantly summarizes these pieces, Lawrence had come to believe that his parents' household confirmed his belief that "womanhood has been allowed to triumph, in its declaration of material loyalties; real manhood and human warmth has been denied, together with real sexuality; men ,are now `tame'" (Worthen 502). Romero finally would not accept the taming of his last "spark in midst of the blackness of static despair" (168), and he futilely strikes back at the materialist hater of the sexualized male body. It is such futility in Romero's actions that Lawrence bemoans even as the artist dramatizes the emotional logic that motivates the alienated and defeated Mexican. Dollie finally will collect her money through a marriage that also permits her to continue her accustomed subjugation of the sensual--all this while her emotional equilibrium is the casualty of Romero's violence: "She was slightly crazy ... Later, she married an elderly man and seemed pleased" (196). In effect, Dollie-as-survivor craftily has reconfigured the concept of marriage so that it now complements her well-established narcissism while it camouflages the scars of her tragic encounter with Romero.

Lawrence is notified on September 13, 1924 of his father's death three days earlier, and "The Princess" becomes the first work that he initiates after this notification. He begins it only a few days later and completes it by October 8th. (12) The tale reflects an anger at Dollie's will and at the surrender by Romero of a Pan-power Lawrence believes is increasingly under attack in the modern world. It is true that even amid this period of revisionist attitude toward his parents, Lawrence never denies the elements of self-torture and static bitterness in Romero--a poisonous combination of emotions that willfully contributes, respectively, to the suicidal action of Dollie's rapist and to the prolonged deterioration of Lawrence's father during and after Arthur's marriage. But does not "The Princess" also reveal--in early, as yet unformulated hints--Lawrence's developing awareness of the sacrifice of his father's vitality on the altar of his mother's relentless, class-conscious ambitions? At a key moment in the story, as a violated yet unrelenting Dollie observes Romero seconds before he is killed, Lawrence's narration catches Dollie's point of view through her profoundly inopportune and aesthetic (not sexual) judgment: "He had a beautiful alert figure" (194). No appleyness in her admiration, no trace of "the gleam of the warm procreative body" ("Introduction TT Paintings" 560) in the woman whose heart "could not melt" or the man who momentarily will reveal "a little pool of blood where Romero's breast had been" (194, 195).



(1) Among the many critics who have written intelligently on this story, there are surprisingly few in-depth examinations, and none that include extended consideration of the issues of Pan and/or painting that I employ in this essay. Weiner offers one of the most sustained looks at irony and symbolism in the tale, with a valuable emphasis on how the tone, imagery, and natural descriptions convey subtle tensions and conflicts in the characters. But there is insufficient concern by Weiner on how the landscape's animate qualities participate in the plot as active presences that gradually expose fundamental inadequacies in the emotional states of Dollie and Romero. While Cowan provides insight into the relation of monomyths, derived from Joseph Campbell, to the fixated psychology of Dollie's attachment to her father, his use of the "American" setting in the "The Princess" also tends to ignore the ominous energy and primitive power that emerge from a distinctly national landscape to affect the characters' journey into the mountains as well as the metaphors of separation, initiation, and return so central to `Cowan's argument. MacDonald similarly looks at the way various symbolic structures reveal psychological patterns in the story; his discussion of the central characters as imagistically antithetical, however, fails to consider the comparable terms of stasis that Dollie and Romero exemplify, and MacDonald's personification of images and archetypes in the landscape too easily reduces the resonance of Lawrence's depiction of the New Mexico scenery to the level of formulaic dualities. For a more balanced and sensitive reading, an accurate summary of the perspectives of several critics, and a clarifying explanation of the adaptation of the Carswell story by Lawrence, see Harris's comprehensive study of Lawrence's short fiction 195-97, 291-92.

(2) For a pertinent discussion of Lawrence's state of mind when he writes this essay, and the impinging circumstances in his own life about his painting, publishing, writing, and conflicts with the British authorities, see Ellis 463-67.

(3) For a full consideration of Lawrence's use of this phrase and of the context of his battles with censorship authorities throughout his career, with special emphasis on the last years of his life, see Moore's Preface and the Introduction, "D. H. Lawrence and the `Censor-Morons,'" in D. H. Lawrence: Sex, Literature, and Censorship 7-30.

(4) On the issue of Lawrence's use of this term and its relation to his relevant fiction and essays, see my essay on The Virgin and the Gipsy and on The Lost Girl, and chapters one and five of my study, D. H. Lawrence and the Phallic Imagination: Essays on Sexual Identity and Feminist Misreading. See also Lawrence's essay, "Morality and the Novel," for his interpretation of fourth-dimensionality in fiction, in Study of Thomas Hardy and Other Essays 193-98.

(5) The most recent medical research today tends to support Lawrence's central notion of the outbreak of especially virulent forms of syphilis in Europe beginning around 1500, for "medical historians have repeatedly noted the absence of any unequivocal descriptions of syphilis in the medieval literature of Europe ... before AD 1500." But an opposed theory undercuts Lawrence's view or a sixteenth-century origin of the disease in England, as it argues that "syphilis was present in Europe long before Columbus's voyage--it was simply misdiagnosed or confused with other diseases such as leprosy." Verano and Ubelaker, "Health and Disease in the Pre-Columbian World" (217). See also Disease and Demography in the Americas, ed. Verano and Ubelaker, for a more in-depth analysis of issues of symptomology, pathology, and forensic investigation that bear upon the works I discuss in this essay. Lawrence, of course, could not draw upon this recent and highly technical research, but the essays in this volume tend to support many of Lawrence's speculations in "Introduction to These Paintings": on the key issues of leprosy resembling syphilis in certain stages of its infection, and of the syphilis epidemic in Europe in the sixteenth century, see Georgieann Bogdan and David S. Weaver, "Pre-Columbian Treponematosis in Coastal North Carolina" 155-63; even more crucial, perhaps, for the "trauma" theory advanced by Lawrence about the cumulative effect of syphilis on the collective psyche of a country, culture, and community, Ubelaker and Verano emphasize that "disease epidemics led not only to population decline but also to major changes in social structure," in the "Conclusion," of Disease and Demography in the Americas (281).

(6) It is interesting to contemplate the possibility that Colin's gradual descent into madness and the peculiar touch of his skin suggest the slowly-developing symptoms of syphilitic illness, for Lawrence ambiguously notes early in the tale that "many women had been fascinated" with Colin before his wife, "but Urquhart, by his very vagueness, had avoided any decisive connection" (159). If this "decisive connection" is deemed to be marriage and not a sexual liaison, the syphilis hypothesis becomes more intriguing, with multiple ironies possible given Colin's consequent isolation from the touch of living humanity after the birth of Dollie and the death of Hannah. See Ortner, "Skeletal Paleopathology: Probabilities, Possibilities, and Impossibilities," for insights on the existence of congenital syphilis that may buttress the radical hypothesis that Colin and his wife passed on the virus to his suspiciously diminutive daughter at birth. In Disease and Demography in the Americas 5-13.

(7) For a comprehensive analysis of the range of applicability of Frazer's research to patterns of art and doctrine in Lawrence's fiction, see Vickery 294-325. While Vickery does little more than mention "The Princess," he helpfully, notes that the story is one of several Lawrence works in which "the relevant myth is that of the Sacred Marriage, while the rites of initiation, taboo or prohibition, and fecundation present a definition of the central character's reaction toward the myth itself" (323). Such an insight supports my own analysis of the dread of fecundity at the heart of Dollie's emotions, and of the vitalistic aspects of a landscape in "The Princess" that functions to expose the inadequacy of this "central character's reaction" to the complexity of primitive life she observes on the journey through the mountains. The evidence for the strong likelihood that Lawrence reread Frazer in the spring of 1924 is provided in Ellis's meticulous volume of the Cambridge biography, Dying Game 187. I also am indebted to a passing observation in Weiner's essay on "The Princess," for it prompted me to investigate further the implications of the metaphor of touch in the tale and the issue of disease in Renaissance England. Weiner comments on "the delicate suggestion of disease in reference to an English king's supposed ability to cure scrofula by his `royal touch'" (225). As I have noted in this essay, more than scrofula may be involved here.

(8) For a well-researched and valuable analysis of the history of the Pan motif in literature, see Merivale, and especially her lengthy chapter on D. H. Lawrence 194-219. Merivale does not discuss "The Princess," but she is excellent on "Pan in America," realizing that Lawrence uses Pan to emphasize (as I attempt to do in my reading of "The Princess") a "return to the fount of universal energy, from which the evolution of self-consciousness has separated us" (114).

(9) See Richard Young's illuminating discussion of Lawrence's conceptualizing of the fourth dimension in prose.

(10) The phrase, "what does woman want," refers to an undated remark by Freud to Marie Bonaparte quoted in Ernest Jones (421). Also, in regard to Dollie's remaining clothes, Weiner forgets the pajamas she retains when he incorrectly asserts that the cloak "is the only article of her clothing which Romero does not throw into the pond" (238).

(11) See Worthen's convenient listing of the essays that begin to reflect this revisionism in the mid 1920's, in "D. H. Lawrence's Autobiographies," in Worthen 500-03.

(12) The crucial chronology that I enumerate here is based on the solid research in Ellis's biography, Dying Game 173-203, and in the dates provided by Peter Preston's study of Lawrencian chronology 113-14.


Balbert, Peter. D. H. Lawrence and the Phallic Imagination: Essays on Sexual Identity and Feminist Misreading. New York: St. Martin's, 1989.

--. "Scorched Ego, the Novel, and the Beast: Patterns of Fourth Dimensionality in The Virgin and the Gipsy." Papers on Language and Literature 29 (1993), 395-416.

--. "Ten Men and a Sacred Prostitute. The Psychology of Sex in the Cambridge Edition of The Lost Girl." Twentieth Century Literature 36 (1990), 381-402.

Bogdan, Georgieann and Weaver, David S. "Pre-Columbian Treponematosis in Coastal North Carolina." Disease and Demography in the Americas. Eds. John W. Verano and Douglas H. Ubelaker. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992, 155-63.

Cowan, James. D. H. Lawrence's American Journey: A Study in Literature and Myth. Cleveland: Press of Case Western University, 1970, 65-70.

Ellis, David. D. H. Lawrence: Dying, Game, 1922-1930. Cambridge, Engl.: Cambridge UP, 1998, 463-67.

Frazer, James. The Golden Bough. New York: Macmillan, 1963.

Harris, Janice Hubbard. The Short Fiction of D. H. Lawrence. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 1984.

Jones, Ernest. The Life and Times of Sigmund Freud, Vol. II, Years of Maturity, 1901-1919. New York: Basic Books, 1955.

Joyce, James. "The Dead." Dubliners. New York: Viking, 1961.

Lawrence, D. H. "Art and Morality." Study of Thomas Hardy and Other Essays. Ed. Bruce Steele. Cambridge, Engl.: Cambridge UP, 161-68.

--. D. H. Lawrence: Sex, Literature, and Censorship. Ed. Harry T. Moore. New York: Viking, 1959.

--. "Introduction to These Paintings." Phoenix: The Posthumous Papers of D. H. Lawrence. Ed. Edward McDonald. New York: Viking, 1972, 551-84.

--. The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, VIII, 1928-1930. Eds. Keith Sagar and James T. Boulton. Cambridge, Engl.: Cambridge UP, 1998.

--. "Morality in the Novel." Study of Thomas Hardy and Other Essays. Cited above, 193-98.

--. "The Novel and the Feelings." Study of Thomas Hardy and Other Essays, cited above, 199-205.

--. "Pan in America." Phoenix, cited above, 23-31.

--. St. Mawr and Other Stories. Ed. Brian Finney, Cambridge, Engl.: Cambridge UP, 1983, 157-196.

MacDonald, Robert H. "Images of Negative Union: The Symbolic World of D. H. Lawrence's `The Princess.'" Studies in Short Fiction 16 (1979): 289-93.

Merivale, Patricia. Pan the Goat-God: His Myth in Modern Times. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969.

Ortner, Donald J. "Skeletal Paleopathology: Probabilities, Possibilities, and Impossibilities." Disease and Demography in the Americas. Eds. John W. Verano and Douglas H. Ubelaker. Cited above, 155-63.

Preston, Peter. A D. H. Lawrence Chronology. New York: St. Martin's, 1994.

Verano, John W. and Ubelaker, Douglas H., eds. Disease and Demography in the Americas, cited above.

--. "Health and Disease in the Pre-Columbian World." Seeds of Change: A Quincentennial Commemoration. Eds. Herman J. Viola and Carolyn Margolis. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992, 217-21.

Vickery, John B. The Literary Impact of The Golden Bough. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1973. 294-325.

Weiner, Ronald S. "Irony and Symbolism in `The Princess.'" A D. H. Lawrence Miscellany. Ed. Harry T. Moore. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1959, 221-38.

Worthen, John. D. H. Lawrence: The Early Years, 1885-1912. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1991.

Young, Richard. "`Where Even the Trees Come And Go': D. H. Lawrence and the Fourth Dimension." D. H. Lawrence Review 13 (1980), 30-44.
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Author:Balbert, Peter
Publication:Studies in the Novel
Article Type:Critical Essay
Geographic Code:4EUUE
Date:Sep 22, 2002
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